“Hey, Chiquita, I’m talking to you,” a Hispanic man said. He had tats on his face and swaggered as he stepped in front of her. His baggy jeans and wife beater shirt were dirty, smeared with fresh grease and old blood. Jailhouse tattoos covered every inch of exposed skin. He grinned, his filed down teeth flashing as another man slid in behind, blocking her escape.
“When Oscar is talking, you’d better listen,” he said.
She smiled right back, her green eyes sparkled. He didn’t see her hand move, one second it was by her side, the next something hard and metal was spraying his teeth all over the sidewalk, his jaw broken and misshapen. She spun, both hands filled with steel, and drove the ends of her batons into the raider’s forehead. The surprised look on his face turned to slack dullness as he collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap, dead from blunt force trauma. The others, tinkering with something under the hood of an old pickup truck, stood motionless, slack-jawed and staring. The tattooed man spat out the rest of his broken teeth and tried to curse her in Spanish through bleeding lips.
“I’ll be back for you,” she said, flicked both wrists and extended the two batons. Twenty-one inches of black stainless steel locked into place. Modern-day Tahtib. Egyptian stick fighting, reimagined with spring-loaded steel. She ran at them, giving her wrists a twist and twirling the batons in a pattern much deadlier than any cheerleader could imagine. The men at the truck started to scramble for weapons, but it was too late. They thought they were safe on their street. They thought their numbers kept the locals afraid and distant. Rifles leaned against the wall, pistols were tossed on car seats, and shotguns were still in window racks. The first man threw up his arm to protect his face and the sound of breaking bones filled the air before it was drowned out by his scream. She was aiming for necks, looking to kill. These cannibals deserved no mercy, and she would give them no quarter. Cat-quick and pitiless she waded in and cut them down. One of them swung a crescent wrench at her, spitting curses through meth-rotted teeth. She twisted her wrist, snapped a baton down along her arm, deflecting the blow on the steel. The other hand shot out and slashed at his Adam's apple, crushing it and killing him. It took him a few minutes to die, blue-faced, grasping his throat and sucking for air, but it only took him a few seconds to realize he’d taken his last breath. Some of them were coming at her now, grabbing for her arms, and using their size and numbers to overwhelm her. She shot a foot into someone’s crotch and the air whooshed out of him before the vomit did. His testicles were crushed, broken open and running down his legs like the delicate eggs they were. Her speed was uncanny, her strength unmatched, her ferocity unrivaled. She had all the traits of a fresh-turned zombie and the grace of a feral cat. They couldn’t keep track of her. She was in their clutches one second, they were collapsing to the ground spewing blood from crushed faces and shattered bones, the next. She grimaced, putting all her strength into each blow, breaking something with every impact. Big Red came the closest to taking her down, he managed to grab her long black braid and pull her off balance. She broke his knee with a sidekick, his elbow with a flash from her baton, his nose with the blunt side of the other one. He didn’t know which hurt the worst but didn’t have time to consider it. She brutally backhanded him with the other truncheon and sent most of his brains flying against the wall from a cracked open skull. One of the men had grabbed his pistol from the front seat and was bringing it around to fill her full of lead. She leapt from across the room, spun her batons and drove them both through his head, splashing his eyes over her fists. The last raider grabbed a shotgun and squeezed the trigger as she pulled her batons out of the dead man’s face and spun away. Buckshot caught her in the side, ripped through her leathers, and she gasped in pain and annoyance. She’d made the same mistake as the Road Angel.
There had been too many of them, and she let them get too spread out. She sent both batons flying at him, whirling like fatal frisbees and slinging brain and blood across the walls as they spun. He ducked, covered his face, and brought the gun up to protect him from the deadly projectiles. They bounced off of it, clattering harmlessly to the floor. He swung the barrel down, ready to blow that killer bitch away, but she wasn’t there. Wasn’t standing by the truck. He backed up, jerking the gun left and right, looking for her. His breathing was fast and harsh. He’d just seen all his buddies get wasted in, like, five seconds flat. Vinnie was on his knees, still gagging and trying to breathe. The new guy was moaning and cradling an arm that bent in the wrong place, Slim was puking his guts out, and Oscar was still outside trying to say something and hold his face together at the same time. He heard her whistle and looked up just in time to see her spring at him from the top of the car lift. His head bounced off the concrete and the gun clattered to the floor. She rolled off him, scooped it up, spun to point between his widened eyes and pulled the trigger. His face disappeared, along with the rest of his head. The vomiting man looked up just in time to see the flash from the barrel. Pieces of his head joined the rest decorating the garage.
Vinnie was still dying, still clutching at his throat, so she left him to it. The man trying to put his arm back in place tried to run, but only took half a step before she racked the Mossberg, chambered a round then pulled the trigger, sending bits of his heart, lungs and liver all over the side of the truck. She tossed it on the quivering body, grabbed up her batons, and walked back out into the sunshine and Oscar. It occurred to him that he should probably be running, but it was too late, now. He still had a hand on his jaw, holding it in place, and the anger had left his eyes. Pain and fear had replaced it.
“How many lives have you destroyed, Oscar?” she asked. “How many people have you eaten?”
He remained motionless, too afraid to move, unable to speak.
“Hey Chiquita, I’m talking to you,” she said with a hard-Spanish accent, matching his, her eyes boring into him. “When Scarlet is talking, you’d better answer.”
He took a step back and turned. Her baton shot out and caught him in the neck, snapping it.
She closed her eyes, willed away the pain in her side and listened to his body crumple to the sidewalk, then Vinnie finally collapsed, still clawing at his throat. She had to get back to her room, the pellets that had penetrated her leather needed to come out before her accelerated healing started closing up the wounds.
37
Jessie
Jessie lost his appetite as the blood washed away from his hands and down the drain. He wondered about the men he’d just killed, if they had deserved it, or if it was like a lot of things in this violent new world: unavoidable. It seemed like the forces of good and evil had become clear-cut, there wasn’t much ambiguity anymore. The bad guys didn’t try to hide who they were, they weren’t afraid of being caught. There was no one to catch them. No one to jail them or hunt them down. Everyone who could plan for the future was too busy trying to survive and start over. Too busy battling roving undead hordes and figuring out how to grow crops or heal the sick or process new fuel to keep the machines running. Subtle criminals would come back, right along with crooked politicians and shady businessmen, but those crimes people were used to, almost expected. The scale of the blatant savagery of Casey’s Raiders was something that most people had never experienced. Maybe a few survivors of the death squads in South America or South East Asia might still be around, but in America, wanton butchery had ceased a hundred and fifty years prior, when the Indian wars were over. The thin veneer of civilization had disappeared in the wastelands. Most of the towns he’d visited had maintained it, even if it had slipped a little. Rough men with principles hadn’t let it all go to hell, they’d held their towns together and were working toward building something bigger than themselves.
He laid a handful of Lakota gold on the bar as he walked by it. The barman had a broom and dustpan and was shoveling the clumped red piles of sawdust and peanut shells into a trash can.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said.
“No worries, Mister,” the barman
replied. “You did us a favor. Come back later if you get your appetite again, no charge for dinner.”
Jessie nodded and gave a half smile that looked like a half snarl, and stepped around the last body yet to be carried out of the back door. He heard the shotgun blasts and had his guns out before he could think, but the sound was coming from a few streets over. He almost ignored it, but a part of him insisted he find out what was happening. It could be zombies inside the walls and that was a threat to everyone. He took off at a slow jog toward the alley, his leather quietly jangling.
He turned the corner and saw her break a man’s neck with a rod, then stand rock still as he fell at her feet. Jessie stopped, scanned for other danger, but only saw a scattering of fallen bodies. Broken boned and gunshot, all of them wearing the garish outfits the cannibals preferred. The last one alive finally stopped kicking, hands still grasping his crushed throat.
Jessie watched as she reached up and pressed at her side then noticed the blood trails staining the black leather riding suit she wore. She’d been shot, but she was still on her feet. One tough chick, he thought. He glanced around again, realized she had just taken out all of the raiders by herself. Eight armed men. She wasn’t wearing any guns, either. The shotgun hadn’t been hers, she’d taken it away from someone, then used it against them. He holstered his pistols and she whipped around at the sound, rearing back an arm to fling one of her batons. It was the girl with the emerald eyes.
She stared at him, slightly crouched, and ready to attack. He stared right back, hands still resting casually on his guns.
“Good work,” he finally said, as the moment stretched out, then added, “You’re hit.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious. I never would have known if you hadn’t told me.”
Jessie stared at her as Sandy’s words popped into his head. You’re filthy and you stink. The girl from the van: You look like one of them.
He turned and left, Bob padding by his side. He didn’t need the abuse, he wasn’t going to take any of her smart mouth. Bleed out, he didn’t care. He was only trying to help. Why did girls have to be so hateful?
Jessie was tinkering with his car, getting ready to roll out of the casino town. He’d spent the night playing poker with the Lakota gold, spreading it around when he lost, usually on purpose, picking up some more ammo and a fishing pole when he won. It was too easy to read their faces or count the cards. He and Bob had a good meal and a comfortable bed, but he needed to get rolling again. Duty calls and all that. The atmosphere among the residents had lightened considerably. Casey’s Raiders had been running roughshod over them for weeks and in a single afternoon, they’d all been killed, tossed over the wall for the coyotes, and their cars claimed by locals. He was under the Merc, re-torqueing the bolts from the new a-arms he’d put on in Colorado. He heard her pull up on the motorcycle then sit, letting it idle. He knew it was her by the leathers she wore, black and armored. He pulled himself out and stood, wiping his hands on a rag.
His hair hung over his face and he pushed it back behind his ear, not letting it hide his scar. He didn’t give a damn what she thought about it, or him. She flipped her visor up and held out a piece of paper. For a brief, crazy moment he thought she was giving him her phone number.
“I wrote this down from the radios the Raiders had in their cars,” she said. “It’s the freq they use.”
Jessie hadn’t even thought about that. He knew Wire Bender was always scanning, trying to pick them up, but had never found the channel they used.
“They’ve been using airline equipment, set to the ground control frequency range.” She explained the numbers to him.
No wonder Wire Bender had never been able to hear them. They’re sneaky bastards, he thought.
Jessie nodded his thanks but kept his silence, folded the paper into an inner pocket, then looked back at her. She started to say something but stopped. He waited. The last time he spoke to her, she’d snapped at him. He was tired of women, he couldn’t figure them out and didn’t want to. Whenever he tried to be nice to one, it turned out bad. Maybe later, after he finished up this job for Lakota, once he had mapped out what was left of the States, maybe then he’d try to find someone. If he could find anyone that would have him.
She sat her bike for a few more seconds, trying to decide something, then seemed to make up her mind. She flipped down the visor, gave him a curt nod, and then took off toward the gates. She traveled light. The motorcycle had small, aerodynamic saddlebags and she had a ruck on her back, but that was it. Jessie didn’t even see weapons, other than the long machetes strapped in place on either side of the gas tank and the collapsed batons on her belt. He wondered where she slept, if she went into a different house every night. He closed his eyes and zeroed in on the sound of the bike, filtering out the noise of people, generators, and horses. She went east, the same direction he was headed. He squinted up at the sun, it was before noon, but not by much. He’d let her get a good head start, he didn’t want to run into her again. He considered her as he cleaned his tools and put them away, using the bandanna tied around his neck to dab at his lip every once in a while. It was mostly old habit now, he’d pretty much learned how to live with the scar and didn’t have drool running down his chin all the time. That was a decent thing she did, giving him the radio frequencies. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.
“Want some lunch, boy?” he asked Bob.
He got a tail wag. Bob was always up for lunch.
38
Lakota
Eustice pulled up to the sally port gate in the lead motorhome, not sure what to expect, but ready to argue their case if they were denied entry. The dadgum president himself had saved them from Casey’s Cannibals, told them to come, and they had finally made it. They had crossed a narrow bridge over a wide moat and the walls loomed high above them, double stacked shipping containers as far as the eye could see in either direction. Strands of barbed wire angled out making climbing them nearly impossible. Guard towers and machine gun emplacements on top. It was formidable and no way was Charlie going to breach that. Make that zombies, he corrected himself. The old black man stepped out of the big RV and stretched his aching bones as the others filed out. Cattle and sheep roamed the swath of land between the wall and the water, keeping the grass trimmed.
It had taken them days to get back home and scavenge what they could. They’d had to bury Robert, his hands had gotten worse by the time they made it back to their RV park, and he was delirious. He only lasted another day. The closest thing they had to a doctor among them was a girl who had worked in a dentist’s office. Jennifer couldn’t save him but between her and Eustice and what he recalled from his army days, they had helped everyone else.
They had chosen a couple of the best motorhomes in the park to run up to Oklahoma. Eustice had taken Claudette’s and loaded a dozen people on board. It was the nicest one and she wouldn’t miss it. They’d buried her and the others killed by the raiders in a shallow grave, even though there wasn’t a whole lot left after the various animals had been at them for days. They stayed on the back roads, just like the kid who’d rescued them had advised. Jennifer followed in a Winnebago with the rest of the survivors. They raided the first pawn shop they saw, got enough guns for everyone, and enough ammunition to wage a war. They weren’t ever going to get captured again.
A pair of soldiers greeted them, explained the procedure about being checked for bites and the in-processing.
“Can you walk through the gates?” the young soldier asked as he finished. “We have golf carts if you can’t.”
“We aren’t dead yet, young man,” Thelma snapped, her spiky gray hair bobbing when she spoke. “Of course, we can walk.”
The old black man grinned at him. “Don’t mind that old bird, she’s always in a cantankerous mood.”
“I heard that, Eustice,” she retorted over her shoulder. “You’re not so pleasant, yourself, most of the time.”
“Only when I’m around you, my dear,”
he replied good-naturedly.
“Lord in Heaven, give me strength,” she sighed. “If you were my husband, I’d poison your dinner.”
“If you were my wife, I’d eat it,” he smugly replied.
The two soldiers looked at each other, unsure how to treat the pair. Should they separate them? Were they getting ready to have a real fight?
“They’ve been like that for years,” a kindly looking grandmother said. “Just ignore them, we do.”
“They’re all yours, Lacy,” Eliza said, as she came in the office. “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about putting many of them in houses, though. Half of them asked if we had an RV park, they want to stay in it, if they can.”
“Instead of a real house?” Lacy asked. “That’s a little strange.”
“My thoughts, exactly,” Eliza said. “But most of them have been retired for years, some of them full-time RVers for a decade. Smaller area to have to keep clean, too.”
“They’re in luck then,” Lacy said. “There are at least a dozen campers and motorhomes out there sitting empty, no one wanted them.”
“We didn’t get lucky and one of them is a dentist?” Cobb asked, clomping into the shared office.
“No,” Eliza said and popped open her laptop, pulling up her spreadsheets. “But we did get a dental hygienist, a retired marine who went on to be a bush pilot and did a little crop dusting, a school teacher, an accountant, a machinist, a handful of office workers that had useful hobbies, two housewives with an impressive knowledge of canning and sewing, and a former chef. Pretty good skill sets over all. They have a lot to add to the community.”
“A bush pilot, huh?” Cobb said. “Bet he knows a thing or two about airplane maintenance. I want to see him, we need to talk. Tell him to track me down ASAP.”
Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus | Books 4-6 | Jessie+Scarlet Page 27