Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus | Books 4-6 | Jessie+Scarlet

by Simpson, David A.

  “Half of you go after them, the other half stay and search the buildings. Burn it all down! I want them found!”

  He closed his eyes and counted backwards from ten. Be cool. He told himself. It doesn’t matter. You’ve got a backup plan. Not as good as having those assholes as his captives but it was a good plan nonetheless. All was not lost, all would be well in the end.

  59

  Jessie

  They sat on the porch, sipping sweet tea and watching the sun go down. The past weeks had been a blur of slowly fading pain, quickly healing bodies, a lot of exercise and a lot of laying around enjoying the old farmhouse and the mild North Dakota spring. It was almost idyllic whiling away the days but Jessie was getting restless. He had a job to do and he needed to address the elephant in the room. They hadn’t talked about the opposing sides of a coming war they were on. They were both smart, they both knew Lakota wouldn’t sit by and allow the Anubis Cult to start taking over towns in their territory. They were both scouts for opposing armies and they should probably be trying to kill each other. She’d said enough those first feverish days that Jessie knew what the Cult’s plans were, what they’d done in Canada and now were going to do in America. Scarlet knew she was expected to either coopt the Road Angel or kill him outright. If he wouldn’t join them, she should eliminate him.

  While they were aching, sick and feeble, they’d managed to forget their responsibilities but now they were fit. They were ready to resume their duties assigned to them by their fathers.

  Jessie was dreading it, knew it would end something between them once it was spoken aloud. When they were healing, they’d been as close as two people could be and not be lovers. They’d seen each other at their worst, covered in blood and vomit, naked and afraid. They each owed the other their lives. She’d saved him from being turned into a zombie from a scientist, he’d saved her from the hands of the Raiders. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hurt her, they’d become close. She’d proved she wasn’t trying to hurt him, she’d even helped Lakota by giving him the radio codes Casey used. But now they had separate missions to continue. He was pulling the States together, organizing mutual defenses, setting up trade routes. She was scouting those same towns, looking for weak points for her Army to exploit.

  They’d actually had fun together for the past week or so. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, he didn’t keep track of the days. After they had both pushed themselves on that morning jog that became a marathon run, they’d started training together. Just workouts at first but he was curious about her method of fighting, why she used batons instead of guns. She’d shown him how to use them a little, explained that Egyptian stick fighting was something like middle eastern martial arts. In turn, he’d shown her his method of shooting, the one his dad had taught him. The discipline of how to hold the pistol, not to teacup the grip. How to shoot a rifle, don’t chicken wing it, keep your elbow tucked. How to hit long distance targets and still your chest at the bottom of a breath when you squeeze the trigger.

  “Remember, I only miss you when I’m breathing.” he’d whispered like a lover, his arms around her to show her how to hold the foregrip. It was a silly play on words but no one ever forgot the lesson when it was whispered in their ear, usually by a big bearded weapons instructor. She learned fast, her mind worked like his and she only had to be told something once, she didn’t forget.

  After dinner one evening she was curled up with a book in the glider swing on the porch. Jessie was restless, he knew he had to leave soon and was tinkering around with his car, making sure everything was ready. He rigged a pull on the door handle that Bob could open so he’d never be trapped inside again. It only took him a few tries to understand how it worked and learned quickly how to let himself out. Jessie checked all the fluids, pulled the plugs, re-gapped them and tightened all the belts.

  He hadn’t worn his full weapons rig in weeks, he only strapped on the pistol belt around the farm. He pulled the holsters out, checked them for damage or wear, oiled the leather and buckled them on. He skipped putting on the heavy jacket and the knuckle dusters it hid, instead he stripped down to his boots and tactical pants. He’d worked out a few routines, depending on what he was wearing. It was almost summer and he didn’t think he’d be wearing the jacket much. He needed to run through a few drills, it had been a while since he’d practiced with all his guns. He stood in the wide grassy area in front of the equipment shed, faced the setting sun and bowed his head, clearing it. He took deep breaths and let his mind relax. The exercises served a number of purposes: he knew exactly where the weapons were instantly by the feel of the holsters against his body. By repetition, he drilled his brain to know what to do with out thinking. Muscle memory. His hands knew the ways of war. His fingers knew how to fight. He knew how many guns, how many knives, how many bullets he had. He knew where they were no matter what position he was in and how many nanoseconds it took to employ them.

  He started out slow, stretching muscles, moving weapons smoothly in and out of holsters and sheaths. Exaggerated movements, clenched muscles, controlled breathing. He was doing the exercises Hollywood and Bridget had taught him. The Gun Kata’s. He blocked everything else out, clearing his mind and focusing. Body moving on instinct. Muscles knowing what to do. Like a guitarist blazing through Freebird or a classical pianist playing a toccata. He went through this routine methodically, every move with tightened muscles and excessive force. Guns slid in an out of holsters, blades glided from their sheaths, eviscerated imaginary opponents and returned home. Magazines fell to the ground and fresh ones clicked into place. One stance flowed smoothly into the next. Black Cat Laughing, a single gun trigger roll, became Smiling Frog, a backhanded knife slash across the throat.

  The sun was sinking lower and his body was glistening with sweat when he finished the kata twenty minutes later. He stared at the glowing orange ball for a moment, gathering himself, then exploded into action. He did the same routine but this time as fast as he could. He usually missed a holster or fumbled a reload at these speeds but that was all part of the exercise. Recovery during a battle. Adapt and overcome. He was a blur of movement; the eye couldn’t follow his hands and feet as they danced through the motions. Guns slapped loudly into leather, blades were in and out of sheaths so fast you couldn’t tell if it really happened or if it was a feint. Legs swept unseen opponents and became lightning fast knee thrusts that would cripple any living man.

  He saw her sitting in front of his car when he pivoted away from the sun to do Backward Monkey Spitting. She was smiling and he wondered how long she’d been there.

  He froze in the crouch, was a little embarrassed. This type of exercise was a private thing. A meditation not really intended for an audience. He’d probably been grunting like a pig.

  There was no use stopping now even if he wasn’t used to people watching.

  “Gun Kata.” he said. “American style martial arts.”

  He slowed his pace and started calling the stances for her, one fluid motion after another. Wild Crane Takes Flight, a cross draw maneuver, became Butterflies Emerge when guns appeared in his hands from the hidden holsters at his back. She sat in the grass, smiling as he named and executed them, his body flowing like moving water in precise, controlled movements.

  The old slash marks across his chest rippled and stood in pale contrast against the summer tan he was getting.

  Bob lay with his head on his paws and watched as the cat curled up in Scarlets lap, purring contentedly. Muscles bunched, sweat glistened, his face was fierce but his eyes were calm.

  The dappled scars of a shotgun blast peppered his arm and shoulder.

  The bottom of the sun dropped below the horizon and gave everything a deep reddish glow.

  Jagged scars were slashed across his back.

  Jessie finished the drill, calling out Dragonfly Skims Water, a backwards slice with his blade, that flowed into Pretty Girl Smiling when he deftly plucked a purple flowering clover and presented it to her, arm
extended, head bowed and on one knee.

  She laughed in delight as she took it.

  “I think you just made that last one up.” she said, her eyes glowing, and brought it to her nose to smell. “Thank you, noble prince.”

  Jessie sprawled out on the grass beside her, breathing hard from the exertion of the kata. He sat up with a groan when the guns dug uncomfortably into his back and unclipped his rig. He shoved the guns and knives aside then flopped back down, still panting.

  “That was like ballet.” she said. “It was beautiful.”

  She tousled his hair and stood, then walked over to the spot he’d been exercising.

  She smiled a little self-consciously then turned her back to him, not wanting an audience to make her nervous. The sun hung on, a fiery red orb on the horizon casting long shadows in the twilight.

  “This is Tahtib.” She said. “With a little Scarlet twist.”

  She breathed deep, bowed to the disappearing orange ball, then extended one of her batons and started a deliberate, ceremonial dance. She held it aloft and moved with quiet grace on one foot the other curled behind her knee. She hopped and turned, her baton always above her head, moving in its own rhythm. A slow combat. A stylized ritualistic battle of strike, parry and block. She lowered her foot and danced backward in a large circle, the batons movements ever graceful. Upon the completion of the third circle, she gave up all pretense of dancing combat. The baton became a blur of motion and suddenly the second one was in her other hand, joining the whir, blindingly fast. They slapped against each other when she wanted them to, the sharp sound of steel on steel and they spun the opposite way. She whirled with them, her whole body cat grace and cat quick. She tucked her head and flipped, both sticks spinning, long legs arching and flying through the air. She landed, she jumped, she rolled and always her batons spun. Sometimes in intricate weaving patterns over her hands, around her arms or neck. Sometimes clacking off each other to reverse rotation, sometimes tossed high in the air, spiraling madly to the tops of the trees then right back down into nimble fingers. Even Jessie’s eyes couldn’t follow them and he didn’t need his sensitive ears to hear the whirling sound of stainless steel death.

  She finished with a flourish, collapsed both batons and held an intimidating fighter’s stance, fists clenched around black steel. Jessie clapped and whistled.

  “Thank you, kind sir.” she smiled and gave him a bow.

  “Would have looked better if you weren’t wearing a granny dress.” he said. “But I did get to see your knickers when you flipped.”

  “You’re a dick.” she said and snapped one of the batons out, meaning to slap him lightly across the bottom of his boots. Jessie reacted instantly and caught it, jerking her off balance and on top of him. She rolled off and sent a kick at him as she sprang to her feet. He grunted at the impact against his ribs then swept her legs out from under her. She fell and he dove on top of her, pinning her shoulders.

  “Oh, you cheating bastard.” she growled and arched her back in a violent spasm, sending him three feet in the air, eyes wide in surprise at her strength, as she rolled away then jumped back on top of him when he landed. She shoved his face in the grass and tried to hold it here.

  “Cheaters are peters” she said, grinding his head in the dirt.

  He was laughing so hard it took him a minute to get up but when he did, he simply stood. She clung to his back, tried bouncing her hundred and ten pounds to knock him back down.

  “Unfair, you pecker shit head!” she yelled and Jessie nearly choked laughing again.

  “Who taught you how to cuss?” he asked and wrapped his arms around her legs so she couldn’t get away and started sprinting towards the pond.

  “NO!” she yelled when she saw where he was headed. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Potty mouths need to be washed out!” he giggled, barely getting words out.

  She was beating on his back, trying to pull her legs free and bouncing all at the same time when he ran off the end of the dock, leapt as far out into the water as he could, sending them some ten or twelve feet away from shore. Bob dove right in after them, barking and wagging his tail. She was screaming in protest and delight and aggravation when they splashed in. Jessie let go and swam hard under water, in case she still had some fight in her. He wanted to be far away before he came up. He made it halfway across the pond before he surfaced but barely caught a breath of air before he was dunked back under. He came up spluttering, choking on a mouthful of water, his hair plastered over his eyes. He heard her tinkling laughter from twenty feet away and swam towards it ducking under when he neared to grab her feet. She dove deeper and they wrestled under the water, each trying to shove the other into the muddy bottom.

  Jessie had never tried to hold his breath since the injections, never had a reason to. Now, as they grappled with each other and he thought it was time to break the surface, time to grab a lungful of air, he realized he didn’t need to. Not yet. And from the way she kept going deeper, grabbing his belt and tugging him toward the bottom, she didn’t either. He grabbed her waist and they spun, limbs intertwined, each trying to get on top. They finally reached the muck and he happened to hit it first, got his head shoved in it then she slid free, stroking for the surface. He came up laughing, wiping mud out of his face but sobered up fast when he heard Bob’s growl. Scarlet was treading water, her long black hair with the inch-long roots of blonde was billowing out behind her. Jessie looked to the dock and saw men standing on it. Well-armed men, all wearing black uniforms. The shepherd had a low rumbling in his throat and was swimming towards them.

  Guns came up.

  “Bob! NO!” Jessie yelled. “Heel! Heel!”

  He swam towards him, grabbed him and held him back.

  “No.” he said and tried to calm him. “Shhhh. It’s alright, boy. Shhhh. That’s a good dog.”

  Bob listened, stopped trying to attack, but just barely. He knew an enemy when he smelled one.

  60

  Jessie

  “Ah. Lieutenant Wymer.” Scarlet said and swam for the ladder at the end of the dock.

  Jessie watched in disbelief as they greeted her with deference and helped her out of the water. The sun was nearly gone and the moon was still on the rise. Darkness was starting to settle across the plains. He struggled with Bob, trying to soothe him, knowing if he went after them, they’d kill him before he was even close to the shore. She snapped her fingers, pointed towards the house and addressed one of the men in a plainer, less adorned uniform.

  “You. Go to the house, get me a towel.”

  “Yes, your grace.” The man said and turned.

  “Run.” she said in a haughty, demanding voice Jessie barely recognized. “Can’t you see I’m wet?”

  “Yes, your Grace!” he said again and started running.

  “I’m glad you finally found me, Lieutenant Wymer. My father will hear of my rescue. You will be rewarded.” she said, wringing water from her hair.

  “Thank you, your Grace.” he said, a little confused at the strange turn of events. He’d been sent to search for her without any real orders as to what they should do if she was found. Be careful, Ricketts had warned the team leaders. There is a chance that she may be a deserter, we’re not sure. Report for further instructions was all he’d been told. He knew she’d been missing for a while, she hadn’t been making her weekly reports on easy to conquer settlements, but he never expected to find her laughing and playing in the water with someone. She saw his confusion and the puzzled looks on the other men’s faces.

  “I was shot, stabbed and beaten by Casey’s the Cannibals men.” She said getting the reaction she knew she’d get. Surprised looks turned to murderous glares at someone laying hands on Bastet, some of them directed at Jessie.

  “They took me by surprise and this boy saved my life. I’ve been unable to leave, though, I’ve been recovering.”

  Jessie couldn’t believe what he was hearing and cursed himself for starting to like another
girl.

  “Has he held you prisoner? Shall we kill him?” Wymer asked and more guns were aimed towards Jessie, still treading water and calming Bob.

  Scarlet appeared to consider it as the man returned with the towels. “No, not at the moment. I found him somewhat entertaining and he did help me. The Movement is generous with rewards, as you men shall all soon find out.”

  They grinned at this, maybe they would get promoted, maybe they could get the blessing of Anubis, the super strength, without going through the choosing ceremony.

  Lieutenant Wymer wasn’t being won over as easily as his privates, though. He knew about the falling out she’d had with her father, how she’d been relieved of her duties. How rumor had it that her whole mission was an effort to get rid of her. When the reports stopped, many had assumed she’d been killed. He’d been through the choosing, had been given the inoculations by Ricketts. He knew something wasn’t quite right with her story. The surprise of finding her here was wearing off, he’d chanced on them by happenstance. They were only twenty miles from the Canadian border and he was just one of the teams sent to search for her in the settlements. They’d heard the barking dog as they passed the farm. Curious, he’d investigated.

  His suspicious mind started working again, the initial shock gone, and he realized who the boy was. He recognized the long scar and the big, black dog from the tales.