Rage And Ruin: Zombie Fighter Jango #3 (Zombie Fighter Jango series)

by Cedric Nye

  Heaving a sigh, Jango said, “That’s smart. There are a lot of messed up people in the world. I tried to bring her to you in Anthem, but I saw your message on the sign, so I decided to bring her here, but we ran into some trouble. I noticed a long time back that there were people here, and I figured it was the best deal for the kid.” He continued softly, “I am so glad you are here, V. We missed you.”

  Jango had confided in her about the other facets of his personality when she had wondered aloud at the way his voice changed sometimes, so Vanessa understood the reason he had said “we.”

  Brightening up a little bit, he asked, “So what is the deal here? Are you the boss? Why are there so many people here?”

  Laughing, Vanessa explained, “When the Z-Virus hit, there was a huge convention going on here. The first of its kind. An international Zombie Preparedness Convention. ZomPreCon.”

  Jango giggled, and then broke into a full-throated laugh that was vaguely reminiscent of Renfield’s laugh in the original “Dracula” movie.

  “Zombie Preparedness Convention!” he wheezed, “I can’t stand it!” and he dissolved into laughter again.

  “Anyway,” Vanessa continued, “since this is Arizona, there were tons of gun dealers, ammunition dealers, and emergency supply dealers here. They had supplies brought in by the truckload for this convention, so, when it started getting crazy, they closed the doors, and have been taking in survivors ever since.”

  He hiccoughed a few times, and swallowed his laughter. “That is pretty cool, but also kind of funny. They were having a zombie preparedness gathering, and then the zombies came.”

  Vanessa rolled her eyes. “And me? I am not the boss. I am in charge of perimeter security, and supply runs. If it has to do with keeping things out or bringing things in, then I am the boss.”

  “No way,” a man chimed in from the side. “We have been trying to get an election set up to vote for a leader, and V is a shoe-in when we finally get the vote.”

  Jango looked at the man, “What do you mean, ‘get the vote?’” he asked. “Why don’t you just vote?”

  Vanessa spoke, “Things are complicated here, Bro. There are a lot of people here who just want to rule over everyone else, and they hold the most power because they have the most guns.”

  “So these guys, they know that you are popular, right?” he asked her. “Have they tried to fuck with you?”

  She smiled a kind of sad smile, and said, “Nothing I can’t handle, J.” Then she quickly changed the subject by saying, “I can’t believe your stick broke!”

  He looked at his stick, “My stick…” He murmured sadly, “My beautiful stick.” He looked up at Vanessa, and said, “I need a new stick, or I am going to flip my wig. No shit, Sis.”

  “Why don’t you chill a while, J?” Vanessa said. “Rest up, and get to know the place, you know? There is a lot to do here. How about I give you a tour?”

  20

  He actually seemed to be vibrating in agitation as he started looking around the room wildly, his eyes glowing with an Eldritch light that had no place in a human’s eyes.

  She saw the look in his eyes, and the way his facial features seemed to flow between the harsh angles of the killing machine, and the softer angles of the man she loved as a brother.

  Stepping forward, she said softly so that only he could hear, “I need you, Bro. I don’t have many people I can trust here. Someone tried to kill me last night, and he almost succeeded.” She put her hand on his arm, “Please, Jango?”

  Letting out his breath in a long, hissing sigh, he turned to her, and said, “Of course I’ll stay! I just get… I don’t know, itchy inside my skull when I am around people I don’t know.” He thought for a moment, and then added, “But I wouldn’t ever bail on you, Sis, not like this. Yeah, I’ll take a tour. Get the lay of the land, chew some bubble-gum, all that normal shit.” Then he did a double-take, “Someone tried to kill you? Who was it? I’ll peel that mother-fucker like an orange.”

  “Jesus, Jango,” Vanessa laughed, “you haven’t changed a bit. Come on.”

  She started to lead him off down the long corridor, when a chubby man with narrow, piggish eyes came up. “We need supplies in the lab, like, yesterday!” He said rudely while pointing a sausage-like finger in Vanessa’s face.

  Jango slapped his hand away, and then back-handed the man. The slap of knuckles on flesh was accompanied by the crunch of cartilage as the fat man’s nose was slammed flat across his cheek by the force of the blow.

  The man stumbled backwards, mewling, with blood flowing freely down one side of his face. After a few stumbling steps, he turned, and ran back the way he had come.

  Vanessa stood in stunned silence, while Jango debated whether or not to pursue the fat man. He never made half of a war, and he believed that killing was a viable solution to almost any problem.

  21

  Once her mind had caught up with and processed the lightning-fast chain of events that had just occurred, Vanessa turned to him and said, “Oh, man! You have got to chill, Bro. That guy is Nicholas Copeland, a creepy scientist who would probably rather kiss a petri-dish than kiss a girl. Copeland is the head of our science department, though, and you just bitch-slapped him! He has his own security force, a lot of power, and he seems to think he should have the run of the place. I have to go mend some fences, or there will be trouble. I have enough enemies as it is. I will get someone to show you around, J, okay?”

  Confused and abashed, Jango just nodded while she radioed for someone to show him around.

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, a compact man with shockingly red hair and round spectacles hustled up, and stood at attention.

  “Ian, this is Jango. Jango, this is Ian.” Vanessa said curtly. She turned to Ian and said, “Show Jango around the Center, give him the grand tour.”

  She started to turn back to Jango, but then stopped, and said, “And Ian, make sure no one, and I mean no one messes around with this man. If you have to butt-stroke someone to keep them away, do it. Jango has lived alone in places where entire armies have died, and he is a stone cold killer when he gets pushed. Capisce?” She finished sternly.

  “Yes ma’am!” he said loudly, still standing at attention.

  She finally turned to Jango, and said, “I love you, Bro, with all of my heart, but please, please be chill here, okay? At least until it’s time to not be chill. Can I count on you?”

  He despised feminine manipulation, or any kind of manipulation, but he sensed that Vanessa meant well, and that she had his best interests in mind, so he just put on his best “sincere” look, and said, “You bet!”

  Vanessa looked at him suspiciously for a moment, and then just shook her head, smiled, and hugged him before hurrying off with several guards following in her wake.

  22

  As soon as she was out of sight, the ginger-haired soldier slumped a little, and asked, “So, where to, boss?”

  Jango looked at him uncertainly, and then replied, “I need a stick, man. I feel naked as hell without one. Oh! I need a knife, too. I snapped the tip off of my Spinecutter a couple weeks back. Pissed me off! I stuck it in this guy’s neck, right?” He continued, “So this guy, he has some kind of weird fit. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, and I have cut a metric fuck-load of necks. This guy just starts flopping and jerking like he was being electrocuted. I must have nicked a major nerve just right, but his thrashing started right when my blade was in between the vertebrae in his neck, and “snap!”, there goes the tip.”

  Noting the utter silence in which his response had been met, he looked over at the man, and saw that he was madly scribbling notes in a pocket-sized note-book.

  “What the hell, dude?” Jango asked.

  Pushing his glasses up, the man looked at him and said, “Oh! Sorry. I write books, well, I mean, I used to write books. Maybe you read them? Zombie Apocalypse 2012, a Political Horror Story, and One Undead Step are the two books I got published.” He pau
sed a moment in embarrassment, and then said, “Zombie books. Anyway, that stuff is great, man! It is gold! I really want to start writing, and getting stuff out to people. Maybe a newspaper, and a weekly compendium of stories that give people hope. Like your stories.”

  After a minute of fidgeting, Ian asked nervously, “So, what did the guy do that made you stick your knife in his neck?”

  “I heard the bastard was writing stories about me,” he kidded.

  Ian gulped, and turned as white as a sheet. Jango did not seem to notice.

  “No. He was part of one of those fucking kidnap and rape crews that have sprung up everywhere. I swear, man. You would think that such times as these would bring people together, and bring out the best in humans. It’s the opposite, though. The guy was a sentry. I snuck up on him and ganked his ass. Then, I poured gasoline all over the outside of the building where the other soldiers slept, and I burned them alive.”

  He related the story as though he were telling a story about eating in a nice restaurant. He continued, “The ones who were in the building where they kept all the women and children that they… Used, well, I took my sweet time on those boys.” He finished in the honey and razor-blade tones of Alby.

  He looked at Ian, “So, how about that tour?”

  Ian’s eyes blinked comically behind his glasses as he stared at Jango for a moment, until, with a vigorous shake of his head, he said, “Yeah! Yeah, for sure. You want a stick and a knife, right? So that means a trip to Bartertown!” He said it almost gleefully.

  He stopped smiling, though, and said, “Do you have anything to trade? It is all about bartering in Bartertown.”

  “Welcome to Bartertown, raggedy-man!” Jango said happily. He continued, “What an awesome movie.”

  He finally processed Ian’s question about trade goods, and he said, “Hell, man, what is good for trade in Bartertown?”

  Ian thought for a moment, and then said, “Just about anything, but the best stuff are cigarettes, disposable lighters, anything to do with smoking, man. Gold is good, diamonds, drugs, knives, guns… basically all the stuff that used to sell good on the street, in the back rooms of bars, and in prisons.”

  “Lay on, Macduff,” Jango grinned, “I think I have the barter covered.”

  23

  He continued to grin as Ian led the way down halls, through doors, up and down ramps, until at last they came to a long ramp that led deep into the ground. He was grinning because in his huge backpack were many of the things that Ian had mentioned would be valuable as trade-items. He always kept two cartons of Marlboros in the bottom of his pack, as well as several small velvet bags full of precious stones he had taken from various jewelry shops.

  “So, you probably wonder why we called it ‘Bartertown’, right?” Ian asked. Without waiting for a response, he said, “Man, ZomPreCon brought so many kinds of people together. It brought together preppers, survivalists, cosplayers, sci-fi nerds, zombie enthusiasts, writers, and more. The thing about all of those groups is that we all like movies! A bunch of shut-ins and introverts all under one roof. Mad Max homages were bound to happen when the world went to hell.”

  By the time he had finished talking, they had emerged into a huge subterranean room. Whatever it had once been used for, it was now the world’s largest swap-meet.

  Lit by dim lights and candles, the room stretched out of sight. It was full of people, smells, and the hubbub of trade. A wooden sign had been made by painting “Welcome to Bartertown” in large, dripping black letters. The sign hung from the concrete ceiling from two short chains.

  “This. Is. Awesome.” Jango whispered in awe as he took in the sights.

  There were shanties set up for the buying and selling of all manner of goods. He saw lean-to stalls, and even people peddling goods from blankets and pieces of scrap lumber propped on milk-crates. The sheer variety of people and dress made Jango feel as though he were in a Conan novel, and had just entered some new place like Shadizar the Wicked, or something.

  “I am come,” Jango intoned, “bathe the women, and bring them to me.” He dissolved into laughter.

  “So,” Ian asked nervously, “you want to find a stick and a knife?” Ian found himself discomfited by this strange man who seemed to be entirely cobbled together from contradictions. On the one hand, he would make jokes like a nerd, and on the other hand, he calmly described burning men alive, and seemed almost happy about torturing other men. It was a lot for him to take in, and Ian found himself wishing someone else was showing the obviously crazy man around the Center.

  “Yeah, man. Just hold on a minute.” Jango unslung his pack, turned his back to Ian, and rooted around until he had broken open one of the cartons of cigarettes, and taken two packs out. He knew better than to show his whole bank. He opened one pack of smokes, and then pocketed both packs. Then, he pulled out one small, bulging black velvet bag that was full of diamonds, and other precious stones. He replaced his pack, and said, “Okay, now I’m ready.”

  Ian led him down a long pathway between shacks and blankets. They passed what looked like a campground, complete with campfires that had various kinds of food sizzling and cooking on them while people stirred and turned the food. Signs hung from posts stating that meals were available any time, day or night.

  His stomach growling, Jango said, “Wait, man. Let’s get some chow first. It smells so damned good.”

  Ian looked ashamed for a moment, and then said, “I don’t have any trades, man, and I don’t have any scrip, either.” Then he said defiantly, “I have a wife and three kids! Everything I make working the wall and working security goes to them.”

  “Jesus, you grouchy ginger fuck,” Jango growled. “I was offering to buy us a meal, not asking if you wanted to buy a fuckin’ meal.”

  The red haired man looked embarrassed for a moment. Then, he smiled and said, “Well, in that case, yeah! I’d love something to eat, but not here. This is Ptomaine Alley, man. Only people who don’t know any better eat here. Follow me, I know some better places.”

  He followed Ian for what seemed like a long time until finally they came to a large green bus against one of the featureless concrete walls of the huge basement.

  24

  The bus had been turned into a walk-up restaurant, and even had several tables and chairs set up in front of it. There was a cut-away portion of the bus which served as a place to order and receive food.

  The smells that wafted from within the green bus made Jango salivate. His stomach growled audibly.

  With his mouth full of drool, he went to the bus. A smiling woman came from somewhere inside the bus. She had straight dark hair, glasses, and a pleasant air about her.

  “What can I get for you?” She asked, and then she spotted Ian, and said, “Ian! What are you doing down here, baby?”

  Ian smiled apologetically at Jango, and said, “Jango wanted something to eat, and I just couldn’t let him eat in Ptomaine Alley.” Turning to Jango, he said, “The food here really is the best, especially since Allison started working here.” He finished proudly.

  Then, remembering his manners, Ian introduced them, “Jango, this is my wife, Allison. Allison, this is Jango, the one and only Zombie Fighter!”

  Groaning, Jango said, “Man, I need some chow, or I am going to go full-on goober on you, and start eating your neck.”

  Allison laughed, but Ian, who had just heard Jango describe stabbing a man in the neck, paled, and said, “Yeah, man, yeah.”

  “What can I get you?” she asked Jango.

  Barely able to speak from the sheer amount of drool in his mouth, he responded, “One of everything, and whatever he wants.” He pointed his thumb to indicate Ian.

  “Wait!” Jango exclaimed. “Do you take trade goods here?”

  “Oh, yeah!” She replied. “This is Bartertown.”

  “How much is a cigarette worth,” he asked, his natural caution kicking in to quell his hunger.

  “Depends,” she said, “if it’s a little rol
lie, it depends on the size, but a rollie of pure tobacco about as thick as two quarters, and about 2 1/2” will buy two big meals.” Then she added, “REALLY big meals.”

  His face broke out in a huge smile, and he turned so that he was facing away from both of them, and he knocked three smokes out of the open pack. He re-pocketed the pack, and turned back around.

  He laid the three cigarettes on the counter, and said, “Bring me and Ian two ciggies worth of meat, and keep the third as a tip. Thanks for the info.”

  Jango did not know it, but whole cigarettes had become a thing of legend. Rolling tobacco was scarce, and mostly only available to the very rich. What filtered down to the regular folks was usually more of a mixture of tobacco and whatever dried plant-matter was handy.

  He looked up to see both Ian’s and Allison’s jaws hanging open, and their eyes as wide as saucers. Allison recovered first, and quickly put her hand over the valuable items.

  Ian started looking around like some kind of criminal, eyes trying to point everywhere at once as he looked around to see if anyone else had spotted the transaction.

  Assessing the situation, Jango realized that he had probably drastically overpaid, and that “wholes” as he called cigarettes, were probably far more valuable than he had thought.

  Thinking quickly, he said, “Look, just break them apart into a baggie, and burn the filters and papers. Put whatever my food costs in the till, and keep the rest, okay?”

  Nodding mutely, hands shaking, Allison slowly slid the cigarettes off the counter, and made her way to the back of the bus.

  A few minutes later, she was back with a tray full of plates. The plates were stacked with steaming cuts of meat, fried potatoes, and a heavy looking loaf of bread.

  Jango almost whimpered aloud at the sight of all the food as he grabbed the tray, and went to the closest table, where he commenced to put away food at an unbelievable rate of speed.