Tales of Junction

by Davis IV, John L.

  As usual he went in the back door, dropped his duffel bag by Filler’s office door, grabbed a bowl of stew and found Tool waiting with a pitcher of water.

  “Saw you come in, how come I got here first?”

  “Where’s Maynard?” Frito asked.

  Tool took the hint. “Guarding my shack. He’s taken to watching after my stuff when he isn’t sleeping at Doc’s. Pretty sure the old man is feeding him. How’d you do?”

  “I’m still alive and there’s half a bag of stuff in the kitchen, so I’d call it a success.”

  “Zombies?”

  “No. Ran into some Sores. They probably cleared out the zoms before I got there. Of course, they cleaned out pretty much everything else too.”

  “Pretty much?” Tool gave Frito a knowing look.

  Frito smiled and gave a quick wink. “What say we have a drink with Doc when I finish eating?”

  Tool signaled the kitchen girl. When she got to the table, Tool ordered, “Bowl to go.” He slipped her two tampons and a maxi-pad with a nod. The girl returned momentarily and set a plastic jar of stew on the table. From her baggy shirt she eased a bottle which Tool slipped into his jacket as she hurried back to the kitchen.

  Frito and Tool entered Doc’s just as he was wiping out three glasses. “Figured you boys would be coming around for a drink. That must be your stuff.”

  “The coat is for you Doc. The rest I got plans for.”

  “Appreciate that, kid, but you know Filler is going to throw a fit when he finds you been holding out on him.”

  “No secrets here in Junction, least not for long.” Tool chimed in as he poured from the smuggled bottle.

  “Yeah, I know. The boots are for Janet. The ladies’ clothes are for Trina.”

  “Trina? You two an item? I gotta get out of this office more often.”

  “Nothing between Trina and me, Doc. Just thought I’d do something nice for her. She’s a decent woman and deserves something for her efforts here.”

  Doc and Tool nodded agreement as they clinked their glasses.

  “Frito, I’m going back out in a couple days, what say we make a run together?”

  “Not this time, I’m leaving tomorrow morning. Got to get back there and finish that place off then pick up some more corn chips. Down to my last bag.”

  “So, no Janet’s tonight?” Tool smiled.

  The Boys are Back

  Frito got to Ripley and went straight to the gold mine attic where he left off on his last trip. There were still some lady’s clothes to get, a few miscellaneous items to be had including a small mirror, a little music box, and a bottle of Brut cologne. “Maybe Filler will use this so he doesn’t smell like hog shit and sweat.” Frito laughed out loud at the thought of Filler dabbing the Brut behind his ears.

  Once finished with the attic he continued to search the small town. There was a large grain bin behind a nearby farm house on the outskirts of Ripley. Frito could smell the rat feces when he got close. The rats were not a threat, what bothered him were the cinderblock deadfalls set up in the area. None of them were tripped.

  Frito quickly turned and headed for the bridge. Halfway across, he glanced back to see two Sores following him. When he turned back two more emerged at the opposite end of the bridge. With nowhere to run he would have to make a stand. He dropped the duffel and the ALICE pack. No time to assemble the rifle, he’d have to rely on his Kukri. Curved blade in hand, Frito charged the two filthy men blocking his way.

  On the Road Again

  He awoke on the side of the road, unsure as to how he had gotten there. Despite the pain, he rose and began to put one foot in front of the other. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. The spear wounds had clotted over but he was finding it more and more difficult to keep moving. Dehydration was taking its toll. Although he had walked all through the night Frito knew that he was still far from seeing the walls of Junction. Unable to go any further he collapsed beside the road. It felt good to lay there in the weeds and he quickly passed out.

  The annoying buzz of flies woke him a short time later. Frito wanted to swat at them, but his arms were heavy and unwilling. The buzzing was getting louder. It took all the effort he could gather to get into a sitting position. His vision was blurry, but Frito could see something moving on the road. The incessant buzzing continued to get louder, rising from annoying to ear splitting.

  Corey turned off the ratty Vespa, pulled off his swim goggles and greeted Frito. “How ya doing buddy?”

  “Water.”

  “Sure buddy. Let’s get you on the wagon first. Can you stand?”

  Frito shook his head weakly.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  Corey knelt beside Frito putting an arm around his waist and standing, pulling Frito up with him. As the pair moved slowly onto the road and towards the Vespa there was a sudden shooting pain in Frito’s side. Corey let go and as Frito fell to the ground the knife was wrenched from his side. Corey stood there, knife in hand, smiling.

  “Do you want to know why?”

  It was getting hard to breathe and Frito could see a rivulet of blood streaming across the pavement. He watched as Corey started the Vespa and turned it towards Junction, nearly running him over in the process. As the buzzing faded into the distance Frito gave in to the darkness.

  The Guardian’s Love

  It wasn’t an easy decision, but in the end, she felt it was what she needed to do. She only hoped he would still be there in that ugly place. After watching him sleep that first night, she had returned to the dilapidated carnival she called home only to lay awake thinking about him. Thinking about how beautiful he was and how badly she wanted to touch him, to hold him close, just as she had done with her lover so long ago. She knew that this man was not him. She knew that he could not love her back, not in her new form. Still, she had decided to follow him in that ugly little car with that ridiculous toilet on wheels. She had followed him just to get a glimpse of him each time the car stopped. Now she was going back there to find him.

  No doubt the filthy people or the dead would destroy her carnival home in her absence, but maybe it was time. She had protected it for so long. And why? Because it reminded her of days long gone? Of a life long gone? Even so, her humanity had been slipping away for some time when the man in the camo jacket appeared and made her remember, made her feel. Yes, it was time to find him. If only to watch him from a distance.

  It wasn’t only her appearance that had changed when she transformed. Her senses were heightened now, and she seemed to know instinctually when the sun would rise, where to find water, how to move silently. In short, she had become a wild animal, a predator and she was not happy about that. The man in the camo jacket had given her humanity back to her and she wanted more. So, she left home and moved lithely through the countryside toward the ugly, smelly place where she had last seen him disappearing behind a rusty gate.

  She arrived at the place and watched from the cover of a small grove of trees until the next day when she saw him in the distance. He was walking this time. Carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder. Mesmerized by him, she had to stop herself from following as he passed through the gate. She’d seen the men with guns standing guard and knew that she was a monster now, not welcome anywhere.

  The following morning, the gate opened and there he was again. Beautiful in his worn camo jacket, walking back the way he’d come the previous day. She watched him disappear out of sight then laid down to sleep. Once it was dark she would follow him again. Perhaps she would get to watch him sleep as she had done before.

  For three days, he had walked. Each night he would set a trip wire around his camp before hanging a hammock in the trees. Each night she found him and climbed a nearby tree, easily avoiding his alarm system, and looked down at him. Then, just before sunrise she would slink away.

  Now, she was afraid of what might happen. Her new love had crossed the bridge and walked up the road to a quaint little town. She wanted to follow him, bu
t she could smell the filthy people. Judging by the stench, the town must be full of them. So, she waited, crouching in the brush, for him to return.

  It wasn’t long before she saw him nearly galloping down the hill. As he crossed the bridge the filthy people she had been smelling suddenly sprung their trap. From either end of the bridge they emerged and advanced on him. He was terribly outnumbered by the dirty men as he dropped his duffel bag, armed himself, and charged at the ones who blocked his way.

  They stopped her love with their crude weapons, sharpened sticks, shards of glass, clubs. Surrounded as he was, he managed to keep them at bay for some time before being knocked to the ground. As the filthy ones closed for the kill, she could stand idle no longer. Leaping from her hiding place she crossed the fifty yards separating her from the man who had made her feel again.

  Her new form seemed to have been created for the sole purpose of killing and she proved it beyond a doubt. Rippling muscles tore limbs from bodies, black talons ripped through flesh causing streams of blood to arc out into the air. The filthy men didn’t stand a chance against her and when she was finished, they lay in pieces across the blood coated pavement.

  She looked then to her love who lay motionless at her feet. Kneeling over him she could hear his heart faintly beating. His warm breath lightly caressing her glossy skin. As gently as her form would allow she lifted him to her breast and carried him away.

  For two days, she held him. Periodically carrying his unconscious body to a stream where she did her best to clean his wounds and dribble water from her mouth to his. On the third day, she carried him to the road leading back to his friends. She laid him in the tall grass, briefly touched her black lips to his, then rose to her full height and began to make her way back to Ripley.

  Back to the stinking town full of filthy men to exact her revenge.

  To Be King in the Land of the Dead – Part 3

  Bill stood in two inches of cold water that felt slimy sliding across the skin of his ankles as it soaked through is pants and boots. Brackish gore dripped from the crook of the crowbar into the water, splashing softly and making tiny ripples.

  Turning in place, Bill’s mouth hung open as he gawped at the tiny room filled with various supplies, guns, ammunition, ready-to-eat meals in carton after carton.

  Modular shelving lined three of the walls. Along the wall furthest from the ladder a living area had been arranged, with two cots, a cooler, more stacks of food, and case after case of bottled water. A camp stove, rust tracing its edges, sat on top of a metal cabinet. One of the cabinet doors hung open, and inside he could see two-gallon cans of camp fuel pushed next to each other.

  Looking down at the carcass that gently bobbed in the shallow water whenever he moved, he whistled and said, “Damn, Bunker Bill, you sure had a layout. You hadn’t come down with the sickness you’d have hung on for a helluva long time.”

  In one of the two cots a body rested, mostly rotted, now more bones than flesh. Slim, tacky threads hung from the underside of the cot where the putrefying tissues had soaked through the heavy canvas.

  “Had yourself a roommate, there Bunker Bill? Things went south, and you had a zombie snack, didn’t ya?”

  Though the smell was ripe and cloying, Bill had smelled far worse odors in just the past two days. The fetor of the dead became a barely noticed tickle at the back of his sinuses within minutes.

  Many of guns on the shelves had been left open to the damp that had intruded into the room and were pitted and coated with rust. “Well doesn’t that suck,” Bill muttered as he wiped at the dust on the barrel of a long rifle.

  Though the guns left out were useless, there were many plastic cases lined up on the shelves. He popped the latches on the nearest and whistled at the sight inside. The two guns inside the padded case had rounded edges and handles, and they were short, about as long as his arm. They bore a few small spots of surface rust, but no deep pitting like unboxed guns. “Well what do we have here?” Lifting one of the guns from the padding he held it, felt the contours. The gun was built differently from most of the weapons he had handled. The magazine lay on top of the gun, parallel with it.

  Flipping the short weapon over he found a name and number stamped into the side. Fabrique Nationale PS90. “Nice. Have to mess with you, figure out how you work.”

  Sitting next to the case he found several metal cartons of ammunition that he assumed went with the guns.

  Bill opened four more cases. One held a heavy long-rifle, this one marked .338 Lapua. The massive scope was enough to tell him that it was designed for extreme long range. “Really reach out and touch someone,” he said with a smile.

  There were several handguns, and one case that cradled two wicked looking shotguns side by side. The weapons in these cases were all in excellent shape for having sat untouched for over a decade. For every gun there were metal flip-top boxes of ammunition that went with each. Thousands of rounds; and each ammo can had a packet of moisture absorbing desiccant.

  Bill Robb danced in circles, splashing fetid water as he hooted and catcalled. “Now THIS is cake! Fuckin’ cake, baby! Oh yeah, oh hell yeah!” He knew it would be days before he could wipe the huge, stupid grin off his face.

  Pulling himself together he returned to the shelves, checking every container and bag. His elation continued at his fortune as he found items that would have once been considered mundane, such as razors and shaving cream, a ten-pack of disposable lighters, even a full case of cigarettes.

  Once he had gone through the shelves, and his mind began to spin around a plan to get all of this treasure out and to a safer, easier to reach place he took time to sit down with one of the short PS90 guns. He spent an hour handling the weapon, oiling it from cleaning kit he had located in his search. Once the weapon was oiled and clear of any rust spots, he loaded the magazine with twenty rounds, slipped it into place and slapped it down, locking it in place on top of the rifle. “Weird, but hey, if it works, it works,” he said to the corpse of Bunker Bill who was now lodged beneath the ladder.

  With the gun clean, and his side-arm oiled and loaded as well, he lay back on the empty cot, resting his head on crossed arms, staring up at the concrete ceiling. “Not bad, today, Billy-boy, not bad at all. Now, if you can figure out how to get all of this shit outta here and to someplace away from the city, you’ll be in grand shape. Fucking king, buddy. Fucking king.”

  Bill dozed fitfully, finally falling into something resembling restful sleep somewhere around 2 a.m. The then dreams came, followed by nightmares, but this day had been good, despite the tension and fear, and the nightmares quieted.

  Waking early, Bill found an old military duffel and he began to fill it with supplies. The thought of humping this and his regular pack back to the car was daunting, but he was determined to carry them, no matter what. If he could move quickly he could make it back to the waiting V.W. within half a day. Carrying both bags, he expected to take most of a day.

  “Time to move.” He shoved six of the Meals, Ready-To-Eat into the bag, one of PS90’s, (the other he would carry), one of the shotguns, a .45 from one of the plastic cases, the gun cleaning kit, and ammo for each gun. Standing below the ladder, hefting the bag, Bill swore. “Shit, I can’t carry all this. Be stupid, die stupid.”

  He carried the bag back to the cot, sorting through it, tossing items to the side, including the second PS90, which he sealed back in its case. “I’ll be back for all of it, so fuck it.” Once he had the bag down to a more comfortable weight he cinched and buckled the top closed and hooked it over his shoulder.

  Turning away from the cot he knocked something off the cot into the water, turning to see what it was he noticed a plastic crate sitting at the foot of the folding bed he had somehow missed.

  Placing the bag back on the cot he bent over and flipped heavy latches, lifting the top of the crate. “No, fucking way!”

  Nestled neatly inside the box were two rows of five canisters. Gray in color, with a series of lette
rs and numbers, and below that the words THERMITE GRENADE followed by INCENDIARY. “Oh, damn, Bunker Bill, I don’t think you’re supposed to have these, buddy…”

  Pawing further into the crate he found another two rows of five beneath the top layer. Twenty of the deadly canisters in all. “Oh, holy hell yeah, King, Billy, freakin’ King.” Carefully he placed five of the grenades in the bag, closed it up once more and climbed the ladder.

  Back in the shop, Bill quickly grabbed a few small items he had set aside, like several of the bubble-packed plastic flashlights and several packs of batteries. These he shoved into the large pockets on his cargo pants.

  He stood watching through the glassless barred windows for several minutes before venturing outside, through the front door. The bodies piled up outside made him work to get the door open enough to finally push the bag, then himself through.

  Moving quickly, his head swiveling as if it were loose and about to fall off, Bill made for the stretch of buildings where he had left his pack. And the coffee.

  He ran the two full blocks, making the very end of the row with little trouble. He wanted to get inside, gather his other gear and head out without delay.

  A knot of six dead had gone unseen, loitering just inside the door of the first storefront he passed. They came out fast, and Bill reacted, not by fighting, but by ducking into the next door and bolting as fast as the heavy bag would allow for the back of the building.

  Slipping on movie and CD cases, he charged through an entertainment shop that had seen better days. The dead came through the door only paces behind him, low growls preceding them.

  Making for the first door he could see, Bill prayed for his luck to hold out just a bit longer. Dying in the ever-constant search for stuff was the life of a scav, and Bill knew he was good, but he wasn’t ready to give up life just yet.