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David A. Simpson
6/1/2018
Zombie Road 5
Terror on the Two-Lane
Book 5 in the Zombie Road Series
This is a work of fiction by
David A. Simpson
All characters contained herein are fictional and all similarities to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
No portion of this text may be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission, with the exception of use in professional reviews.
ISBN: 9781726835404
Copyright © 2018 David A. Simpson
All rights reserved.
Zombie Road V
Terror on the Two-Lane
A two-fisted trucker tale
Dedicated to my dearest partner in life:
The nitpicky, OCD, grammar-Nazi, Robin.
47
Gunny
They were coming.
He could see the dust trails far off on the horizon, they were still miles away but they were coming. Gunny pulled his eyes from the distant death and concentrated on the death that was in front of him. He remained crouched low, his back against the ’55 Chevy, Glock in his hand and watching for targets. The undead were screaming and keening, chasing the cars darting in and out of the Pemex gas station. He remained quiet and still, urging the fuel to flow faster. The bilge pump bolted to his car hummed, pulling the gas from the tanks out of the ground and into his as the rest of the crew zoomed around, drawing attention to themselves. Scratch had death metal blasting from the speakers of his Skylark and led a stumbling mass of them out to the road. Griz came in with his old Dodge panel van and ran them down, breaking bodies against the roll cage.
When both his tanks were overflowing, Gunny hopped back in his car and tore away from the drops, taking Hollywood’s place and keeping the undead confused and chasing the machines. Hollywood’s big Cadillac slipped in to the drops and he quietly dropped his hose down the mouth of the tank, hit the switch and got the precious fuel flowing. All of their cars had been near empty, they hadn’t planned on running for their lives and zig zagging around so much to keep ahead of Casey and his band of Raiders. They were outnumbered, out gunned and trying to stay ahead of them, running for the border. Out of Mexico and the disastrous attempt on Casey down in San Felipe. They hadn’t anticipated bullet proof glass and the bullet that would have finished the war started months ago was stopped cold, just a few feet from his head. Now, the entire southern contingent of Casey’s Raiders were hot on their tail. Hundreds of men and machines with all of their camp followers. His entire army was mobilized and coming up hard.
Gunny shifted gears, angled his tri-five to cut down a stumbling, mummified man wearing only remnants of clothing and sent him flying through an abandoned car windshield. Hollywood was finished refueling and took his place back in the thundering, tire screeching ballet of broken boned bodies and blood splattered machines. Scratch and Stabby slid into place, killed the music and let the dead that had been after them catch up. Spikes to the face shut them down and the boys got busy filling the tanks on the thirsty, big block Buick.
Music blasted from speakers, engines roared louder than the undead and the refueling continued. Gunny thought he had it figured out, thought he knew what Casey’s game plan was. His whole army had been packing up, getting ready to leave the ocean front town on the Baja peninsula and roll north. Griz’s unfortunate miss with the sniper rifle had only sent him into a rage and he’d come after them. They’d barely been able to keep ahead with a few booby traps and a hasty ambush but it only made them angrier. Casey wouldn’t stop, he’d chase them all the way to Lakota, if they could keep fueled and keep ahead of them that long. He’d had the former Secretary of State with him, eating breakfast at the same table so he must consider her an equal.
Cobb’s grandson had been assigned to her protection detail and she’d double crossed him, had killed his entire platoon of Marines. Now she was supposed to be the rightful president. General Carson had pegged her as one of the deep state players who had started the whole zombie uprising. She’d been the one to give the radical imams the formula for the virus and had helped them with distribution using her political power. Something had gone wrong, though. She wasn’t the president of a nation that lost millions of citizens and was looking for a strong leader to help them rebuild. The virus had been too contagious, too deadly, had spread too fast to be contained. Instead of twenty or thirty percent of the people dying off, more like ninety nine percent had.
Gunny flew by Griz on the main street, cutting down the zeds stumbling along behind him and wondered how long before Casey killed Edmunds. Or maybe vice versa. Maybe she thought her standing as the official president, according to the order of succession, meant something to the new Americans. Gunny couldn’t think of anyone that would accept her, especially after teaming up with Casey. Not even Bastille would stoop that low. Maybe they thought if they captured him, they could use it as some sort of bargaining chip. They obviously hadn’t met Cobb. Gunny half grinned, thinking of them making demands at the gate with him trussed up as a hostage. Old Cobb would probably shoot me himself, he thought, just so they wouldn’t have any power over the town.
Griz was the last one in to fuel and he didn’t even have to leave his truck. He climbed in the back and opened a trap door to get the gas flowing. The dust cloud on the horizon looked like it was getting bigger, coming closer. A hundred or more cars and trucks and tankers all bearing down on them. Gunny wondered if Casey had sent riders on motorcycles with machine guns to wait for them at the border crossing.
Maybe.
He didn’t think Casey was very bright but he had some former military running with him. If he had thought of it, he was sure they would have, too. There was nothing he could do about it so he set it aside. Compartmentalized. They would deal with it, if and when, the situation arose. For now, he concentrated on staying ahead of the dust cloud that was coming up fast behind them.
48
Jessie
He popped open the glove box in the Mercury, digging for the first aid kit. He’d only opened it once to use the hydrogen peroxide for a bunch of cat scratches on him and Bob. He wasn’t sure what all it held and dumped it out on the seat, looking for some kind of pain meds. Something strong because his leg was killing him. There was nothing. Just bandages and gauze, tape and aspirin. He slung it to the floor in disgust. He should have thought about getting meds before he needed them. How easy it would have been to get a real trauma kit, not this junky one thrown in as an afterthought. Stupid. He berated himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He sat there for a while, staring out at the fields and cattail ringed pond, getting his breathing under control. He looked down at his leg. Under the bandages, the puckered gunshot wound was healing but it throbbed like mad. It hadn’t shattered the bone, that was one thing to be thankful for, but it had taken a chunk of muscle and meat out when it passed through. It was healing fast; the super soldier serum was doing its thing. Whatever was in the injection was repairing the damage at an accelerated pace but it couldn’t replace chunks of him that had been blown out, spread all over the North Dakota dirt. It did nothing to lessen the pain, either. Quit whining. He told himself. It could be worse. It definitely could. He could be face down in the dirt having coyote sized bites being torn out of him.
He flipped on the radio and Bastille was having another one of his call-in shows, people swapping gossip and tips. Jessie fired up the ham, figured he should check in. When he didn’t get a reply after trying a few times, he limped around back check the antenna. It was gone, a bullet had sheared it off near the base. He sighed. Oh, well. At least he wouldn’t have to lie, tell them everything was fine. He hated talking on it anyway,
it seemed like every time he called in Bastille was chomping at the bit to ask him questions. Do an interview. The people want to know he said. Whatever. Bastille was the main reason he kept it turned off most of the time, he was always calling for him. Once, he’d even had some girl radio him and when he answered, she started asking all those dumb questions. Easier to leave it off. The next time he was in town, he was going to set up some secret channel just for business.
They’d been at the farmhouse for three or four days, he wasn’t sure which. He’d injected him and the girl with the two remaining vials of the serum after the fight with Casey’s Raiders. Both of them were banged up pretty bad, her worse than him. He’d gotten them to this abandoned farm, dragged her inside and passed out. He’d been comatose for days, two or three at least, while the drug did its thing, brought them both back from the edge of death, it’s nanobots knitting bones back together, repairing torn ligaments and rebuilding damaged muscles. The girl had been shot, stabbed, blown off her motorcycle, beat to within an inch of her life and thrown in a cage. If Jessie would have been smart, he would have realized he wouldn’t be able to free her and the other prisoners by himself. If he would have been smart, he would have followed at a distance and tried to sneak in once it got dark. But she was pretty bad off. If he hadn’t started the gunfight, he doubted she would have lasted until nightfall. His injection had saved her, he told himself. It was worth it. Pain is temporary. Somehow, he’d managed to win the fight and only got shot a few times in the process. He had to laugh at himself
“Dumbass.” he said aloud then struggled to his feet using the old lady’s walker.
The car was in the machinery shed, out of sight if someone was looking for them, but it had been days. He’d put a hurting on the Raiders and the prisoners had managed to get out of their cage during the confusion. They’d killed some more. He didn’t know how many were left alive but they were long gone. He moved out of the shadows into the sun and it felt good. Bob was snuffling around the barn, stopping to pee on something occasionally, marking his territory. They still had plenty of food, the farmhouse hadn’t been hit by anyone scavenging and the cupboards were full. They had water from the well and the stove was propane. The tank was nearly full, probably in preparation for the long northern winters. He didn’t know what happened to the family that had lived here. They were just gone. No sign of zombies, forced entry or even hastily packed bags. They’d simply went to work or school and never came back.
Jessie made his way slowly up the stairs to the wrap around porch and eased into one of the patio rocking chairs.
“Nothing?” she asked through her broken mouth. It hurt her to move, to speak, to go to the bathroom.
He shook his head.
“I didn’t think about packing any kind of painkillers,” he said. “I’ll have to put it on my list of things to get.”
“Probably for the best.” she said in resignation. Her voice was faintly exotic, the accent from somewhere in Persia. “Wouldn’t do much good. You’d have to take enough to kill a camel for them to work.”
“Yeah, probably right.” Jessie said. “It takes a lot of booze to even get a buzz. I guess it’s a side effect of those injections.”
“Yeah.” she agreed.
She sat in the glider swing, gently swaying back and forth. They both wore clothes taken from the master bedroom closet. She, because her leathers were shredded and cut off and he because it still hurt too much to pull a t-shirt over his head. She’d found a flowery sundress and he an oversized button up oxford.
She stroked the cat on her lap, one from the barn that wasn’t skittish of humans. They’d been on their own for a long time, living on mice and whatever else cats lived on and this one had a few scars of her own to show for it. At least they hadn’t developed a taste for humans, Jessie thought as he watched her and listened to the cat make contented cat sounds.
“They say purring cats heal broken bones.” she said, rubbing its ears as it kneaded a pillow with its claws.
Something clicked in Jessies’ pain clouded head. How did she know about the side effects? How had she killed those eight men in Blackfoot with only her batons?
“You’re one of them.” he said. Not a question, he knew. He searched her face again, trying to remember what the girl looked like who had freed him from the cult prison last year. It didn’t do any good, he didn’t remember seeing it clearly, all he could dredge up was her mane of blonde hair. This girls face was still inflamed and distorted anyway, he wouldn’t be able to identify her even if he could remember.
She turned to stare at him, her battered features unreadable. Both eyes were open but one had taken a steel toed boot and was swollen and bloodshot. The gouges across her cheeks were scabbed over and red.
“Yes.” she said. “I helped you escape. You don’t remember? I thought that’s why you helped me, because you were indebted. I thought you knew.”
Jessie stared harder, trying to pull a face out of his hazy memories but couldn’t. He only remembered an underground prison and wishing he would hurry up and die and get it over with. Then the golden-haired angel screaming at him then leaving him lying on the asphalt by his car. Could this be the same girl? He remembered the glimpse of her he’d seen yesterday as she bathed with the icy well water. He’d looked away quickly but not before he saw that the carpet didn’t match the drapes. His eyes went to her black hair, to the roots, and saw it was lighter, her natural color just starting to come in. Blonde. His mind raced and a dozen reactions played out in the second it took to process the information. Should he be angry? Reach for his gun? Should he be grateful or demand answers?
He sat back in the chair and said nothing, taking a long minute to think.
“No.” he finally said. “I saved you because you gave me the radio codes. I didn’t know you were one of those cult people. I should have guessed, nobody could move like you did without being enhanced.”
She berated herself for letting it spill out, she wasn’t thinking clearly, every heartbeat was throbbing pain. She said nothing, waiting for his reaction to come. For him to realize they were enemies, the Anubis Movement and Lakota. She was dreading it because she’d already made up her mind not to kill him. Her time out on the road and watching him from a distance for the past few weeks had changed her thinking about a lot of things. Her batons were on the glider with her but if she reached for them, he’d see. She didn’t want to fight him but she wasn’t going to let him kill her, either. She moved her hand under the cat, started rubbing her belly.
Jessie felt her tension, saw her movements that turned the cat into a potential weapon. He sighed.
“Planning on throwing that cat in my face?” he asked
“Maybe.” she said “If I need to. Do I need to?”
He stared at her, into her eyes, trying to read what he saw. Was she ready to attack or was she ready to defend? Should he beat the truth out of her or let her tell him in her own way. She wasn’t trying to hide the fact she was with them. What if he started a fight and she won? He’d seen her move, seen what she could do. She was pretty banged up but so was he.
“Nah.” he said, leaning back into the chair. “I’ll kick your ass later, when you’re healed up some. I don’t generally pick on half-wits, but I’ll make an exception for you.”
“You’ll try, gimpy.” she replied, easing her grip on the cat.
“If I’d a known you were already a super soldier, I wouldn’t have used my last shot on you.” he said, closing his eyes and enjoying the sun as the throbbing in his leg eased a little.
“Wait, what?” she sat bolt upright and moaned at the hurt it caused. The cat, having enough, jumped down and sauntered off with her tail held high. “You still had serum? You injected me with the old batch?”
Jessie looked over at her. “Yeah. I had two left. Gave you one and shot me up with the other. A little booster can’t hurt, maybe make whatever is in it work faster.”
“You’re not supposed to mix them.�
�� she said. “You had an early version, it was blueish, right?”
“Yeah.” Jessie said. “Pale blue. But it works, it’s only been five days I think and the bullet holes in my leg are closed up and my ribs don’t hurt much anymore. I’m nearly healed.”
“I’m not.” she said and showed him her arms, still scabbed over. They were healing fast, much faster than normal, but not as quickly as he was. He had broken bones already knitted back together, holes in his leg sealed up and pink scar tissue forming under the scabs. Everything still hurt but the repairs were nearly done and the pain would fade away when it was.
Her face was still swollen and bruised and the cuts across her cheeks were still scabbed over. Healing, but slowly.
“What’s the difference?” he asked. “It looks like the old batch was a lot stronger so shouldn’t it speed things up?”
“It wasn’t really stronger.” she said “Just had a different makeup. It was a live virus, sort of like a vaccine, so the version I have, the Pink, is fighting against it. No wonder I feel like I have a fever. Sometimes the blue had bad side effects, depending on your blood type.”
Scarlet remembered that day late last fall. Doctor Stevens was getting closer to perfecting the serum that was coursing through her veins. He had weak boosters that she took weekly and a new serum that she was supposed to take daily. The Blue, as they called it. He was sure it was the one, the final version, he had tested it on a dozen prisoners already with outstanding results. It was fine for most people but not for her. Not for people with AB- blood. She’d been lucky that day, she’d given hers to Jessie, hoping it would help him survive. The good doctor had overlooked taking various blood types into account. He was overworked and running on caffeine, had been for a month in his rush to reverse engineer the zombie virus and remove the harmful bits, leaving only the good as it was originally intended.
Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus | Books 4-6 | Jessie+Scarlet Page 33