Zombie Road (Book 1): Convoy of Carnage

by David A. Simpson

  Weird how they could be so dumb and slow now but if they see prey, they are like a finely tuned killing machine. He went back to his exercise in futility, trying to figure out something the best and brightest in Washington hadn’t been able to do with all their NSA databases and spy satellites and war colleges and whatever else his tax dollars paid for.

  The sun came up, the world went mad. Not just the States. The whole world. What did we all have in common when the sun came up?

  We woke up.

  Nope. Nothing there.

  We took a shower.

  Nope. Not in the water.

  Maybe the soap?

  No. Some soap was months old, some new. Wasn’t that.

  We had breakfast. How could that be it?

  Breakfast in Japan was rice and soup, fish and sausage. Breakfast in Europe was cheese and rolls, maybe some salami or something. Italians have spaghetti or pizza for breakfast? What did Russians eat? Bear? Africans? Didn’t they eat bugs and stuff? Lions and tigers? Maybe that was the Asians. Or maybe they ate cats. What about the Brits? Blood Pudding and Spam? He knew he was being ridiculous again. His mind kept wandering off on crazy tangents. He didn’t know what other cultures typically had for breakfast. He knew an American breakfast was anything from biscuits and gravy to sausage and eggs, bacon and eggs, ham and eggs. Green eggs and ham…

  Common denominator?

  There was none. Maybe eggs, those are eaten all over the world. Somebody spike all the chickens with zombie virus? Meat. That was pretty universal, he thought. More so in America but most countries usually had some type of meat available. The Indians (dot, not feather) didn’t eat beef but they ate pork and goat and chicken. Zombies ate long pork. He groaned to himself. Geez, you are one sick bastard. The Middle Eastern countries certainly didn’t eat pig.

  Probably a death by stoning if they caught you eating a ham sandwich. But none of the Middle Eastern countries were infected if Wire Bender's map was right. And they didn’t eat pork. The rest of the world did. Haji bacon, Scratch had called it. “You think Paw Paw would serve that here?” Kim had asked.

  Gunny’s heart seemed to stop in his chest. His mind reeled at the implications. The Muslim countries had formed a coalition and had used massive amounts of their oil money to buy up meat packing plants, it had been all over the news. They were starting a new era of peacefulness. They were going to show the world they could adapt and blend into the modern age, no longer holding to centuries-old customs. They had begun producing all manner of pork products and shipping them all over the world. Today was the first day they were supposed to be used although all had been delivered and were selling in stores yesterday evening.

  The day before the attacks had started happening sporadically around the world. Today there had been all kinds of breakfast festivities of friendship planned with free products and everything on the store shelves had been reduced to costs so low the company was losing billions. The CEO had said they would make up the difference in sales later. They had given every school, every military post, every government cafeteria free samples in hopes they would consider buying their products in the future.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  Wouldn’t believe it.

  It was too monstrous, too evil. No one would do that, he told himself. But now that he had thought it, he couldn’t unthink it. He needed more information. That little bit he had heard when he was listening to the traffic reports in the different cities wasn’t enough. The news had been playing while he was waiting for Helicopter Bob or Janie at the Traffic Desk but he hadn’t been paying attention, just waiting to hear which way was the best way to go. But it all came back now, the news he had been ignoring. The president praising an end to hostilities soon. The helicopters flying in fresh Salaam products to the Navy ships at sea. The thankful clips of city officials telling the reporters how many homeless and low-income families they would be able to feed with the generous gifts from the New Muslim Alliance of Nations. Peace and Good will to men. The world without conflict by Christmas. He had to be wrong. Had to be. But the pieces all fit. Of course there would be no more war. They had won. He felt sick. Were there really Army safe zones for refugees like his wife had said they were going to? From what he’d seen and heard today, he doubted it. He bet the military got hit the hardest, they were the earliest to rise and they always had bacon and sausage for breakfast.

  He understood now why the government didn’t have some kind of warnings out, to shoot on sight anyone acting strangely. They had seen Europe fall, knew it would be here when the sun came up over the Eastern Seaboard. They were probably scrambling everybody that drew a government check to try to find a way to stop it; hunched over keyboards, testing air and water samples, measuring gamma radiation or whatever NASA did.

  As they ate their bacon and egg biscuit.

  The military had surely been on red alert, all soldiers report for duty, calling trees initiated, all passes denied, all leave canceled, all hands on deck.

  “Now have a hearty breakfast while we wait for orders.”

  Gunny had been so lost in his thoughts, the sudden screaming of the horde as they sensed some new prey made him start, bumping his head against the bottom of the bunk lid above him. He heard the two, or was it three, inside the cab of the wrecker keening and scrambling to get out, heard them bashing themselves against the windows and clawing at one another. “Now or never,” He thought while they were distracted and making too much noise to hear him. He didn’t want them to stay trapped in the cab and then go back to their aimless bumping around. He gave it a few seconds until he heard the last of the horde outside disappearing down the road and slowly opened the lid just enough to see out.

  They were at the driver’s window, trying to go through it but one of them had climbed up on the dash and seemed to realize he could just go back out the way he came in. There were only two and he had the Gerber pulled out of his leg sheath and in his hand. Hopefully this time, he could hit the soft part of the skull, through an eye or ear if not at the base of the spine. It hadn’t gone as planned. They had heard or sensed him and both came at him, forcing him back into the sleeper and just stabbing frantically at faces and chests and arms, barely keeping their teeth off of him using the pillow on the bed as a shield. It was nasty, gruesome work with blood and guts and all manner of disgusting body fluids splattering everywhere. By the time he finally killed them with lucky stabs, they both had been cut wide open and must have had 50 gaping wounds in them. It had been simple after that, he had opened the door and started running towards the truck stop, the horde having disappeared in the other direction.

  The water running off of him and his clothes on the tile floor of the shower was clean finally. The gray matter and black blood all washed away.

  Chapter 16

  Gunny came out of the shower wrapped in a towel and carrying his wet clothes and boots. He walked down to his truck that was still in the shop and grabbed a fresh pair of jeans and t-shirt, draping his wet ones over the mirrors to dry. He wanted to get with Wire Bender, run his theory of how all this happened by him, see if he could dig anything up to either corroborate it or to let him know he was way off base.

  As he neared the shop, he heard raised voices coming from the diner again. He was going to ignore them, wasn’t his problem, but he heard someone say “your fault, boy.” He couldn’t place the voice but he knew they had to be talking to the ghetto kid.

  None of the black drivers he knew would let that slide if it were said in anger and he didn’t hear the sound of someone’s nose breaking. He didn’t even know the kid's name but he knew he had tried to help him at the wreck and he’d been out scouting the rural areas. He’d picked him up on the road when he was pretty much done in from all the running he had been doing.

  He dressed like some rapper gangster from the ‘hood but he had a calmness about him. A good head on his shoulders. He was more than he seemed to be.

  Gunny didn’t hesitate. He opened the door to
the CB shop and yelled in, “The Muslims did it. They spiked all the meat they were selling, they sent it out with the zombie virus. See if that checks out.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, he just lengthened his stride, heading straight for the commotion. When he came through the doors, he stopped and just watched the little drama play out for a moment. Shakey was in the kid's face, red-faced and angry about something. He looked sweaty even though the air conditioning was working fine. He was pointing his finger, poking it in the kids’ chest, punctuating each word.

  Shakey was a big man. But big, as in he’d let himself go over the years. Too many buffets, too many bags of chips and sodas driving down the road and not enough exercise. He had been in the military, but he was always a little vague on specifics. Gunny had seen him around over the years but only had a passing acquaintance with him.

  He held his tongue for the moment. He didn’t want to fight another man’s fight but if push came to shove, he’d be there. The kid had more balls than Shakey did. Ol’ Shakey hadn’t been outside the safety of the truck stop all day and that kid had been scouting alternative escape routes if they needed them.

  “If you hadn’t been playing that jungle music at full volume, they wouldn’t have come in the parking lot in the first place! It’s your fault Gumball and Ozzy got bit and it’s your fault the deputy is dead, Boy!” Shakey repeated himself, his face nearly purple with rage, using his 280 pounds to intimidate.

  Long Dawg just stood there and took it, the red-faced man and his poking finger. He had planned on shedding his whole ghetto persona, had planned on quietly slipping out to the bathroom and scrubbing off the Henna neck tattoos, stripping off this costume he was wearing, because that’s exactly what it was. A costume.

  He mentally kicked himself for not getting rid of it when he had been driving around but it hadn’t occurred to him, he was too busy trying to stay alert and alive, scratching out notes of different routes by the dashboard light. But the old man had drug him in here “where the light was better” and had him roll up his sleeves as he scrutinized him for bites.

  Then the argument started. He had been playing the part of some cheap Nigga from the hood to draw any police attention away from the van but all they saw was what he wanted them to see. The hood rat. His plan was working too well. He had decided to get back to his normal self but this cracker had got in his face before he had a chance. Blaming him for everything. Said he ran off and left the rest to die, didn’t believe for one instant that he was scouting routes. Probably got lost and just now found his way back.

  Long Dawg sighed. When all else fails, show ‘em what you’ve got. At this point, talking was useless. He’d been talking and it hadn’t done a bit of good. They weren’t hearing him. Weren’t listening. Words were cheap. If he wanted to throw in with this group, and most of them seemed okay, he had to show them he wasn’t a liability. He had to show them that he could be an asset. Had to show them he wasn’t going to take any shit from some redneck peckerwood.

  He was snake fast and moved like lightning, pulling his Beretta out of its holster, grabbing the fat man’s finger with his left hand and violently twisting it up and around his back. He bent him over the table, his face against the wood, the cold steel of the 9mm against the back of his head.

  It happened so fast, was so quick and savage, even everyone watching didn’t quite know how it happened. The silence in the room was deafening. “My name is Lawrence. Not Boy,” he said. “But only my mom calls me that. My friends call me Lars.”

  A quick glance around the room reaffirmed to him that no one else had pulled their iron, this was just between the two of them.

  With his arm nearly dislocated and twisted up behind his back, Shakey was helpless to do anything about the steel pressed against his head. He closed his eyes against the pain and tried to wrap his mind around how the tables could be turned so fast. He waited for a shot but the kid stepped back quickly and holstered the weapon.

  Then, to everyone’s amazement, he snapped to attention in a posture any marine would have acknowledged as perfect. He pulled out his Beretta again, the same model he had used for years in the Army, this time bringing it up to port arms then expertly dropping the magazine, catching it one handed and slapping it down on the table in front of Shakey’s face.

  His movements were precise, measured and with full military discipline. Quick and smooth, robotically perfect. He executed a one-handed slide lock, catching the ejected round cat quick and slapping it on the table, nose up, beside the perfectly placed magazine. He held the weapon out in an inspection arms gesture, as if to an officer who wasn’t there for a few seconds, then with a quick twist brought it back to his chest.

  Shakey had pulled himself up off the table and along with everyone else, was just staring at this kid executing a perfect military small arms inspection process. He had even done the one handed slide lock, a very difficult maneuver. The snaps and clicks, the pops and slaps sounded loud in the silence. As he smacked the magazine back in and let the slide go home chambering a round, he twisted the Beretta in the robotic way formal military actions take and slid it firmly back into its holster.

  He immediately went to a parade rest position and addressed Shakey. “In the Army, I was called Sergeant Brown,” he said. He let the quick and jerky military actions go and hitched up his pants, tightening the belt so they rode around his waist, not his ass. He removed the sideways hat and pulled the chrome grill out of his mouth, revealing perfect white teeth. He tossed them on the table and snapped the fake gold chains around his neck and they joined the rest.

  “Back on the block, they called me Long Dawg,” he said. “But that nigga is dead.” “You know why I was dressed like that? You know why I was driving that hooptie and blasting Tupac? You ever see Smokey and the Bandit, shithead?”

  He waited for an answer.

  Shakey nodded his head. Like everyone else, a little dumbfounded at this strange turn of events.

  “Then you know what I was doing. I was Burt.”

  He poked himself in the chest, enunciating it.

  “I was The Bandit. I was running interference for any cops we happened to cross. Make them eyeball me, not the van. And my cousins in the van, they were the Snowmen. Except we weren’t smuggling Coors to a party. We had the real snow. Millions of dollars’ worth right there in the back. Not worth much now and there ain’t no more law that’s worried about a bucket full of powder.

  “So there you have it, Bubba. I told you the roads are full of them things just wandering around, looking for somebody to eat. I didn’t draw those zombies, they were coming in here whether they heard my music or not.”

  He reached out and picked up the single round from the table and held it up in front of Shakey’s eyes. “And if you call me Boy one more time, I’ll put this bullet through your cracker ass face.”

  The tension was ratcheting up again but Shakey wasn’t so sure of himself anymore. This kid wasn’t who he thought he was. Wasn’t afraid of him. But he wasn’t going to back down, not in front of everybody. How come nobody in the crowd was helping him? If Gunny had the kid’s back…Maybe he was telling the truth, had tried to help. Maybe he had been out scouting roads and not running around lost.

  They eyed each other, almost nose to nose, each waiting for the other to make that first move. The tension was building, nearly crackling the air as jaws tightened, eyes narrowed and fists clenched.

  “You owe two dollars to the cuss jar, Lars,” Kim said, walking over and standing between them, shaking the jar with the big hand printed label on it. “No swearing in here or you have to pay.” She smiled sweetly. “A dollar for every dirty word.” She held out her hand for payment.

  There was a collective sigh and nervous laughter in the room as people let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding.

  “Them’s the rules,” Shakey said and laughed with the rest of them. Partly out of relief and partly because he thought he had just avoided an ass w
hoopin’.

  “Better pay up quick, she’ll be adding interest if you don’t” Somebody hollered.

  Lars couldn’t help but grin and shake his head as he reached for his wallet. What kind of people had he thrown in with?

  Chapter 17

  Gunny went up to the counter, caught Martha’s eye and asked if there was anything left to eat.

  “You say what you want, I make myself,” she said. He knew she wanted to stay busy, wanted something to do and he was the only one left who hadn’t eaten. So he ordered up a bacon and peanut butter cheeseburger and asked the cowboys if he could snag one of their beers.

  “Come on over here” Cobb barked at him. He was at the biggest table with Griz, Stacy, Sara, Cadillac Jack and his son Tommy. They had some papers spread out in front of them and it looked like they had been making plans.

  Gunny slid into the oversized booth as the girls scrunched up a little to make room.

  “Tell us what it’s like out there,” Cobb said without preamble. “How far did you get?”

  He told them. He told them about the hordes that numbered in the thousands, about the main arteries being completely gridlocked with abandoned cars. About their pack mentality and the feeding frenzy. Their inhuman strength and speed. The fact that they felt no pain, had no fear but were pretty dumb and docile if they weren’t on the chase.

  Stacy quizzed him relentlessly about everything he heard and saw when he was under the bunk, then she and Sara were speculating why they didn’t go after him. They must hunt by sight, maybe sound. Couldn’t be smell. He wasn’t sure if he was being insulted or not. Gunny noticed they had quite a crowd gathered at the other tables, everyone listening in intently. He told them his theory, his idea that he had yelled out to Wire Bender. Yesterday he would have been called an Islamophobe or racist for even thinking such a thing, but today there was contemplation even though most people couldn’t believe such a thing could happen.