by Damon Novak
Anger turning his blood cold, he looked over at the bound shaman. He was still as he had been when Silver Bolt had looked earlier; seated in the chair, his wrists tied, the ropes crisscrossing beneath the chair before wrapping around his mid-section several times.
He was not going anywhere.
Silver Bolt stood. Fingers squeaked along the blood-smeared glass of the sliding door, the sound accompanied by muffled snarls and moans. The creatures there were not giving up their pursuit of blood-filled flesh.
Their presence teased Magi; tempted him to sacrifice the old man to their hunger – the ultimate punishment for what he had taken from him.
His mind went again to the brief transmission he’d heard last night on the ham radio; the compact one the shaman had kept for emergencies. The person identified himself through the static, saying something about a road. Nicky, or Ricky, maybe. There was no such street in or around the reservation.
Still, the broadcaster’s intention was clear. He was coming for Climbing Fox Wattana. He did not believe their new chief was dead; he was convinced the video was faked, as it had been.
He knew. Mundunugu had called them over as soon as he had the idea, and he, Dancing Rain and Shining Eyes had helped the old fool carry out the plan.
They would not just kill him. This group of angry white people would wipe out any of the Henomawi who had survived.
They would not get the chance, though.
He stormed over to Mundunugu, kicking him in the shin.
The old man moaned, then jerked his head up. “I’m awake!” he said angrily.
Magi retrieved a pocketknife from his pants and leaned down to slice the ropes securing the old man. “Stand up. You must prepare.”
“What do you mean, prepare?” he mumbled.
Magi stormed across the room and retrieved the Igloo cooler. He carried it to where the old man sat, gingerly untying the remaining ropes from his wrists and ankles. Magi dropped the cooler on the floor and opened it.
The smell permeated the room immediately. It had not been pungent at all when he’d first mixed it; now it was a horrific smell, like that of death itself.
Choking back a gag, Silver Bolt reached inside the Igloo and took a handful. He smeared it on his own forehead, cheeks, and chin. “Put this on all the exposed parts of your body. When you are done, we will allow it to dry while the sun rises.”
Climbing Fox stared at him, his eyes wide and frightened. “It’s … putrid!”
“I don’t care!”
Wattana reached in, scooping a little onto his shaking fingers. He looked up at Magi Silver Bolt. “What then?” he asked.
“We go out to each home on the reservation and find all who survived. We must form an army of the living – and the undead.”
“Why? How?”
“Obey me!” screamed Magi, his fists clenched, dripping the ripe compound from his fingers to the floor.
“But I am the chief of the Henomawi Nation now!” shouted Climbing Fox Wattana. “I alone may command our people!”
Without warning, Magi Silver Bolt dipped his fingers into the bucket of skin and earth. He drew his hand back and slapped it into the old shaman’s face, knocking him backward out of the chair.
“You are no Standing Rock! You are no chief!”
Magi’s hands trembled and he clenched them into fists. Leaning close to Wattana, he growled, “You live only by my will, and only long enough to stop this evil you have set upon our land and all people! The moment I am convinced you cannot do that, is the moment you take your last breath.”
Magi’s heart slammed in his ears. His breathing was shallow and fast. He tried to calm himself.
Magi stood again, looking down at the man he once respected. “If this group is coming to kill you, it is my duty to protect you until you do what must be done.”
Wattana turned his eyes upward toward Magi, but remained silent and motionless.
“Now” said the young man. “Do what I said.”
Ω
EPILOGUE
Through a very short night filled with sharp whistles, the tiny pops of .22 caliber rifles, and silent gaps, all of us were safe.
Nokosi chuffed a bunch of times in the night when the whistles sounded, because she was smart enough to figure out what they were and what they meant.
I’d open my eyes, too, and over Georgina’s shape beside me, I saw the German Shepherd’s ears pricked.
After the shots, they’d stay that way for about five seconds, then go down again.
When I sat up and stretched, the sun was higher in the sky than I could believe, and the Nacogdoche Tribe was like a well-oiled machine once again.
Bowls of oatmeal, Malt-O-Meal, or pre-packaged granola bars were on the menu, and there was enough for everyone. I downed a bowl of the Malt-o-Meal and snagged two granola bars. I only took the Malt-O-Meal ‘cause I hadn’t even heard of it since I was a kid.
Tasted like shit, but it brought back memories.
When I finally got outta my banana lounger and moseyed around, I spotted about sixteen prone deadheads spread all around our little peaceful circle of solitude, taken out by our Indian friends.
I sat back down as my girl stirred in her uncomfortable lounger, noticing that Nokosi had wandered off somewhere. “Morning,” she said, just crackin’ her eyes open. “What’s that?”
“Let’s just call it slop. Want it with brown sugar or not?”
“Coffee. One of those granola bars.”
I handed her my cup. “Looks like they’re ready to straighten out this circle of trucks and head to the school. I’ll make you a cup when we get there. How’s that?”
“What time is it?”
I checked the old Timex. “Man. 7:45. We slept in.”
She reached her arms up in a stretch and yawned. “I did, at least.”
Lilly, Roxy, Terry, and Danny all walked up, lookin’ fresh and ready to move. “Where’s Liam and Garland?”
“They took Nokosi. On patrol,” said Lilly.
“Kid’s a little fighter,” said Terry. “I guess we should’ve known when we saw him on that boat with his mother.”
“We should keep an eye on him,” said Georgina. “Trauma can hide in the young.”
“I am, mom,” said Roxy. “I talk to him a lot.”
The whoops and whistles told us it was time to get moving. I didn’t mind someone else takin’ over. I felt like a huge journey had just ended, but I accepted that another was about to begin.
Ω
When we guided our caravan north up Main Street, like Rode had instructed, we saw the school before we got to it. It was, as Rode had said, the largest structure in the town, and appeared to be the most solid.
So as not to alarm our hosts, Carla, Jimmy and the other Nacogdoche elders told the kids to only take out immediate threats to our caravan.
There weren’t any. I guessed Rode’s people had done a bit of clearin’ themselves.
In the lead, Jimmy and Carla stopped their truck about 100 yards from the school. They banged on the horns three times fast, just to offer a few chirps of greeting.
It didn’t take long for the big auditorium doors to open. People came out, each one grippin’ their weapons just a little tighter. Then another dude came out.
Long hair, little overweight, but not much. He threw us a wave.
We all waved back with our free hands. We all smiled too. We’d discussed it. A smile goes a long way with a stranger.
He handed his rifle off to another man, who nodded at him. Micky Rode made his way toward us, walkin’ briskly and like a man with a new energy in his step.
When he got close enough, he called, “Welcome to Lebanon!” His eyes scanned our numbers, everyone with a gun of some kind in hand. “I can’t tell you how I’ve been waiting for you.”
He was smilin’, too.
Ω
We got oriented and evaluated, analyzed, and scrutinized, and we did our share of the same to them.
&
nbsp; Bein’ the one who convinced my group of eight-and-a-dog to head to Lebanon in the first place, I invited Mr. Rode to sit with us for a bit and talk in private.
Carla and Jimmy let us have our audience with the disc jockey.
“So, Micky. We’ve caught a few of your broadcasts. Not all of ‘em. Your plan the same?”
He looked at each one of us, smiled and nodded. “Had my doubts for a bit. Until you guys showed up.”
“What do you mean?” asked Danny.
“You see the people in that gymnasium?”
We all nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m no badass. I’ll grant you that. But I know how to fire a handgun and I know how to fire a rifle. I can count the others with some skill on one hand.”
“So you couldn’t head to California with no militia to speak of,” said Garland.
“Right,” said Rode. “I offered to help train them, but they seemed content just to be here. My last option was to threaten them with expulsion or something, but I’m not a damned tyrant. I know they’re tired and scared.”
“We all are,” said Georgina. “Any medical issues with the group? I’m a doctor, and we have some medications here.”
“No medical issues … not really. Just a concern.”
His eyes shifted, and I saw trouble there.
“What’s up, Micky? Somethin’ wrong in there? If we’re part of this thing, you need to share.”
He turned his eyes to us, and they were troubled. “I’d started to question why I was doing this in the first place. I wondered if I was just telling everyone I wanted to find this lying son-of-a-bitch Wattana and make him fix this mess, when I really wanted to kill him for what he did to my family.”
“We all want to kill his ass, my friend,” said Danny. “But if any of us was killers, we wouldn’t be in this group. We’re just survivors, good people. I’m sure we all understand how you feel, though.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. I changed my mind. Before you showed up. I’d have gone by myself if I had to.”
We all glanced at one another. Terry scratched Nokosi’s ear. “What changed your mind?” asked Liam.
Mickey knelt down and put a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “What changed my mind, I don’t think you should see, but I’ll tell you what. There’s lots of kids here. Why don’t you head on in and meet some of them.”
He picked up his rifle and I reached out and put a hand on it. “Leave the gun for now, Liam. We’re safe enough here. Got a few guards around us.”
The kid looked like he was goin’ to argue, but in a sudden burst of common sense, he didn’t. “Okay. See you guys,” he said.
“Follow me,” said Rode, standin’ and lookin’ squarely at Georgie. “You might find this especially interesting, Doc.”
We all got up and fell in behind Rode. He went to a door set into the brick side of the buildin’. He opened it, and I saw brooms, rakes, shovels, and other supplies. He leaned in and pulled out a large ice chest, settin’ it down.
Lookin’ up at us, he said, “If you’ve got a weak stomach, better turn away.”
Terry and Roxy turned away. After another second, Garland did the same. Me, Lilly, Danny, and Georgina looked on.
He opened the lid.
I almost puked but turned away before it came up. The others stared in horror.
Rode reached in and lifted the blanket, the dead baby starin’ sightless up at the sky. Its eyes were open but covered by a gray film. Its mouth was open, too. Its skin was mottled and vein-ridden, and black stains ran down the sides of its dead face.
I knew what it was. He said it anyway.
“One of our survivors, Carrie. She was full-term when we got here. This little guy was delivered last night. Healthy. Pink. Then … this. Two hours later, it started coughing, choking, spitting black.”
He turned it sideways. “I had to do this. Nobody else could.”
The puncture was clearly from a knife blade. The zombie baby had been bald, and you could see where the black had leaked out from its infected brain.
“This changed my mind,” he said, returnin’ the baby to the cooler. “If this is still happening, and if it’s going to continue to happen, we need that bastard alive. So, I trust myself now. I won’t kill him. He needs to fix this.”
I took a deep breath and took Georgina’s hand in mine. I also met the eyes of my sister and my best friend.
Before I could say anything, Lilly Baxter reached out, clasped Micky Rode on the shoulder and asked, “Mr. Rode, exactly when do we leave for California?”
Ω
Look for book 3 in the Zombie War Chronicles – coming early 2019!
Meanwhile, leave a review on Amazon.com and let other readers know what YOU think!
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[RM1]1He already has the Coke