Tales of Junction

by Davis IV, John L.

  Moving again; shouts and cries of “Who the fuck’s doing this?” filling the empty places in the night.

  Bill popped another canister and sent it sailing into the knot of men grouped around the fallen at the fire. The grenade hit a thickly bearded man square in the face and bounced off, cracking his nose in the process.

  The grenade popped, a shower of flame and heat and sparks spilling over the legs and feet of the men, sending three of them to the ground screaming.

  “Six down,” Bill muttered as he raised the rifle once more, popping several random shots into the camp and moving once again, back the way he had come just a moment ago.

  His knees echoed the pain the men in the camp were feeling with their own special fire, the joints burning from his crouched run-and-gun.

  Shots and shouts and cries filled the night along with the acrid stench of seared and burning human flesh.

  Over the noises he heard someone yell out, “How fuckin’ many are there damn it? I can’t see a fucking thing!”

  Finding the voice in the chaos, Bill sighted on another bearded man and released three shots one after the other into the chest of the questioner.

  Moving to his left five feet, Bill took a knee and waited a count of thirty seconds, then he popped another canister and let it fly into the camp, continuing the frenzy.

  Staying low, still crouched on complaining knees, Bill quickly made his way back around to the two trucks. Searching the bed of the first he found a plastic five-gallon gas can that felt half full when he lifted it out and moved it twenty feet away into the grass, then he unscrewed the top and prepared to fling it into the camp. The smell of fuel should have hit him right off. He dropped the container to the ground when he realized it was just water.

  Back at the trucks he yanked the pin on the last canister and tossed it into the open door of the first truck. As the vehicle roared up into flame he heard someone call out, “They got the damn trucks!”

  Bill chuckled as he faded back into the grass, waiting for those that would come to inspect the damage to the vehicles.

  Three of the remaining five ran without caution to the burning truck. Bill dropped the first with two rounds to the chest, the second he hit in the shoulder and spun him to the ground.

  The third dropped into the trampled grass next to his cursing friend. “Shitbag’s hit me, damn it! Kill the assholes, man! Oh, hell, my shoulder…”

  Bill calmly popped five more shots in the direction of the voice, rewarding him with a gurgling moan that quickly faded.

  “Tony! Damn it, Tony!”

  “Three more,” Bill said softly.

  Lying prone in the tall grasses, Bill watched and waited and listened. With several bodies and the truck now burning brightly shadows danced, causing more confusion among the remaining three men. He kept his head low as random shots popped.

  The screams of the dying and the raging shouts of the last men carried well into the cool night air. Bill knew that if it hadn’t been for the darkness and his surprise attack he wouldn’t have had nearly the success he did. With those elements gone taking down the last three could prove more difficult than it was worth, even if they were still disoriented and terrified.

  Rising to a low crawl, Bill began the long, painful trek back to the stalled car. He could see a faint pink tint to the edge of the eastern sky. He wanted to be well down the road, hopefully at Junction’s gate, when dawn rose.

  Eat your heart out Bruce Willis, he thought. I could have been an action hero.

  A Friend in Need is a Friend Indeed

  Tool was getting worried. Frito said he was making a quick trip, but he’d been gone six days. According to Mitch Burton, Frito had headed straight east from Junction and Tool was about to do the same thing.

  Normally, Tool liked to leave Junction in the middle of the night rather than midafternoon, but this was serious. He got his gear together, left Maynard with Doc and started east. It was a long shot at best. Truth was that Frito could be anywhere. Maybe he had went to his corn chip stash, only going east to throw others off the trail. Still, Tool had a bad feeling that his friend was in trouble. Friends, true friends, were a rare commodity these days and when your friend was in trouble, you did everything you could to help him.

  Tool kept moving all night, slowly, looking for clues that his friend may be close by, hoping to find Frito asleep in his hammock. Around midday he saw someone moving on the road in the distance. Tool watched the figure shuffling along, moving away from him, and knew that it was not a living person. That’s when he noticed blood on the pavement at his feet. A dried up puddle of blood with a tire track in it. A narrow, nearly bald tire had rolled through the blood when it was still fresh. Tool was suddenly sick to his stomach, fearing what he would have to do.

  There was no mistaking that the walking corpse had once been his best friend. Tool silently removed a knife from within his jacket and thrust it into the skull with a single overhand blow. The knife sunk to the hilt. The zombie that had been Frito slumped to the ground. Tool stepped away and vomited into the grass.

  After composing himself, Tool returned to the body. He retrieved his knife from the back of the zombie’s skull and rolled it over to better examine it.

  Frito’s clothes were badly ripped and stained with blood. His camo field jacket was tattered. His prized kukri was missing as were all of his knives. The body was riddled with wounds of various sizes. Well over twenty by Tool’s count. All but one had scabbed over. The one open wound oozed a pinkish slime with dark bloody streaks, the remains of a punctured lung.

  Tool dragged his friend’s body off the pavement and into the tall grass. After saying his goodbyes, he removed Frito’s boots, tied them together and slung them over his shoulder before turning toward Junction. He cast one more glance at the gory tire-track as he walked away.

  On the walk back, he formulated a plan. He would find Corey Balmont, tie him to a chair and cut little pieces off him until there was nothing left. Hopefully he could make it last for days.

  Tool made it back to Junction, coming in through the North gate. He dropped Frito’s boots off at his shack then went straight to Filler’s, entering the back door as usual and knocking loudly on Filler’s office door.

  One of the girls hollered from the kitchen, “He’s at the south gate, Danni came in a minute ago, said that Corey kid is back.”

  Tool turned and sprinted away.

  To Be King in the Land of the Dead - Part 4

  1

  Corey stopped the rattle-trap scooter in the center of the empty highway about a mile from Junction and shut off the engine.

  He sat astride the little bike, thinking. He worried that his return to Junction would not be well received after the Laidlaw incident. “Damn good thing they don’t know about Frito, then,” he said with a smile.

  Draping his wrists over the handles, he leaned forward and peered into the distance. He could just make out the pieced-together walls of Junction in the hazy light of dawn.

  “You can just turn around, find someplace else to go, you don’t need this place,” he said, though he knew it wasn’t entirely true. Several settlements had already banned him, and he knew of one that had a bounty out on his head.

  “Eh, hell, whatever happens, happens. I’ll take as many of the shit-eating bastards as I can down with me if I have to.”

  He started the Vespa, listened to it rattle and buzz for several seconds before he slipped it into gear and finished his return to Junction.

  2

  Mitch Burton cocked his head and listened. Raising his binoculars, he scoped the far highway. “Well I’ll be damned. That little rat-bastard is actually coming back here.”

  “What’s that, Mitch?”

  “We got a rider incoming, Danni. It’s Corey. Run and get Filler.” Glancing at his watch companion he said, “And hurry, I’m of a mind to just shoot this motherfucker on sight.”

  Danni, one of the few young women that was not in the employ of F
iller or Janet, scurried down the shaky ladder and bolted for Filler’s place.

  The buzzing whine of the Vespa seemed to wind up tighter and more annoying as it closed the distance.

  Minutes later, from behind him, on the ground Filler shouted, “Mitch, don’t you shoot that boy! I want a word with him before anyone does anything, you hear?”

  Danni was already climbing back up to her post.

  Mitch was itching to put one of his precious bullets into the man’s face as he pulled up at the gate. Shaking his head, he said, “Yeah, I got it, Filler. Don’t like it, but I got it.”

  “Fine then. Both of you stay up there, keep an eye out, though. He pulls something stupid just drop him.”

  “Here’s hoping,” Mitch Burton mumbled.

  Filler understood Mitch’s anger. Though they weren’t best friends, he and Laidlaw spent a lot of time together on watch. Besides, Corey could have just as easily tossed that bottle to Mitch instead of Frank.

  The sound of the Vespa came to a humming idle outside the heavy gate. From outside Filler heard Corey shout up to Mitch, “Come on Mitch, open up, buddy.”

  “Fuck you, pisswad! I ain’t your buddy. You just hold your horses.” Mitch looked down at Filler and nodded.

  The big man pulled the gate open slowly. He relished the wide-eyed look on Corey’s face. The boy wasn’t expecting him. “Idle it in here slowly, boy, and shut it down just inside the gate.”

  Corey nodded, keeping any snide comments to himself. He was a psychopath, but he was by no means stupid.

  Filler slammed the gate shut just as Corey cut the raspy engine.

  “Uh, uh, you sit right there you little fucker,” Filler said with a growl when Corey began to dismount the scooter.

  “Filler, listen man…”

  “No, you listen kid. Frank Laidlaw may have been an ass, and he was damn sure on most everybody’s shit list, but what you done was downright wrong, no matter how you twist it.”

  Nodding, forcing a crestfallen look onto his face during Filler’s upbraiding, Corey seethed inside. To have this fat bastard facing him, chastising him like a misbehaving child was almost more than he could bear.

  “I know it, Filler, and I’m sorry, I let my emotions get the best of me, man. Really, I am. Mitch,” he said, looking up, “I’m sorry man, I know you’re pissed, I do. I can’t change it, but I damn sure won’t let anything like that happen again.”

  The glint of disgust, of hatred in Corey’s eyes was hard to miss. “Yeah, sure, kid, I’m sure you won’t.”

  From inside the settlement, behind Filler a voice called out, “Hold that little fucker!” Everyone twitched, many pairs of eyes searching for the voice.

  From between a pair of rusty, titling shacks, strode Tool, and even from thirty feet away the look of rage he wore was obvious.

  Corey knew this was the worst time to face off against Tool, with everyone watching. Besides, he was sneaky, and quick. No one was sure where he kept the little blade, but everyone knew it could pop into being, its tip pressing into a throat or rib, in a heartbeat. Unconsciously, Corey began to back away.

  Filler stepped up to slow Tool and thought better of standing directly in the man’s path. Like every scav, he could be unpredictable, and Filler knew the salvager was quick. He stood aside and held out a wide, meaty hand.

  Tool batted the hand away without slowing and steeped toe to toe with Corey. “You did it, didn’t you, you dirty little shit-bag punk-ass kid? Tool emphasized “kid”, knowing full well how much Corey hated it.

  “Tool, come on, man. What are you talking about, what did I do?”

  Filler spoke up, knowing where this was headed. “What the hell you talkin’ about boy? What is it he’s supposed to have done?”

  Tool glanced at Filler, his eyes burning with rage. “Frito’s dead,” he spat. Turning back to glare into Corey’s eyes, he said, “And this shit-wad is the one that did him.”

  To Filler’s own surprise, he was shocked. Frito was just another scav, one of the many that owed him something, and like most people that made their living scavenging, Frito could be an asshole at times. A person had to be, in order to survive for any length of time outside the walls of a settlement.

  Frito, on the other hand, was one of the few people that everyone seemed to like. His company was often sought out by many whenever he was in town, men for the easy camaraderie, women for the easy, well, everything else. If Filler could be said to like any scav, it was Frito.

  A loud murmur passed through the growing crowd.

  “Bullshit, I didn’t do a damn thing to anybody! Frito, I liked him, he was a good guy, better than most of you!” For the first time in a very long time, Corey felt genuine fear.

  Filler’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the pasty skin, going paler even as the boy spoke. Then a high blush began to bloom on Corey’s cheeks, and tears hung in his eyes.

  “I was damn close to lettin’ you off the Laidlaw business with a damn good ass-whippin, put you out of business for a week or so, just because you’re a damn good scav, but… God damn it, kid, why Frito? What the hell did he ever do to you or anybody?”

  “Fuck you, Filler, you pig-fat bastard, I didn’t KILL ANYBODY!”

  Tools hand flicked out with precision and slapped Corey openly across his pale face. Leaning in close, nose to nose, Tool said softly, though all could hear in the silence that followed the slap, “I saw your tire tracks, Balmont. The tracks you left in FRITO’S FUCKING BLOOD!”

  Corey flinched at the roar and the flying spittle; then his head was rocked back when Tool’s stone-hard fist drilled into his mouth. His lips split, and he coughed, gagging as two teeth went down his throat. He crumpled to the ground.

  Filler stepped up then, and Mitch clambered down from his post, both rushing to Tool’s side.

  “Not inside the gates, man,” Mitch said. “You know the rules. Only inside the gates if there ain’t another way.”

  Corey, dazed, his vision blurry, felt hands slip under his arms and begin to pull him along. Shaking off the haze of pain in his face, splattering his handlers with blood, he focused enough to see who they were.

  Tool was on his left, Mitch was on his right, and Filler stomped the ground with heavy feet in front of him. “Guys, what are you doing?” he sputtered.

  “Taking you outside the south gate, shit-head,” Mitch said.

  Corey screamed then, the note starting high, a scream of terror, then dropping to a low roar of rage. “Fuck you all! I’ll kill every one of you backwards hillbilly assholes! I’m your fucking KING! YOUR KING, you whores!”

  Bibi stood to the side, watching with her girls, who all bunched around her as the screaming murderer was dragged past, staring at them with wild eyes that caused several of them to shiver with a twinge of terror.

  Filler’s face was set as he led the way, a hard look that did not divert from his path. People had formed a trail behind the two dragging the third man between them, following along with all manner of weapons in hand.

  Bibi turned to look at Trina standing beside her, then lightly slapped the girl’s arm with the back of her hand. With a grin she said, “Best damn parade I’ve seen in years.”

  ****

  Bill’s wrists, arms, back and knees all ached horribly, and he was relieved to see the walls of Junction loom into sight.

  He was still fifty yards from the entrance when the gate suddenly opened. He was surprised, because the guards usually wouldn’t open up until they had verified who was coming in. Then he saw that the gate had not opened to let him in, but to let a large group stream out, with Filler leading two men dragging a third, a procession of armed followers behind them.

  Bill pulled the car in close and shut it off. He reached back in, grabbed the short rifle and slung it over his neck to hang across his chest.

  He stepped toward the crowd, but hung back at the edge, watching.

  He recognized both Tool and Mitch Burton dragging someone between them. It wasn�
�t until they stood the screaming figure up in front of the deep burn pit that he knew the third person to be Corey Balmont.

  “Well I’ll be a son-of-a-gun. Finally caught that creepy shit at somethin’.”

  “I’m gonna come back and eat every one of you bastards!” the wild-eyed kid screamed.

  “Huh, I somehow doubt that, boy,” Bill muttered. He stepped in closer, making his way through the crowd.

  “For being a piece-of-shit,” Filler began, “you get a slap in the face, bitch. Tool done took care of that. For being a murderous psycho, you get dead and burned in the pit. You should feel lucky that we brain you before we throw you in and light it.”

  Tool stood just to the side, eyes focused beams of disgust and loathing as he stared at Corey Balmont.

  Mitch held the writhing, screaming psychopath with one hand in front of the pit of charred bones and flesh that was now nothing but ash and memory. He kept a grip on his rifle, pressing the barrel into Corey’s ribs.

  When Filler’s hand fell to the heavy pistol holstered at his side Corey’s eyes widened to point that it appeared they would simply fall from their sockets to bounce on the ends of their nerve strands.

  Throwing his head back and screaming to the sky, Corey twisted and shoved at the same time, throwing Mitch off balance. He broke free and lunged toward Filler.

  Before the heavy man could free his pistol, and with a speed that bordered on preternatural, Tool’s hand snapped out, the tiny blade he kept hidden meeting with Corey Balmont’s neck.

  The thin, brutally sharp blade bit deep, slicing through skin and muscle, severing the murderer’s esophagus before he could halt his steps.

  Corey dropped to his knees in front of Filler, his hands clutching at the new gap in his neck. Blood bubbled between his fingers as he tried to speak. His mouth moved, but no words came free and he died bowing at the feet of a man he despised.