Tales of Junction

by Davis IV, John L.

  Bill worked by flashlight, pressing the crowbar further into the crack, leaning all his weight on it. Over his grunting and cursing he could hear the almost constant swish and splash of water below.

  “I’m comin’ Bunker Bill, just hang on a bit more,” he wheezed. “Give you a rest and see what you got down there.”

  With a heave and groan, Bill Robb shoved hard on the crowbar and was rewarded with another grinding noise from the hatch. The hatch popped, lifting several inches and Bill stumbled to the side, lost his balance and plopped to the floor, exhausted.

  The splashing was louder now, and he crawled to the hatch, pushing it until it flopped back, catching on rods inside that kept it in an upright position.

  Bill shined his light down through the hole, into the rotted face of a man he assumed to be Bunker Bill. “Hello there Bill, I’m Bill. You might remember me from the movies, back in the day.”

  The zombie moaned softly in reply.

  “Yeah, I know. This scar does make it a bit difficult to recognize me,” he said, running a finger over the thick puckering on his cheek. “Well Bill, give me a second to catch my breath and I’ll come down and pay you a visit.”

  Zombie Bill stared up at living Bill, oblivious to the light shining in his face, only hearing the noise. “Alrighty then, Billy-boy. Get your head on straight and let’s do this thing.”

  He stood in front of the hole holding the crowbar, the hooked end dangling toward his feet. Without another word he turned and lowered himself down the ladder.

  15

  Bibi sat in the single chair she kept in her room. Stuffing leaked out of holes, and the cushion was covered in strips of duct-tape. It was ugly, like much of the cobbled together life inside the walls of Junction. Also like Junction, the chair was somewhat comfortable and served its purpose well.

  In her lap was the mangiest looking cat anyone had seen in years. It was also just about the only cat anyone had seen in years. Bibi stroked the thin, shedding fur of the animals back, losing herself in the cat’s deep purring and the comfort the small warm creature offered.

  “You’re a good cat aren’t you, Fuggs?” She cooed to the sleepy cat.

  The cat, which she had named Fugly, was a creature of the zombie wastelands, torn and ragged and untrusting of all but Bibi. With an ear half torn off, one eye missing, a fang and several teeth that showed through a tear in its lower lip, and the crooked bend of the tail, the cat appeared the epitome of a feline nightmare. It was also just as mean as it looked.

  She had tried to keep Fugly out at the check in counter with her or let him follow her whenever she went for walks or to check on her girls, but far too many had been scratched or bitten, and far too many had threatened to capture and cook the cat, so she left the angry creature in her room. He didn’t seem to mind.

  “In a world where zombies crawl the earth,” she said in a mock movie announcer voice, “men are still dipshits.”

  Laughing at her own joke, she stood, cradling Fugly close to her bosom for a moment before placing him back in the chair.

  From the mini-fridge that was now just a dead thing to store her water in, she took a plastic bottle, wrinkled and warped from multiple re-uses. Taking a hefty swig, draining it, she sat the empty aside and said to the still sleeping cat, “Gonna have to see about the water purification, it’s been tasting funny lately.” Fugly’s crooked tail twitched.

  Fugly jumped up in the chair, back arching when a knock came at the door. “Calm down, Fuggs, I got it.”

  Opening the door as far as the security catch would allow she peered through the narrow gap.

  Outside her door, shifting foot to foot was Marian, a dour look on her face.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute, Janet?”

  “One second.” Bibi closed the door, flipped the security catch back, re-opened the door and stepped outside. “Can’t have Fugly out here, he’s likely to climb up you and scratch your face just for the hell of. What’s up, Marian?”

  Tears wavered in Marian’s eyes. “Maybe I should just go, find Mitchell’s group, tell them I killed him. I can’t stand the thought that there’re people here who are going to get hurt, maybe even die because of me.”

  Bibi thought for a moment before responding. “Well, I have to tell you, I appreciate your guts. But Junction is on those boy’s radar now, and they sure as hell aren’t going to just turn around and walk away from what they think will be easy pickins just because you offered yourself up. We’re all in this now.” Looking deep into the terrified woman’s eyes, she said, “To tell you the truth, I’m surprised we haven’t been hit by them before. We’ve dealt with all kinds of mess around here, girl, from a zombie horde over a thousand strong to various bastardly individuals. It may not look like it, but Junction can hold her own.”

  Marian looked back, Janet’s words sinking in. After a moment she nodded. “Ok, well, is there anything I can do, then?”

  “Seems you done got your courage up. Get yourself a weapon and be ready for whatever comes along. If you have to see Filler about a gun, let me know, I’ll help you square it up with him shortly after this whole damn thing is done.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Bibi reached out, resting her hand on Marian’s arm. “This is your home now, girl, we got your back, and you get ours. We have our own little issues around here, power struggles and politicking, but the folks around here are mostly decent, hard, mean, half-crazy, but decent. None should be fucked with, not a one, but they’re good folks, most of ‘em.”

  Marian nodded, wiping a tear from beneath her eye. “Thanks, Janet.”

  “Any time, Marian. Get yourself squared away, and sweetheart, you keep that courage.”

  Bibi watched as the girl nodded again and walked away. “You got this, girl,” she said under her breath. Back inside the room, Bibi scooped up her mangy, angry cat and cuddled with him in the chair once more.

  You took the small joys when you could get them, because who knew what the next hour or day might bring.

  16

  The Vespa sputtered and buzzed and whined as Corey drove slowly down the buckled blacktop of the narrow county road. He knew that eventually it would die, leaving him stranded in place, he only hoped he was close to some safe haven when it happened.

  Fuel was precious, as was keeping the scooter alive, but Corey was wasting time now, avoiding Junction for as long as he could, giving the people there a little more time to find something else to fret over other than Laidlaw and what he had done.

  Tooling down the back roads, enjoying the emptiness of it all, Corey’s mind plotted and planned. His goal was to eventually be what Filler was to Junction, the main man, the one everyone feared and respected all at once.

  Part of that was removing his competition, or anyone he thought might slow down the progress of moving that plan forward. Anyone, like Laidlaw, who Corey knew would hold back the others in Junction from lifting him up, praising his ingenuity, resourcefulness, ability to provide and protect. And rule.

  Tall weeds along the roadside whipped by, casting the buzzing rattle of the scooter back at Corey. In the distance he could see what appeared to be a deer or other animal laying in the weeds, pressing them flat.

  “If it’s pretty fresh that would be some great meat to take back,” he said into the wind. He revved the engine, increasing his speed with his excitement.

  As he closed in on the spot, he realized that it wasn’t an animal. He should have known. No one had seen a deer in ages.

  Then he recognized the bloody jacket. “Frito…”

  Corey was nearly right on top of Frito when he saw the man struggle into a sitting position. He could see bloody holes poked through shirt and jacket. The wounds were large and looked to him like spear holes. “Ha, fuckin’ Sores got you, didn’t they, dumbass,” he said into the wind.

  Corey stopped the Vespa next to the sitting scav, turning off the key to conserve fuel. He climbed off the scooter and slipped his swimming goggl
es up to rest on his forehead, making him look like a four-eyed frog.

  Frito’s swollen face followed Corey as he approached. A wide split just below his right eye still wept thin trickles of blood. The larger wounds had clotted over, the blood dark and tacky at the edges.

  “How ya doing, buddy?”

  Frito’s glazed eyes tried to focus, pain and extreme thirst wrecking his ability to think.

  “Water,” Frito said, the word distorted from his pasty, thick tongue.

  “Sure, buddy,” Corey said, his thoughts twisting and quick. “Let’s get you on the wagon first. Can you stand?”

  Frito was barely able to even shake his head.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  Corey knelt beside Frito and put an arm around him. He pushed with his legs, lifting Frito. Corey began to walk toward the Vespa, Frito’s feet dragging more than taking steps.

  With his free hand, the one that wasn’t holding Frito up, Corey reached down, pulled his knife free and raised it quickly, jamming it deep into Frito’s side. He felt the blade jar in his hand as he nicked a rib. He was certain he had punctured a lung.

  Frito gasped, his eyes burning bright again from the sudden pain.

  Corey withdrew his arm, and Frito collapsed to the pavement. The dripping knife remained in Corey’s other hand.

  Corey stood above Frito, watching the man bleed. Looking into his eyes, Corey asked Frito, “Do you want to know why?”

  Frito’s mouth moved, but no sound came forth and Corey smiled as he turned away, mounted the Vespa, started it and drove away without looking back, leaving the question unanswered.

  Frito could see a rivulet of blood spreading out, following irregularities in the road. His blood stood out stark and brilliant against the faded, dusty blacktop, sunlight glittering in the lengthening pool.

  He stared at a tire track, left when the Vespa had splashed through his blood, until he closed his eyes against the pain.

  Both the buzzing of the Vespa and Frito faded until they were gone.

  Ripley, Believe it or Not

  After leaving Janet’s, Frito and Tool went to their separate shacks.

  The next morning Frito stopped by Filler’s to get a jar of stew and some water. He was leaving on a short run to the west. He knew Corey had gone north on that shitty little Vespa and he didn’t want to run into the murderous prick. Laidlaw was an asshole but what Corey did was a bit much even by Junction standards.

  Frito left using the south gate. Mitch Burton was on duty and told him that everything looked clear, no movement for miles in any direction. That was good news for Frito who wasn’t excited about the possibility of encountering the sprinter zombies that Tool had told him about.

  A couple months earlier when returning from a long run, Frito had seen a small town set on the side of a hill near a river. He hoped it was small enough to have been overlooked by other scavengers.

  Unlike Tool, Frito preferred not to move at night. He set up his blanket hammock at dusk, ate a little stew with corn chips and slept lightly while listening for the snap of the fishing line trip wire strung out around his camp. As the sun rose, he gathered his gear and continued west. By late afternoon he could see the houses in the distance. Using a battered pair of binoculars he surveyed the area.

  The road ran up to a bridge over a muddy river then continued past the little town. One small turn-off wound up the hill and amongst the houses. It would be dark soon, so he decided to get a little closer and set up camp in the trees that lined the east side of the river.

  At dusk he saw movement on the winding hill road. There was just enough light for him to make out two dirty Sores walking towards the bridge. They built a fire and sat down on a couple buckets. Light from a second fire could be seen in the windows of one of the houses. Frito figured there must be six or eight Sores holed up in the town. This was going to complicate things, but Frito figured he’d come this far, might as well go all the way.

  The people of Junction didn’t have many secrets. Eventually, everyone would know your business, your choice of weapons, your skill set, your sexual preferences, how much you owed and to whom. Since coming to Junction, Frito had managed to keep two secrets. First was the location of his corn chip stash. He decided it was time to utilize his second secret.

  From his worn ALICE pack he pulled out a small purple bag with the words Crown Royal stitched onto it. Next was a black plastic rifle butt. He pulled off the cap and assembled the AR-7 rifle. It took only a minute to attach the receiver to the stock and then screw on the barrel. Opening the purple bag he removed eight rounds, loaded the magazine, then put one more in the chamber before sliding the magazine home and thumbing the safety to ON.

  Frito didn’t put a lot of faith in the rifle. Within twenty-five yards it was usually good for a headshot. Beyond twenty-five yards the accuracy dropped considerably. Jams were frequent and required dropping the magazine and working the bolt to clear, if you were lucky. If you weren’t lucky, it was necessary to pry the jammed cartridge out with the tip of a knife. While it was light enough to carry, it was too light to serve as a decent club should the need arise. Still, it usually went bang and would give him an edge against the superior numbers he would be up against later tonight.

  Frito readied for what he was certain would be a difficult encounter. The rifle was loaded. Knives strapped on in various locations. His prize kukri held a place of honor on the right hip. The heavy blade was capable of cleaving flesh with ease. Three kitchen knives, one in each boot and one on his left side would serve as backups should he need them. Confident with his preparations he sat down against a tree and relaxed for a few hours before making his move.

  Creeping up to the edge of the road he knelt at the east end of the bridge using the guard rail as cover. The little peep sight on the AR-7 was near useless in the dark so he waited until one of the guards bent to put more wood on their fire. He judged the distance to be just over twenty yards, the fire backlit his target making it possible for him to place the front sight directly on the guard’s temple as he poked at the coals. POP. The Sore fell over onto the fire without making a sound. The second guard stood up in amazement at what he had witnessed, then turned to look in Frito’s direction, still not certain what was happening. The tattered clothing of the dead Sore caught fire as a second shot went into the chest of the bewildered guard who screamed out as he fell to ground.

  Frito checked the rifle, cleared a jammed shell, added two rounds to the magazine and held his position waiting for the remainder of the Sores to show themselves. As the wounded guard whimpered in pain four shadowy figures moved rapidly down the hill. As they got close to the fire they slowed and took defensive postures, looking in every direction for the attackers. Holding the rifle to his side, Frito rose and moved from behind the guard rail to stand in plain sight. When the Sores saw him they cautiously moved in his direction. So far everything was going as planned.

  When they were half way across the bridge, Frito quickly raised the rifle and fired two rounds into the nearest Sore, dropping him. Next, he fired into the largest of the three remaining men. One round struck the man but the AR-7 jammed and Frito dropped it to the ground, opting to unsheathe the kukri rather than fumble with the rifle. The big wounded Sore let out a roar and charged. His left arm was hanging limp, in his right hand was a rusty butcher knife. Just as the man closed, Frito side-stepped and clothes-lined the Sore with the kukri, nearly decapitating him.

  The last two Sores were far more cautious. They spread out to either side of the bridge in an effort to flank him. Frito briefly considered retreating, hoping to separate them in the trees but discarded the idea as it would mean leaving the jam-o-matic rifle for them to pick up and possibly use against him. As they circled around, Frito briefly thought that this might be the end until making eye contact with the Sore in front of him. His attacker was having doubts, uncertain that even the two of them could take the stranger with the curved blade. The uncertain Sore made a hal
f-hearted lunge, Frito ignored the weak effort and spun around as the man behind him was coming in fast with an overhand stab. Sidestepping the clumsy attack, Frito swung the kukri in a wide arc that ended at the base of his attacker’s skull. The blade stuck fast in the bone. Unable to wrench it free he rolled away and rose to his feet, a kitchen knife clenched firmly in his fist, ready for an attack that never came. The coward ran back across the bridge then turned up the road towards the little town. Frito watched the high-speed shadow disappear into the Sore’s house. It would be light in a few hours and Frito saw no reason to pursue the retreating man who no longer posed a threat.

  His favorite blade was now clean and back in its sheath. The AR-7, once disassembled, was returned to its place in the bottom of his pack. Frito cautiously crossed the bridge, found the wounded Sore unconscious near the fire, and quickly dispatched him before heading up the hill past a sign that read, “Welcome to Ripley pop. 110”, straight to the house the Sores had been using. A steel drum that had served as an indoor fire pit could be seen, still smoking, through the open door. Kukri in hand, Frito entered the house and began a thorough search. Once convinced that the ground floor was vacant he entered the basement through a door in the kitchen. Shelves lined the limestone walls, but all were bare except for a few empty Mason jars.

  Fairly certain that the last Sore had hightailed it out of town, Frito searched house after house, finding little of value. A few towels and a couple bedsheets from an undisturbed closet. Three canning jars full of vegetables from the back of a basement shelf. The big score, an entire attic full of clothes including two pair of boots, a stiff canvas jacket, three pair of denim jeans and miscellaneous women’s clothing. He filled the duffel bag that had been folded up in his ALICE pack before starting back down the hill towards the bridge.

  On the walk back to Junction, Frito decided to break the rules once again. When he was within sight of Junction, he sorted through his recent acquisitions. Some of the women’s clothing and one pair of boots were wrapped up in the old jacket before being tied shut. Once through the gate Frito went straight to Doc’s, dropped off the jacket bundle without bothering to wake the cantankerous old man, then continued on to Filler’s.