He had heard stories of a different group of bandits that had been terrorizing Canada and wanted to see if he could find better intel on them. Supposedly they were a heavily armed and well-organized bunch that were operating far to the east, maybe over in one of the Dakotas, maybe across the northern border, and they were scooping up everything in the sparsely populated states. They weren’t as vicious as Casey’s Raiders, they didn’t try to kill or eat everyone they met, but they would strip the small towns of any food it had, leaving them bare and moving on. They came in like locusts with trucks, taking all the fuel and raiding the warehouses and stores. They killed you in a different kind of way. Slow starvation or reduced to scavenging for leftovers they may have missed, fighting your neighbor over a can of beans.
Jessie had only heard the stories from people who had heard the stories, but after the third similar tale from three different settlements, he started to believe them. Some warlord was taking everything that was left and stockpiling it. If they found survivors, they took everything they had and told them to join or starve. They said they served the messenger of god and he had given them immunity from the undead and powers beyond human. They had started their rampage in Canada, where resistance was easily overcome. The States had more guns than people even before the fall and weapons were everywhere, nearly every town in America had a pawn shop or gun store, and many places that didn’t sell guns had ammunition and accessories on the shelves. The Canadians didn’t have a gun culture, weapons were hard to buy and hard to find. The bandits tore through any armed resistance they came across with superior numbers and firepower. They kept growing, getting bigger and stronger, most people joined rather than fight.
Jessie had his maps spread out on a blackjack table in a walled town on the Blackfoot reservation. Some small settlements, usually close-knit family and rancher communities, were hesitant to let outsiders inside their walls. Not here, it was an easy town to get into, as long as you paid the fee. A gruff Indian and his heavily armed associate had demanded a toll to get through the gate.
“What’s the toll?” Jessie asked, “and why should I pay?”
“The price for entry is because you’re paying us to keep you safe,” he said. “This wall didn’t build itself and if we’re here guarding it, that means we ain’t out collecting supplies or tending crops in the greenhouses, now don’t it? We gotta eat, too. If you don’t want to pay, back on out and hit the road.”
Jessie gave them some smoked beef, a gold coin and a carton of cigarettes. A surly Indian checked him over for bites while men with guns kept them trained on him. Once he was given an okay, they went back to the shed and sat down, picking up their card game where they’d left off. Security was lax, but it was there. Jessie drove through the town, then made his way over to the casino, that’s where all the action seemed to be. He ordered a buffalo steak dinner and found a table where he could watch. It was a rough town, filled with rough men and women, all of them wore guns strapped to their sides. There was a piano player in one corner and the no smoking signs were being ignored. He’d heard a generator running out back when he came in and they had just enough lights on so you could see. Kerosene lamps added to the atmosphere and gave the whole place a feel like it had been transplanted from the gold rush days of the 1800s. The barkeep yelled over at him when his food was ready and Jessie went to pick it up from the counter and order another beer.
This was a western town at the base of the western mountains, on an Indian reservation that had been filled with men and women who still remembered and lived a simpler life. They rode horses and preferred lever action rifles to AR-15s, Colt Peacemakers and Ruger Blackhawks to Glocks and Sig Sauers. Real metal in their guns instead of plastic and polymers. Their manner of dress was old, too. Sturdy jeans and flannel shirts. Tough oilskin jackets and cowboy hats. Bandannas and attitudes. After six months without electricity, and very little fuel for the generators, they had adapted back to the way things used to be. The town was the only outpost for hundreds of miles and a lot of people came to do their trading, have repairs done, and pick up supplies. Jessie looked different with his armored leathers and plastic guns and was easily identified as an outsider.
The whole place had an edge of meanness to it, there didn’t seem to be any law and when he’d asked about a sheriff or mayor, the barman had scoffed and told him Willie Black Bear took over the tribal police department building, but that didn’t mean anything. He and his deputies took a little money from everyone they called protection tax, and charged tolls to people coming inside the gates. They didn’t really keep the peace in the town, but kept people safe from the undead. It was a wild place where gambling, house prostitutes, and fights were common. Justice came from a mob and it took a lot to get them riled up. They would hang a man for stealing faster than they would for killing someone in a gunfight.
There were a group of men at the bar, outsiders from their clothes. There were enough of them to be arrogant and confident, they had enough booze in them to be loud-mouthed and belligerent, and they were mean enough that the locals steered clear of them. Darkness had settled over the town and Jessie paid for his meal in Lakota gold. It was the only way he could see to start spreading it around. If he gave a chest to the security men, he doubted they would be fair with it.
“Damn, you’re an ugly sumbitch,” a bearded man with tattoos running up both arms said when Jessie got his plate. “Cover that face up when you’re around me, you’re gonna make me lose my lunch.”
The sycophantic laughter was loud and instant. Jessie grabbed his plate and beer, stared the man straight in the eyes, and held his gaze for a moment before turning back to his table.
“I don’t think he heard you, Abe,” a weasel-faced man said, hoping for a good old-fashioned bar fight. “Or maybe he’s deaf, too.”
The tattooed man hesitated for an instant. The scarred-up kid hadn’t lowered his face, apologized, and then scurried off. That’s what he was supposed to do, not challenge him. Not stare him down as if daring him to say anything else.
“Ah, he’s probably a re-tard. A gash like that had to do some brain damage.” He turned and yelled at the barkeep, “My beer’s empty! Fill it up, asshole!”
The barman knew how to act. He knew to be afraid of them. He knew to ignore the other customers and hurry over when they called for him. Abe liked that. It was the way things were supposed to be. He only had a small crew with him, not enough to take this town, but he was making an inventory, determining what they had and how many men he would need to establish control. The Raiders would crush any opposition to Casey, kill the men who fought back, and let the rest of the survivors know they’d be back whenever they wanted and they’d take whatever they needed. If nobody put up a fight, then nobody had to get killed. If they tried to hide their food, not give the Raiders what they needed, well, they’d just have to cook up one of the children and eat them, instead. Casey’s teachings were simple and brilliant. Kill the fighters, leave the rest. Intimidate with brutality and the people would gladly give them food and fuel just to be left alone.
“You gonna let that little punk disrespect you like that?” the other man said, and the laughter died down among the others. “You getting soft, Abe?”
He grinned, his filed down teeth showing a mouthful of fangs. They’d been drinking jars of apple pie moonshine and home-brewed beer all afternoon. It made some men mellow, it made some men get mean. Weasel-face didn’t need alcohol to get his mean on. It was always on. He wanted to break someone. To cripple them in front of everyone and make them beg. He was itching to use his blades and teeth, show these locals the Raiders were ruthless if crossed. He’d joined Casey’s gang eagerly, he liked the bloody excitement of it. Killing zombies in as many inventive ways as he could think of was nowhere near as fun as killing people. They screamed and begged and cried, especially if you were biting chunks out of their wife or kids. The punk ass kid had it coming, too. He shouldn’t have shown his ugly face in public and he shouldn
’t have disrespected the Raiders.
“Watch your mouth, Ricky, or I’ll show you the backside of my hand.”
“It’s cool, it’s cool,” he said, not really wanting to get into it with their crew leader. The man had fists the size of wrecking balls. “Just sayin’, that’s all. Somebody ought to teach the kid a lesson.”
The others were all quiet, watching the exchange. Abe had felt something when the boy looked at him. He wasn’t sure what, maybe extreme confidence. The brat wasn’t afraid and it was either because he was too stupid to know better, or so sure of himself he didn’t have to be. Abe suspected the latter. You didn’t wear armor like he did, or have a face like he had, and not be able to take care of yourself. Maybe he’d let Ricky get a lesson in humility. Let the kid get the best of him, if he could, before the rest of them stepped in and stomped his ass. Taught him his place.
“You’re right,” Abe said. “Take care of that for me. Teach him a lesson.”
Ricky grinned broadly. It was time to let these local yokels know the Raiders were in the house, and what would happen if you crossed them.
The rest of the crew were eager for excitement, maybe some others would be dumb enough to try to help the kid, and they could bust up the place and bust a few heads. They spun around on their stools to watch the show.
33
Jessie
Ricky sauntered over, aware they were all watching. He’d been the guy most likely to steal your lunch money in high school. He’d been the guy that always took a supply of roofies on dates. He’d been the guy who thought it was hilarious to walk through parking lots and drag his keys down cars he passed. He sized the kid up as he approached. He was against a wall, so he couldn’t just bash him in the back of the head to take him by surprise. He wasn’t very big, but he hadn’t taken off that leather jacket, punching it would be useless. He’d have to concentrate on the face, ugly him up even more. Maybe he’d give him a scar on the other side of his face so he had a matching pair.
Jessie saw him separate from the men at the bar and adjust his holsters as he strutted over. He wore his guns too high and hadn’t bothered to customize the rig he was wearing. It was designed for concealed carry so it rode above the hips, not slung low where the guns were easy to reach and fast to pull. He had them on backward, too. They were set up with the grips facing forward, in a cross-draw configuration. It might look cool, but he had obviously never had to pull them fast, where half seconds counted. Jessie almost snickered, but kept his head lowered and appeared to be concentrating on his steak and potatoes. Maybe the guy was just going to the bathroom or something.
When he stopped at the table, Jessie sighed inwardly. He’d put down hundreds of the undead, many of them a lot faster and meaner than this guy would ever be, but he still hated it when he had to kill the living. It just seemed like a waste, why did people have to be such assholes? Maybe he wouldn’t have to if the toughs at the bar didn’t join in. Maybe he could intimidate the guy to back off. Maybe this could just be a fist fight, where guns were left in their holsters. A sideways glance showed him that probably wouldn’t be the case, they were grinning in anticipation, looking forward to the bloodshed. If their buddy started losing, they’d jump right in. Bob was in the shadows under the table, staying quiet and hoping for scraps and Jessie was pretty sure the man hadn’t noticed him or he might have thought things through a little more. The guy stood there, trying to come up with something to say, something to get the fight started. Jessie ignored him and cut off another piece of steak. When Ricky couldn’t think of a witty one-liner, he took his cigarette and started to put it out in the mashed potatoes.
Jessie's hand darted out faster than the eye could follow and he wrapped it around the man's fist, crushing the cigarette between them. The ember sizzled their flesh and he yelped in surprise, tried to pull back. Jessie held him fast, the odor of charred skin wafting up, masking the smell of the steak.
Ricky remembered the raiders were watching and stopped trying to pull his hand away. If the kid could take the pain, so could he. The fire was crushed out and the worst of it was already fading, anyway.
The struggle had caught the attention of others in the crowded casino and people were turning to watch. The piano player plinked a few more notes and slid off his seat, heading to a safer area. He’d seen this before, no telling when the lead would start flying. The men in the casino where hard, but even they knew the gang was a bunch you steered clear of if you knew what was good for you. They were dirty and mean, and one look could tell you they wouldn’t think twice about giving you a beat down. It looked like the kid with the messed-up face was about to learn that the hard way. Conversations stopped. All eyes turned, and a few of the smarter ones hurried out of the room.
“Mister,” Jessie said, staring into the pockmarked face. “I didn’t come here to fight. I am asking you nicely to leave me alone. If you don’t, if you mess with my food, I’ll kill you all.”
His voice carried, was directed at the other men, and their grinning faces turned hard. Drinks were set down and hands hung near their guns.
The man’s eyes darted to Jessie's other hand that was still on the table, still held the fork and the piece of steak. His tongue darted out, licking dry lips. Jessie saw it coming from a mile away, was ready for it and dipped his hand to his pistol as soon as the man made his move. Ricky tried to pull his revolver from the cross-draw holster, but Jessie had his Glock up and in his face before he could jerk it free. The fork clattered to the table. His eyes got big, he had barely registered the kid’s movement.
The men at the bar sprang up and gripped the iron at their sides. Chairs clattered as more people hurried out and the barman ducked behind the counter, getting out of the line of fire. Bob growled deep in his chest, an idling rumble that was ominous and promised violence. Even on his intake of breath, the menacing snarl never ceased. He came out from under the table stalking low, ready to spring, his white fangs glistening from peeled back lips.
Ricky swallowed hard. He had a gun in his face and he didn’t know how it got there, a dog ready to shred him to pieces, and a burning blister on his hand. That was okay, though, he told himself. He still had the Raiders at his back. The kid would realize that and not do anything stupid. He would know he couldn’t win and slink away. He smiled, showing his filed down teeth that labeled him as a cannibal. He’d let this kid know who he was messing with. He’d put some fear in him.
Jessie's eyes narrowed and his finger tightened on the trigger. In his peripheral, he saw the rest of them inching their guns out of holsters. He knew who they were now, for sure. Casey’s men. Not just hard cases. Not just mean drunks or jaded scavengers. These were the men who’d been raping and killing and pillaging. The men who’d left the half-eaten corpses on spits over long-dead campfires.
“Bob,” he said, his voice clear and cold in the pregnant stillness. “Kill.”
The room exploded in movement and a ferocious snarl as Bob sprang. Jessie twitched his gun to aim past Ricky’s head and pulled the trigger twice at the men scrambling for their iron. Two of them gasped, flew backward against the bar, and grabbed for their chests as wadcutter rounds punched in like a sledgehammer, shredding organs and splintering bones. Ricky screamed in shrill, high pitched agony and cupped his crotch as the center of his world was ripped away. Gouts of blood and tiny, stringy tubes spewed between his fingers and he watched in horror as his manhood hit the floor, discarded by the raging black beast as he tore across the room. Jessie sprinted beside him, nearly matching his speed as they both plowed into the frantic group, steel and fangs seeking flesh. They pulled guns, Jessie pulled blades. He didn’t want to shoot any of the people yelling and tipping over chairs trying to get away, and the zombie killing knuckle dusters with spikes and knives were more than enough to take care of these men. They were panicked by the sudden violence, the screams, and the ripping teeth of an impossibly fast dog.
Jessie's fist slammed into a tattoo-faced man who was try
ing to bring his gun up, trying to shoot the two that moved faster than anything he’d ever seen. The spikes on Jessie's knuckles punched through his eyes and he was dead before he could add his own screams to the melee. Jessie sprang away from him at the same time Bob tore out another man's throat, and left him gagging and clutching at an airway that was no longer there. He swung backhanded and sliced across the leader’s face, cutting deep across his nose. He spiked his wrist with his other hand, shoving them in one side and out the other. The gun clattered to the floor and the big man roared, swung his other ham-sized fist around to smash the puny brat. Jessie twitched his head aside, brought up the other blade, and sliced open an artery from palm to elbow as the meaty fist flew by. Blood sprayed the bar and splashed Jessie’s leathers. He felt the impact of a bullet hit his back before he heard the boom of a pistol, and slammed into the big man, both of them scattering bar stools and falling to the ground. He heard another scream, another gunshot, the sound of ripping flesh, and then the sound of another gun clattering to the floor. Jessie sprang up, swiping his blade across the mans’ face again, then dove back into the fray. There were still three more men to deal with and they all had their guns out, they might get a lucky shot. He could worry about the pain in his back later. The Kevlar had dissipated most of the impact, but he still could barely breathe. It still felt like he’d been kicked by a mule.
Screams of pain and fear came from another man as he went down under a flying mass of black fur, and blood started spraying patterns on the floor from slashes and bites in a half-dozen places. Jessie kicked off the bar, roared in triumph and flew through the air, spiked knuckles punching toward panicking faces. Both heads nearly exploded inward when he sank three inches of steel in them. They tumbled to the sawdust and peanut shell covered floor, both men dead before their hearts stopped pumping. Jessie was back on his feet instantly and Bob joined him, looking for other targets. Others getting ready to jump in. Other bad guys. They circled, back to back, searching for danger. They only saw frightened or awed eyes peeking over flipped tables, or from behind silent one-armed bandits. The low growl in Bob’s throat quieted and the only sounds were the ragged gasps, the gurgle of spilling blood, and the dying whimpers of the savaged men.
Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus | Books 4-6 | Jessie+Scarlet Page 24