Zombie Road (Book 5): Terror On The Two-Lane

by Simpson, David A.

  Casey enjoyed the planning stages, enjoyed the delicious feeling of the ultimate hunt and knowing he had them surrounded. Hunting humans was a great sport, he’d have to implement it once they got settled in. Maybe some gladiatorial fighting with the stinking zombies. He’d come up with some other games, that creepy bitch Edmunds probably knew a few more. Maybe he’d hold the Casey Olympics every year, use people that tried to resist his rule. Make a show of it. He’d keep the people entertained like the Romans did in all those movies. All he had to do was flush those clowns out from where ever they were hiding and make sure his men didn’t kill them.

  They were wily bastards, though. They may have left a false trail then struck off out in the wilds so he’d been careful. Had spread his men out for miles in both directions and made their way slowly through the valley. There was no place to hide, it was sand and scrub brush. The occasional cactus or dry river bed was the only thing that broke up the hazy, flat landscape. He had time. He had them cornered like the rats they were. He wanted to savor this victory so he planned carefully. He couldn’t wait to have ol’ Mr. do-as-I-say-or-else trussed up like a pig and begging for mercy. Your days of being the president are over, he thought, it’s my time now.

  They waited until dawn to start the search and it had taken them hours to cover the miles but now he had them trapped. Casey chomped on his big cigar and let his men run wild. They’d find them, they’d discover their hiding place. If they didn’t drag them out soon, he’d call the men off, have everyone line up and slowly walk the town in a methodical search, checking every nook and cranny, just like his military men suggested. They kept saying “do a police call.” Dumb name for it but whatever. They used a lot of weird words that didn’t make any sense.

  He sat on the hood and waited, his radio tuned to the command channel, smoking his cigar and taking pride in his army. All his. A year ago, he had nothing, was serving time for armed robbery. Now he commanded a thousand soldiers. He had twice that many women and kids and gimps that were the support teams: His cooks and supply truck drivers and all the others. His slaves.

  “We found a couple of our guys stuffed under an old bulldozer.” a voice came over the radio, interrupting his happy gloating.

  He’d expected a few deaths on his side. He knew the assholes from Lakota wouldn’t go down without a fight, but they’d killed his men and nobody had seen? Did that mean they were in one of those cars driving around, hiding in plain sight? Were they pulling a fast one? He jumped up, a sudden pang of fear racing through him. What if they looking for him? Was that asshole Gunny coming for him?

  He looked around nervously then suddenly felt very exposed. What if they were hiding up in the mountains? What if they could see him and had the cross hairs trained on him? He moved behind the car, putting it between him and the town and grabbed the binoculars. He scanned the mountain, looking for a glint of glass from a scope or a shape that didn’t quite blend in.

  “Who’s that?” one of his guards asked and pointed in the distance.

  Casey saw it then. A dust trail already disappearing on the horizon. They were getting away! He spit out the cigar and grabbed the microphone, getting ready to scream at his men to get them, to chase them down but what if it was a decoy. What if that was only a few of them and the rest were hiding? He pounded his fist against the roof in frustration. What was he supposed to do? He was frozen with indecision. His carefully laid out plans were falling apart. He needed to send half his men after them, the others had to stay and search. His face was red with anger, his billy goat beard quivered in rage. He’d been out smarted and he knew it. He grabbed the mic and roared into it, telling his men they were getting away.

  “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.

  13

  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 dril
ls, 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.