Zombie D.O.A. Series Five: The Complete Series Five

by JJ Zep

  “Meaning?”

  “Come on Joe, you want to tell me you didn’t pick up on Wallace’s Academy Award winning performance?”

  “A deaf, dumb, blind kid would have picked that up. So what? So Harrow’s throwing you a bone, getting Wallace to talk you up so he doesn’t have to take this to court marshal. Why do we care?”

  “We care because if Harrow’s passing up on the chance to run me out of Dodge via a court marshal, you can rest assured he has something worse in mind.”

  “Jesus, you’re cynical.”

  “Living in a world populated by walking corpses will do that to a man.”

  That stood in silence for a while.

  “You think maybe Uncle Joe put in a word for you?” Jojo said eventually.

  Charlie chuckled. “Hell no,” he said. “Joe wouldn’t interfere in the chain of command. That’s not his style. Besides, he’s out of here today, isn’t he?”

  “Tomorrow,” Jojo corrected.

  “Who’d have thought it, the Pendragon Corporation without Smokin’ Joe Thursday at the helm. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse. Still, it leaves you in a good position, your man Harrow taking over and all.”

  “My man Harrow?” Jojo sounded annoyed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Charlie looked past his brother to the HQ building where Sergeant Poole had just emerged. She shaded her eyes and scanned the area, spotted Charlie and waved.

  “Looks like we’re being summoned,” Charlie said.

  Jojo glared back at him. “What do you mean, ‘my man Harrow’? You think that’s how I roll?”

  “Chill, bro. Save the righteous indignation for later. For after Harrow tears me a new asshole.”

  Five minutes later they were back in Harrow’s office, waiting for the general to return from his bathroom break. Charlie leaned back in a leather armchair and drummed out a rhythm on the rests. In his peripheral vision, he could make out Jojo, sitting forward, tensed. Whether it was their earlier discussion or the pending outcome that had him so tightly wound, Charlie wasn’t sure. Jojo had always been inclined to take life too seriously.

  Charlie on the other hand, didn’t care which way Harrow came down. He’d already decided what he was going to do. When his three-year tour was up next month, he was quitting, handing in his badge and riding off into the sunset.

  There were things he’d miss about military life, the comradeship, the exhilaration of battle, the steady stream of female recruits that made their way to his bed. Hell, he might even come to miss the dog chow they served up in the mess.

  What he wouldn’t miss was the futility of it all, the total lack of ambition and foresight. The Corporation now had the technology to take the battle to the Z’s, to clear them out town by town, stack them in a funeral pyre a mile high and incinerate the fuckers. Instead, the ambitious plan to clear the California coast from L.A. to San Diego had stalled, people were abandoning the towns and moving to Pendleton for protection, and military operations were being cut back in the name of ‘resource management.’ The plan, it seemed, was to fortify Camp Pendleton and hunker down until the Z’s eventually died out. Would that ever happen? Nobody knew.

  Anyway, Charlie had had enough. He was quitting the service, moving up to Big Bear and finding a place near his folks. Maybe he’d find himself a girl and settle down. Then again, maybe –

  “Ten shun!”

  Jojo’s command startled him from his daydream.

  “At ease, men,” Harrow instructed as he sidled into the room and slid behind his desk. He eyeballed Charlie across the expanse of oak, a smile that was more of a sneer playing on his lips.

  “I’ve come to a decision,” he said without preamble. “You ain’t going to like it.”

  five

  John Messenger studied the expanse of desert stretched out below him, his pale blue eyes squinting with the glare. The vista was stark and desolate and beautiful, brick red earth, creosote bush and scrub grass, arid flat-topped mesas casting late afternoon shadows. Cutting across like a jagged scar, a dirt road disappeared into the distance. Someone had traveled that road recently, someone foolish enough to leave tracks that a feller such as himself might follow.

  He scanned his gaze slowly left to right, picking out small details in the landscape, the bright orange blooms of a barrel cactus, a Chuckwalla sunning itself on a rock, a ground squirrel scurrying for cover as the shadow of a hawk fell across its path. Messenger cast his eyes skyward hoping to find the raptor and spotted something infinitely more interesting, a thin plume of smoke, a wisp of white barely visible against the deepening blue of the heavens. It was the first sign of humanity he’d encountered since leaving Utah.

  Messenger removed his baseball cap and mopped at his brow with his forearm. His sweat nipped at the wound that he carried there and he tilted his arm to admire it, all but healed now but still carrying a clear semi-circular impression.

  He shaded his eyes and tilted his face skyward, quickly computing the quantity of daylight remaining in the day. Three, maybe four, hours. That would bring him to the homestead just before dark. Which was good. Folk were inclined to fire at strangers approaching out of the darkness.

  He fixed his cap on his head and picked up a dusty path that led from the mesa to the desert floor. The going was rough and uneven, but he walked without faltering, his feet educated by long months and years on the road. A band of thunderclouds was building in the south, casting forked lightning earthward to the accompaniment of low, rumbling thunder. The storm would be here later this evening.

  At the bottom of the rise, Messenger ducked under a strand of rusty barbed wire and planted his feet on the rutted surface of the road. He could no longer see the smoke but he could smell it, another of his recently acquired gifts. He set off in that direction, walking at a steady, ground-eating gait.

  The storm was moving faster than he’d anticipated, sapping the light from the day. By the time he’d covered a couple of miles, the first raindrops pattered down into the thirsty earth, giving off the smell of musty rooms. Wind swirled and eddied, conjuring a dust devil. Beyond that, Messenger could make out a corral gate, blocking the road. Two men stood behind the gate, both with rifles trained on him.

  Messenger continued walking, stopping only when one of the men called out a challenge.

  “Watcha want?” the man called, not much more than a teenager, Messenger saw now, his partner even younger.

  “A place to spend the night, out of this storm.”

  “Yeah, well, this ain’t the place, so you’d best be moving along.”

  “I ain’t armed.”

  “Makes no difference to us. This is private property. Move along now.”

  “I’ll sleep in the barn if I must. If it was good enough for Jesus…” A clatter of thunder masked the rest of his words.

  “What did he say?” the younger of the two asked.

  “Sounded like he was quoting scripture.”

  “Look mister,” the older boy said, his voice softening. “It’s nothing personal. We don’t know you, and the way things are these days…well, you know how it is.”

  It was nearly full dark now and the next round of thunder brought the rain suddenly slewing down. Messenger looked beyond the men and saw a twin set of headlights bouncing along the rutted track. Reinforcements, no doubt, sent to deal with the situation.

  This wasn’t going to work, but no matter, there’d be another way. There was always another way. He gave a sad shake of the head, turned away and headed back into the teeth of the storm.

  six

  “Permission to speak, General?”

  “Charlie, I strongly advise –” Jojo started before Harrow cut him off.

  “Granted,” he smirked. Now that he’d delivered his bombshell, he was enjoying this.

  “Your ruling is a crock of shit, General. No offence.” There he’d said it. He’d said it and he wasn’t sorry. This was bullshit.

  “None taken,”
Harrow said. “Matter of fact, I’d be keen to hear your measured assessment on my ruling. Maybe you can pass on a few pearls of wisdom that will help me reach a better judgment in the future.”

  “My men had nothing to do with this. They were just following orders. I can’t see why they deserve to be punished?”

  “Punished?” Harrow scoffed. “How are they being punished? They’re been reassigned, Lieutenant. I fail to see how that qualifies as punishment. Unless…” A smile slowly bloomed on his face. “Oh, I get it. You think they’re being punished by being deprived of your inspired leadership. My, my, that’s quite an ego you have there, Lieutenant.”

  “That is not what I mean!” Charlie was out of his seat now, crossing the room, putting his hands on Harrow’s desk.

  “Charlie,” Jojo warned.

  Charlie ignored him. There were things that needed saying and he was going to say them. “Dog Section is the most effective combat unit you have.”

  “Debatable,” Harrow smirked.

  “The most effective unit you have,” Charlie repeated with emphasis. “Most of them three year veterans with hundreds of combat missions between them. Now you’re going to disband the section, split them up, to punish me. I’m sorry but that is just muddled thinking, garbled bullshit thinking.”

  He was trying to get a rise out of Harrow, but still Harrow wouldn’t bite. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Lieutenant, but the fact is, no one’s being punished. As a matter of fact, you’re getting off lightly, thanks to Captain Wallace’s intervention. Instead of a dishonorable discharge you have a new posting, a chance to redeem yourself. As a result, your men are being reassigned. Simple.”

  “Well you know what you can do with your new posting, don’t you? You can take it and shove it up your –”

  Charlie felt a hand on his shoulder. “Charlie? A word?”

  “You’d be well advised to heed your brother’s advice, Lieutenant. I’ve tolerated this little outburst of yours because well, frankly, you’re young and stupid. But I’ve got to tell you, I’m about this far from adding insubordination to your long list of misdemeanors.”

  “Add bestiality with the base chickens for all I care. I quit.”

  “Quit?” Harrow said. His smirk was replaced instantly by a frown that felt to Charlie like a victory.

  “Yeah, I quit. I’ve got six more weeks on my tour and then I’m done.”

  “You can’t do that,” Harrow said emphatically.

  “Just you try and stop me.”

  “I already have,” Harrow said. “My first act as chairman will be to automatically extend all expiring tours. You’ll be with us for a while yet, Lieutenant, so my advice to you is to knuckle down and do your job. Oh, and you ever raise your voice to me again and I’ll have you shot.”

  seven

  The truck was close, the thrum of its engine drowned out by the staccato of heavy raindrops slamming into its hood and bed. Messenger kept his head down until the vehicle’s headlights picked up his form and elongated it into a shadow before him. Then he stopped and looked back, peering into the light with his collar pulled up around his ears and his shoulders hunkered down in a vain attempt to ward off the deluge.

  The driver flashed his lights, once, twice, three times. When Messenger didn’t respond he rolled down his window and stuck his head out into the rain. “Last chance, mister. You coming or what?”

  Messenger dropped his head to hide the grin that had formed on his lips. Then he walked back towards the vehicle, got a foot on the running board and levered the passenger door open. “Much obliged to you,” he said as he slid into the cab. The man behind the wheel was about sixty and paunchy, with a white handlebar moustache decorating his face. He wore jeans and a work shirt. A Stetson that matched the color of his facial hair was perched on his head. A long barreled pistol rested in his lap. Messenger started at the sight of the weapon.

  “Take it easy,” the man said. “I ain’t going to shoot you. Not unless you make me, by doing something stupid.”

  “I don’t like guns much is all,” Messenger said.

  “Relax. I just want to ask you a few questions. What in God’s name are you doing out here on a night like this for starters?”

  “Walking.”

  “Walking? Out in the middle of nowhere? On a night like this?”

  “I like to walk.”

  “Now that’s some kind of crazy. You ain’t crazy are you?”

  “Not since they released me from the booby hatch,” Messenger said.

  The man was quiet for a moment. Then he started laughing, the pleasant well-worn chuckle of a man who enjoys a good joke. “You are crazy,” he laughed, then pushed the shift into reverse. A three point turn later and they were headed in the opposite direction.

  “I’m Jerry,” the man said. “Jerry Shirley. I’d shake but I need both hands on the wheel.”

  “John Messenger.”

  “Pleased to meet you, John. Want to tell me the real reason you’re out in this weather?”

  Curtains of rain sluiced down the windshield, the wipers barely able to keep up. Messenger tracked the twin beams of the headlights into the darkness.

  “I’ve been on the road a long time,” he said. “Headed all the way from Ohio to New York City, down to Florida. Right now I’m headed west.” That much was true. “I was passing along the highway back there and decided to climb one of the buttes to get the lay of the land. Saw your homestead, saw the storm coming too, decided to push on and see if you folks was prepared to provide shelter to a traveler.”

  “And what’s you experience of such things? In your time on the road I mean. Do people generally take you in?”

  “No sir,” Messenger said. “Generally speaking they send me packing.”

  The gate loomed just up ahead. Jerry brought the truck to a halt and let her idle. Messenger could see the two sentries, now sheltering under a tarpaulin. He could take the old man then finish off the two kids easily. Now wasn’t the time.

  “Got to be honest with you, John. I’d be inclined to do the same thing. Wasn’t for this storm, I’d probably send you packing myself. But my Christian conscience won’t allow me to send a man out in this weather. My boys at the gate there said you were quoting scripture. You a church going man, John?”

  “Used to be, back when there was still churches.” This too was not a lie. Messenger had been a regular churchgoer during his time on death row at Chillicothe Correctional.

  He could feel Jerry’s eyes on him, studying his profile.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Jerry said eventually. “I’m going to put you up for the night, get a hot meal in your belly and give you a warm place to sleep. Come tomorrow, I drive you back to the highway, see you on your way. How does that do you?”

  “That does me fine,” Messenger said. He turned to face Jerry and allowed tears to spill from his eyes. “That does me very fine indeed.”

  eight

  There were three structures clustered around a dirt courtyard. Messenger had fully expected to be shown to the barn, but Jerry took him to a door at the rear of the main house and walked him to the end of a long passage. There he lit a candle and opened the door on a small but comfortable bedroom. “Bathroom’s across the hall,” he said. “There are some dry clothes in the closet, my son’s, but they should fit you. Why don’t you wash up and change up, then join us in the kitchen for some grub. You’ll find it at the other side of the house. Chit chat will guide you.”

  “Your son, he’s …”

  Jerry had his back to him and Messenger could see his shoulders visibly slump at the question. For a moment, he was sure Jerry wasn’t going to answer.

  “He was serving at Fort Bragg when this all went down. He’d have made his way back to us if he could have.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Messenger said, smiling at Jerry’s back.

  “Nothing to be done,” Jerry said wistfully. “Can’t think there’s anyone who hasn’t lost someon
e in this world. I got my wife, my daughter and my grandson, my two boys who you met at the gate. I guess I can consider myself blessed.”

  He turned and walked back down the passage and Messenger watched him go. Then he rifled through his rucksack, retrieved a vial of the blue shit and took a miniscule swig. He’d long since learn that this stuff would kill you quicker than an ice pick to the heart. Better to limit your intake.

  ***

  Dinner was a delicious stew of mutton and vegetables, served at a long table in the kitchen. Halfway through the meal, Jerry’s sons Danko and Hudson came in from the rain. “Jerry was a big fan of The Band,” Verna, Jerry’s wife, explained. “In case you were wondering at the names. Jer’s son from his first marriage was called Robbie Robertson Shirley.” Messenger didn’t know which band she was talking about, but he smiled and nodded anyway. Verna was quite a ways younger than Jerry, blond and pretty and just slightly plump, in a way that would have gotten Messenger hard, back in the days before the blue shit took over his life.

  “He wanted to name our daughter Ophelia, after the song,” Verna continued, “but I wouldn’t have it. I mean she killed herself didn’t she? In Hamlet?”

  Messenger ladled another forkful of stew into his mouth. Verna might be pretty, but she was getting on his tits with her incessant yammering.

  “So we called her Skye,” Verna continued, “ with an ‘e’ at the end. That’s in Scotland by the way, on account of Jer’s family is originally from there. He’s Scots Scandinavian, you know?”

  “Scots Swedish,” Jerry clarified.

  “Thought Skye was named for the stars,” Hudson said.

  “Oh, that too,” Verna giggled. “She has these three cute little moles that look like part of the constellation Virgo. Jer’s awful keen on stargazing and as Skye’s a Virgo anyway, well…” She broke off suddenly. “Say, where are the Lebowitz’s anyway?”

  She walked to the window, drew the lace curtains aside and peered out into the yard. “Danko, why don’t you go and fetch your sister? I expect she’s having trouble with Danny Boy but that’s no reason to be late for dinner. Especially when we’ve got company.”