by Damon Novak
“We weren’t so sure your time on that boat didn’t allow you to forget how bad it can be out here,” said Jimmy. “We followed early just in case.”
“Good point,” I said. “But we fought our share of ‘em in the Florida swamp and on land before we got aboard the first boat in Key West. Some along the way, too. Like we told you at your tent, zombiegators and zombiecrocs, too. It’s not somethin’ anyone ever forgets.”
“You’re worthy traveling companions,” said Carla, lifting her chin toward the store. “Think anything in there is untainted?”
“Well, Moon Pies ain’t on a zombie’s diet, far as I know,” I said. “And this lady here?” I indicated toward Georgina, who stood beside Roxy, a look of relief on her face. “She wants a Moon Pie.”
Suddenly, in the distance, we heard the sound of a motor crankin’. It caught and sounded like a lawnmower.
Two bells rang at the gas pump, a dim light flickerin’ to life above it.
As we stared at it, Garland, who’d disappeared without anyone noticin’, came runnin’ up. He huffed, “Saw the gen between them zombie legs when we opened the shed door. Went to check it out, and she fired right up.”
“Good goin’, Garland!” I said. “Let’s hit that store, fill up our tanks, and get back on the road. We got ourselves a real caravan now.”
Ω
Liam was turnin’ into a little warrior. He had that .22 rifle on his shoulder like a little soldier marchin’ off to war, and he was first steppin’ over the piles of reekin’ dead to get to the store entrance.
I could see the door had been latched, ‘cause the top crossbar, made of weathered wood like the rest of the place, was splintered outward. Not strong enough for the weight of the dozens of undead.
The reek in that store was about the worst I’d ever smelled I my life; rotted body parts that had fallen off their owners – legs, fingers, feet, among other less-identifiable parts – littered the smeared linoleum floor.
I wanted to clear the store first, so me and Garland tried to open the east door behind the checkout counter, but it was locked. We searched behind the counter, openin’ drawers and lookin’ for key racks, but found nothin’.
Everyone else who’d come in grabbed grocery sacks and stepped over the nastiness as they grabbed stuff that didn’t appear to be moldy or ruined in some unspeakable way by the walkin’ dead.
Carla and Jimmy came in, but the other adults in their group and about half the kids stayed outside on sentry; it was their way, and it felt like we had armed guards at our service. I’d never complain about that.
Our search fruitless so far, Garland finally pulled out a sizable pocketknife and jimmied the cash register drawer open. Sure enough, a brass key sat in an empty coin compartment. He snagged it, proud of himself.
“Nice work,” I said. “Do the honors.”
We walked to the storeroom door and he slid the key in the lock. It turned. To his credit, before openin’ it, Garland put his ear to it, knocked on it, and listened.
“It’s quiet,” he said. I nodded.
We went in. There were extra stocks of pristine product. Chips, candies, cases of sodas and beer. Nothin’ real perishable, but we’d have to get used to that, I figured. There was even some Tostitos Cheese Dip.
We reached another door, the sunlight from outside shinin’ around the edges, and he pushed the center bar. It swung outward.
About forty cars and trucks were parked in the middle of the pasture. The gate was closed which is why the horses hadn’t been able to escape the hungry dead.
“That sure explains a lot,” said Garland.
“Wonder whose bright idea it was to keep that door locked,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Garland. “Maybe they started to turn in the night or somethin’. Couldn’t figure out the front lock in a panic, and the back door … shit.” His voice trailed off, and I could tell he was picturin’ what might’ve happened in there.
“What’s done is done,” I said. “Now, didn’t I see a case of Moon Pies in that storage?”
“Fuckin’ vanilla ones, but yeah,” he said.
I patted him on the back. “We’re gonna get along just fine.”
Ω
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Toyota Tacoma pickups the Nacogdoche drove north in our caravan all had good winches mounted on ‘em, which is more than I could say for either the Chevy or the Ford.
Jimmy, Carla, and the rest of their tribe had more handheld radios – turns out the whistles weren’t the only way they communicated – and they made sure we were all on the same channel. 23.
Two of the other adults, Liza, and Phillip, drove ahead of the rest of us, their Tacomas designed more for clearin’ traffic obstructions in our way than haulin’ people.
“I don’t like that they have most of the children riding in the beds of the trucks,” said Georgie. “If they overturn …”
I looked over. What they’d done was kinda ingenious. The bed of each truck had six chairs mounted in back. They looked like movie theater chairs in rows of two, where the seats flipped up when you weren’t sittin’ in ‘em.
Behind each chair, probably welded or U-bolted to the back of ‘em and then to the truck bed, were steel posts, about six feet high.
The first time I saw how the setup worked, I actually laughed, ‘cause this group had their shit together. Even through my window and the sound of the motors runnin’, I heard ‘em whistle.
All six of the kids in back of that truck stood up, .22 Henrys in position. Harnesses they wore secured ‘em to that center pole, and the chair spun with ‘em as they spun in any direction they wanted, firin’ on zombies.
This shit was super handy when we hit towns occupied by good numbers of the deadheads. I tell ya, we had to fire nary a shot. Those kids were disciplined, trained, and unafraid.
Made me sad a bit, thinkin’ how they’d lost their youth.
When they’d cleared the threat, they spun their seats back around facin’ forward and dropped back into ‘em. Hell, all they needed was popcorn.
Back to Liza and Phillip’s Tacomas. They accommodated just two kids in back, both with the same setups. Danny had checked ‘em out, noticin’ they were different, and he said they had a bunch of dumbbell weights layered on the bottom, spot-welded together for weight.
Not a whole lot, but enough to allow them to pull larger vehicles out of the way with their big winches. That’s why they went first – to clear a path. Half the time they were so far ahead of us they were out of sight.
All in all, we got damned lucky to run into ‘em.
Night fell, but we kept drivin’. Nobody wanted to stop before we got to Lebanon, Kansas. It had been a long run north, but we were so close, stoppin’ could only spell disaster.
Idle hands may well be the devil’s workshop, but idle caravans draw soulless corpses. I’d keep these hands on the Chevy steerin’ wheel until we passed the sign for Lebanon.
Ω
That happened just after 3:30 in the mornin’.
I don’t know why such a wave of relief washed over me, seein’ that sign. I pretty much knew life wouldn’t get much easier from that point on, but somehow, the forty-six people and the single German Shepherd in our group gave me hope.
Now we had to hope Micky Rode wasn’t a fuckin’ kookaloo, and that his plan made some kinda sense. Not that I really thought any of those deadheads could be brought back to life; I didn’t. I didn’t wanna think of what kind of life it would be, even if it were possible.
Neither did anyone else, far as I knew. But maybe – just maybe – Wattana had a way to drop the monsters he’d created with that black rain. If he did it once with his dark curse, impossible as it seemed, maybe he had one piece of good magic left up his sleeve.
I couldn’t believe one without havin’ some hope of the other.
We stopped when we got to Phillip and Liza’s vehicles, which had parked in the middle of the street, lights on. The kids in the back
of the beds were on alert, scannin’ the area around us.
We all parked and got out, meeting in the middle.
“No sentries,” said Carla. “I’m a bit surprised.”
“They just got here a couple of days ago, right?” asked Terry, who looked exhausted. “Maybe they needed some rest before they secure the place.”
“Can’t secure anything when you’re dead,” said Jimmy. “There should at least be some folks with radios at the main roads into town.”
A fucked-up thought struck me. I looked at Georgie and took her hand before I whispered it. “Maybe they were overrun already. We haven’t had the ham up, but silence is silence, and you’re right. No guards.”
Roxy shook her head, which meant I whispered like I can dance – like shit. “They’re not military, right?” she said. “So they might not know the best things to do to stay safe. I didn’t know anything about that before this, and Terry screwed around that time and almost got himself killed.”
“I wasn’t gonna let him get killed,” I moaned. “Had that rotten bastard in my sights the whole time.”
“Whatever,” said Roxy. “Rode’s just a damned disc jockey and the rest of his people are probably just survivors, like us. It’s not like we’re a trained army. These guys are as close to that as anyone we’ve come across.” She indicated to Carla and Jimmy.
“Good point,” said Carla, ‘cause apparently the whisperin’ attempts were over. “I say we circle the vehicles, create a barrier, and set up in this intersection for the night. No sense in approaching them in the dark.”
“And sleep on what?” asked Liam.
“We’ve got banana loungers, beach chairs, director’s chairs. Enough for everyone,” said Carla. “We’ll build a fire and settle in right here until morning. It’ll be light in three or four hours. Then we can get everyone fed and go see who is at the school.”
Everyone looked at everyone else, and I think we all admitted at once that it sounded like a good plan. Hell, I could’ve laid down on a pile of rocks and it’d feel good. I was tired.
“I got some Jack Daniel’s,” said Danny. “Anyone wants a little comfort, head over to my spot.”
I guess I didn’t mention how many Tacoma pickups there were – No Tundras to speak of. Guess they were a bit too big, drinkin’ that much more fuel.
A lot of the kids drove, too. You’d have no way of tellin’ whether it was an adult or a child who drove a given vehicle, ‘cause if they were at the wheel, they could drive as well as they could shoot.
I could tell everything had been practiced; the vehicles started tailgatin’ one another, all turnin’ left around the intersection, with another pullin’ behind, then another, and finally, with the vehicles in a perfect circle, a whistle sounded and they all braked at once.
Duffle bags were removed and tossed down to cover all the gaps beneath the pickups, and only then did everyone pull the chairs out and set up camp. The fire was started and burned low in the center of the intersection.
The .22 rifles were there beside all of ‘em. I had my Remington 770, and of course Georgie, sittin’ on my left, had her 9mm.
I stared at the fire a long time. Danny was to my right, and every once in a while, I’d hear the liquid splash in the whiskey bottle and turn my head. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but I did want it.
Finally, when I turned again, Jimmy smiled and said, “Go ahead, friend. We’ve got your back tonight.”
I nodded, smiled, and squeezed Georgina’s hand. She, in turn, patted Nokosi, who sat at her feet, head on her paws, eyes closed. I held out my hand and Danny gave me the bottle. I tilted it to my lips, and the liquid ran warm down my throat. My eyes closed, I felt Georgie take it from me. I thought I might just love that woman.
Ω
Micky Rode
Lebanon, Kansas – North End
Micky couldn’t sleep. Not only because he didn’t have any faith in the people standing watch, but because he had begun to question everything.
Even his own motivation.
Because it seemed he would need a better selection of people before even considering heading out for California, he’d used his ham radio setup to broadcast again the night before. He announced he had arrived in Lebanon and had reiterated the plan. The cloud cover over the area had been as thick as a blanket, and he was not sure the message had even broadcast successfully – or if it had, clearly.
So, as expected, he’d wasted another day. Sure, he’d gathered a fair number of people along the way, but the rag-tag group spread out over the floor of the gymnasium wasn’t equipped for either a road trip or battle.
It seemed like most of them thought this was their final stop; that Lebanon, Kansas was their final destination.
Micky never indicated that. Every broadcast, he’d said what the plan was. Most of the people who’d joined his little procession of survivors seemed to be looking for someone to protect them.
He’d done it, up until now, along with three or four capable men and women. But now, he needed them to step up, learn how to fight if need be, and be ready to go after Climbing Fox Wattana.
But in the roughly 48 hours he’d been in Lebanon, he’d even begun to wonder if his initial plan wasn’t a fool’s errand, borne out of anger and revenge.
Did he really want to force the shaman to reverse what he’d done, or was his true intention to kill him outright for wiping out those he loved?
Rode struggled with the answer. Was the former even possible? In any manner? The more of the undead Micky came across, the less he believed anything could be done. They were dead; they were deteriorating, day by day.
The world was being polluted by their decomposing flesh, and it was getting worse, not better.
And still they walked. Still they hunted down the living, putting terror in their hearts, sapping their will to fight, and in many cases, their will to live.
In places that hadn’t seen any true rainfall since this started, the rank, black residue from the ungodly black rain still stained the fields, streets, and buildings. Only time would rinse it away, and then, to where? Its inky pitch would seep into the crust of the planet, poisoning the soil, perhaps.
Maybe even food grown in it would change people into monsters.
Just in the two days they’d been in Lebanon, a woman and her son had committed suicide. She had taken a six-shooter and fired it into her nine-year-old boy’s temple, then put the same gun to her own.
She was careful to hit both their brains, so they would not come back. Somehow, that touched Micky even more than the act itself; in ending her fear, she had protected the ones left to carry on.
It was very quiet in the auditorium as the word got around. Nobody had known or befriended them; perhaps that was the problem.
One woman was pregnant, ready to pop any moment. She said she believed her due date had passed already. Micky dreaded that ordeal – for that’s what it would be. They would have to find soft blankets, formula, a crib, and everything else necessary to care for an infant.
Worse, maybe, was that the baby would remind him of his own loss, of the early days of his marriage when his son was born.
It wasn’t the mother’s fault, he often reminded himself. What was her name, anyway? Micky thought it was Carrie.
He hoped by the time that baby was born, he would be on his way to the Henomawi Nation Reservation.
Standing to walk the floor once more, he stepped over several bundled shapes and made his way to the edge of the crowd. He had asked them to stay in the middle; leave room for the sentries guarding them. At least they had listened to that.
Nobody who was supposed to be awake was sleeping. At least he had some he could rely upon.
He nodded at the guard and pushed outside. He lit a stale cigarette, looked at the still streets in the clouded moonlight, and said a prayer for all of them.
Snuffing the smoke out on the black-stained ground, he moved toward the door when somebody pushed through and hurried t
oward him. He reached for his pistol and had the .45 out before the person reached him.
“Whoa!” came a female voice. He did not recognize it, so assumed they’d never had a conversation.
“Mr. Rode, it’s Carrie. The pregnant woman. She’s gone into labor.”
“Damnit,” said Rode. He was seeing everything get more and more complicated.
“What?” asked the woman, perplexed. “Without babies, this world will die out … if you’re in charge, you should realize that much.”
“I know, I know. I’m just feeling like I’ve gotten myself – maybe everyone – into more than we bargained for. Do you know if there are any doctors here?”
The woman said, “No, not that I’ve heard.”
“Alright,” he said, sliding sideways past her, into he building.
A lantern had been lit, and several people stood around Carrie, who was on her back, resting against a pillow.
He reached her and did what they all expected him to do. He knelt down and took her hand. “How are you?” he asked. The woman looked to be in her late twenties.
“It’s time,” she moaned. “I’m … really cramping.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure you have lots of time,” said Rode. “You can be in labor for hours. We just have to try to keep it down as much as we can. Sound carries at night.”
She shook her head. “No,” she whispered through her pain. “It’s my third delivery. I feel the baby crowning now.”
Micky Rode suddenly felt dizzy.
Ω
Magi Silver Bolt & Climbing Fox Wattana
Henomawi Nation Reservation
Silver Bolt stirred from a fitful sleep; one in which he had nightmares of Anjeni Dancing Rain, ripped apart by a horde of skinwalkers.