The Zombie Road Omnibus

by David A. Simpson

  He glowered at the door the weasel-faced man had just slammed behind him, staring daggers at the puffed-up bastard’s back. The men in the barracks were quiet. Waiting to see what they would do. Waiting to see what Daniel would do.

  He finally turned and looked around at them, then nodded to the LT.

  “Sir, shall I take the men down to the garage?” he asked, still pretending the other man was in charge. Still following the rules. Still obeying orders.

  For now.

  10

  Casey

  It didn’t take them long to gather enough cars and trucks up to get everyone rolling, heading for greener pastures. Once he hit up the first car dealership and broke open the key locker, everyone was riding in style. They stopped at nearly every bar, drug store, and gun shop at first, as they kept rolling east. Each time got easier with every new gun they found. The first few battles at the car lot and Wal-Mart had been hard, they’d lost a few men, but they learned quickly from their mistakes. By the time they raided the third town and everyone was armed, they just blasted their way in and out, leaving trails of the dead in their wake. They started hitting the truck stops, too. Circling cars would keep the undead occupied while a crew ran in and stole all the CB radios and antennas. After a few days, most of them had two-ways and it was easier to keep everything organized.

  They were headed to the Women’s Correctional Facility south of Fort Smith, Arkansas. A wiry Mexican man said his wife was locked up there, both of them were doing twenty-five to life for a series of armed robberies that ended up in a shootout. He wanted to go there, see if she was still alive and get her if the women there had survived. The men all agreed it was a good idea, maybe there would be hundreds of horny women waiting to be rescued. Maybe they’d been turned out into general population like the men had. If so, there would be survivors. Casey didn’t have a plan, wasn’t sure what to do now that he had his own private army, so he acted like he had to think it over, see if he could work it into his master plan. When the little Hispanic man had stood in front of him, head bowed and asked, “Please, Ese.” Casey felt the rush of power. The feeling of control over someone else’s life. The men looked on, awaiting his decision, and he relished the moment. He finally acquiesced and they cheered as Paco swore his allegiance.

  “My life for yours,” he had said, his fist over his heart. Casey heard a few other of his faithful murmur it also. He liked the sound of it and decided that soon, everyone would be saying it. It was kind of like a salute.

  Kind of like a “Hail Caesar!”

  Kind of like a “Heil Hitler.”

  Kind of like “Hail to the Chief.”

  He smiled.

  They rolled up on the prison the following afternoon, bristling with weapons and wearing their new Wal-Mart clothes, ready to break all the zombie heads necessary to get in. The men had seen the devastation of the undead with their own eyes for the past week. They hadn’t seen any survivors, just dead bodies walking around. They had convinced themselves the women would still be alive, all of them hot, horny, grateful and waiting for their rescuers with open arms. And legs.

  Casey and Paco stood by the Mustang as the advance team came back to give him a report on what they saw. The double row of chain link fence was covered with the undead, hundreds of them pushing at it, trying to get inside.

  “That’s a good sign,” Casey said. “They’re still alive. Pounder, do we have enough guns and bullets to kill them all?”

  Pounder was a big biker with Aryan Brotherhood tattoos on his arms and neck, a slightly uneven swastika covering most of his chest. He had done a stint in the infantry before he got a dishonorable and knew the most about tactics and guns. Casey had put him in charge of the men with Gumbo, a hulking bad-ass from Louisiana, as his second. He was big enough to intimidate every man there and had a reputation for violence. He was from the swamplands near the Gulf, raised up wrestling alligators. He had been doing a thirty-year sentence for crippling a man who he’d caught cheating at cards. It was the maximum allowed by law and the judge made it clear he wouldn’t be getting paroled early. The charges of assault with intent, aggravated felonious battery, grievous bodily harm, wounding with intent, kidnapping, and a long list of others, all stuck and the jury only took twenty minutes to convict him. The photographs of the victim after the hours-long torture had been admitted as evidence. One of the jurors had even thrown up.

  Casey was trying to copy the chain of command they had in Lakota as much as he could. It worked and, if he could make the men all fall in line under some leaders, he wouldn’t have to be in charge of every little thing. If something didn’t work out the way it was supposed to, he could blame them.

  “No worries, boss,” Pounder replied. “We’ve got nearly a hundred guns. If everybody just shoots one or two, we’ll be good. The fields of fire are clear for hundreds of yards. We’ll just line up behind the cars and blast away.”

  It was a simple plan. What could go wrong, Casey mused as he waved them forward to spread out in the open field.

  The answer to that was, nearly everything. One of the Corvettes got stuck right away when it bottomed out on a prairie dog mound. The racing engine caught the attention of the hundreds of zombies a quarter mile away and they turned and ran for the new blood.

  Casey nearly froze in fear when he saw the horde racing toward them. He yelled for the trucks to go around the high-centered car, but no could hear over the roar of the undead and the revving of the motor. They just sat in their vehicles like a bunch of morons, waiting for the car in front of them to move.

  He should run, get out of here while he still could. These idiots were idiots, and they’d wind up getting him killed. He gripped the wheel in indecision. They were about to get overrun and none of the cars were armored. The glass would be shattered and they would be drug out of the windows, kicking and screaming, to be torn apart.

  “Boss?” Paco asked, the fear in his voice starting to show.

  Except me, Casey thought. I’m armored. I’ve got the Mustang. They can’t get to me. I’m safe. He loosened his death grip on the wheel and smiled. He pulled the bottle of Jameson from the cup holder and took a long swig, watching the undead stumble through the hundreds of holes the prairie dogs had made over the years. He was the leader of the baddest gang in America. He would show these jamokes how it’s done. What would Gunny do?

  Oh, hell no. That wasn’t the question.

  What would Casey the Cannibal do!

  Now that was the question.

  “Do I gotta do everything?” he said and spun the wheel, heading straight for the pack.

  “Get on the radio. Tell Pounder to get them lined up and be ready to start shooting!” he yelled at Paco. “And make damn sure nobody hits me!”

  Casey had seen the way the mindless zombies would run after anything that moved, anything human, so he would give them something to chase, and then lead them right along the row of cars and all the guns. He aimed for the lead runner and Paco held the microphone in a death grip as the body thumped over the brush guard on the stolen Mustang and bounced off the bars protecting the windshield, leaving splatters of blackish blood. Casey hooted in triumph, he was back in the game.

  He was large and in charge.

  He wound the motor out before grabbing third gear and aiming for the next in line, the oversized tires and shocks bouncing effortlessly over the mounds. The horde was like a flock of birds, screaming straight for the men scrambling to get in position one second, then turning fluidly to chase after the roaring machine tearing through their ranks the next. Casey led them in a huge circle, nearly all the way back to the fence, blowing the horn merrily at the women he saw watching in the guard towers. The old muscle car drifted sideways easily in the field, sending up rooster tails of dirt and dust into the chasing horde. They screamed and roared and keened, arms outstretched, reaching for the flesh that was so close. A quick glance showed him Pounder had most of the cars lined up and the men were behind them, rifles and
pistols aimed over hoods and roofs. He was having fun, spinning around and taking the undead out one at a time. It seemed like half of them had broken legs from stepping in the prairie dog holes and were hobbling after him now, screaming in frustration. Bones stuck out of the sides of ankles and their brackish blood stained the earth as they kept running, feeling nothing but rage. Casey sped up and spun the wheel, going into a power slide, then bringing the car back along the front line of men. Hundreds of zombies followed and the men opened fire as soon as the cackling Mustang passed them. The air was filled with explosions of gunfire and chunks of meat flying from freshly blown holes in decaying bodies. It was only luck that any of the prisoners survived, not a grand battleground strategy.

  The horde turned toward the sound of gunfire and even though they were being riddled with round after round, most shots were missing their heads, the only ones that counted. If most of the undead hadn’t been struggling to stay upright on broken bones and uneven ground, they would have been overrun. The horde would have sprung over the cars and sank teeth into faces, staining the ground with fresh blood instead of the weeks dead sludge pouring out of holes in rotting bodies.

  They were slow, many on hands and knees with both ankles broken, and the men just kept hammering at them, thousands of rounds chewing them to bits, until finally even the smallest of them finally took one to the head and lay still. Casey did a victory lap to the cheering of the jubilant men. As he bounced over the bodies, doing holeshots on the corpses and slinging blood and muscle and chunks of skin yards into the air, they celebrated and toasted each other. They slicked back their hair and straightened their collars. They had just liberated a whole prison full of women. They were heroes and they were going to get their rewards.

  11

  Casey

  Casey led his jubilant army to the front gate of the prison. He had his pistol out, strutted up to the fence, and was getting ready to shoot the padlock holding it closed. The original high-security gate lock had already been shot to pieces, the only thing on it now was a bicycle chain.

  “You just cool your jets right there, hero,” came a stern female voice. She was tall, black, and muscular, with a tight afro.

  He looked up in surprise at this most unwelcome of welcomes. Twenty women were coming through the inner fence, all of them armed with AK-47s. They flanked the tall woman and leveled their weapons at the men, who just stared at them dumbfounded. Pounder and a few others were the only ones to even think to shoulder their rifles or pull pistols out of waistbands.

  Casey almost panicked and dove for cover, but was so surprised he just stood there staring with the rest of his men. It took the women of the prison a moment to spread out and it gave him time to recover from his moment of panic. Time to ask himself, What would Gunny do?

  Gunny would be cool, he told himself. Gunny wouldn’t bat an eye.

  The women already had the drop on them, and his dumbass guys were just standing there in their new Wal-Mart clothes and slicked back hair, most of them holding bottles of booze. Casey flipped up the safety, then spun his .45 in a gunfighter’s twirl with an air of nonchalance, before he holstered it.

  “We came to your rescue, but I see it’s not needed,” he said with an air of indifference. He snapped his fingers at Paco who was standing next to him, indicating he wanted the bottle of Makers Mark he was holding.

  “You come to rescue, or to rape?” the cynical woman said. “Because if you came to rape, you’ll get the same thing they did.”

  She pointed to a far corner of the fenced yard, where a stack of about thirty bodies was festering with flies. Gray skinned men with sunken eyes and full, unkempt, beards. A group of the jihadis had come here for a little gangbanging debauchery and wound up getting shanked to death by a hundred pissed off women. From the state of their undress, probably when they were in the middle of what they came to do. That would explain the guns and the bruises on some of their faces, Casey thought. He quickly decided he wouldn’t be doing a little bit of raping after all. It was the only way he liked it, if it was rough and he was the one doing the punching. He’d have to find some other girls to suit his tastes, not these hard bitches who knew how to fight back. At the other end of the yard, there were fresh dug graves and handmade crosses. Looks like the muzzies didn’t all die quietly, they took a few of the women with them.

  He smiled and assured the woman their intentions were honorable.

  “We come bearing gifts,” he said and passed the bottle through the gap. One of the tall woman’s girls reached for it, then handed it to her.

  Damn, Casey thought. I should have had Paco pass it over. A real leader wouldn’t have done it himself.

  She cracked the lid, took a long drink and smacked her lips.

  “Ahhh,” she said. “That is one thing we are missing in here. We brewed up some jailhouse hooch before all the fruit went bad, but pruno ain’t the same as good whiskey.”

  “Can you ask about my wife?” Paco whispered again, his voice carrying in the quiet. Casey felt that rush of power he held over these men. This dyke wasn’t going to intimidate him. He wasn’t going to grovel. She’d better watch her ass or he’d have to teach her a lesson. A plan was starting to formulate in his head. An idea just conceived, but he instantly knew it would work. It was human nature.

  “We came here to get you out, but it looks like you’ve got things under control. However, my lieutenant’s wife is in here and we won’t be leaving without her,” Casey said in a calm, but firm voice. The same voice Gunny had used on him. The voice that conveyed a message of more than just what the words said. The voice that finished the sentence with an unspoken “or else I’ll kill you and everyone else that stands in my way.”

  Paco heard the power and the promise and thumped his hand over his heart before it dropped to his pistol. Many of his men did the same, sensing there might be a fight coming.

  My life for yours.

  The tall, dark woman heard the change in his voice, saw the sign of fealty made and looked beyond the fresh clothes and at the men themselves. This wasn’t just a group of survivors making a raid to get themselves some caged women. This wasn’t a bunch of Arkansas Hill Jacks or Oklahoma Rednecks. She saw the spider web tattoos on elbows, the teardrops tattooed on different faces. There were black, brown, and white men staring back through the fence. Muscles rippled from years behind bars and long workouts, gang tattoos, brands and scars still showed, despite their shiny new clothes.

  “Which big house y’all bust out of?” she asked, deflecting the demand for one of her girls.

  “Does it matter?” Casey asked.

  Hard.

  Cool.

  In control.

  It really didn’t and Lucinda decided she was actually glad to see them. Her girls didn’t have enough bullets to shoot their way out through the horde of zombies, and they’d already been rationing food to one small meal a day for the past week. They could try to run these guys off and then try to make it on their own, but why? This was a hard bunch, they had just killed hundreds of the undead things. They obviously knew how to take care of themselves and it would be good to share leadership with someone else. She was giving herself ulcers trying to figure out a way to keep her girls alive. Last month she was just another hard-ass doing hard time and only hanging with her own kind. She’d have happily bashed any white girl’s teeth out if they gave her any shit. Well, anyone but her Cindy. She loved that girl more than she had loved any man. Now she was their protector. They all looked to her to keep them safe. It was them against the world. With these guys showing up, their numbers had just doubled, and so had their chances of survival.

  She smiled and pulled the key from around her neck.

  “Come on in, boys and bring the food and booze. I think it might be conjugal visiting day.”

  12

  Gunny

  Gunny was right, the dead following on the tracks found them in the middle of the night and started their keening and pounding on the cars.
It was safe enough to go back the way they came in the dark. The train headlight was powerful, but they didn’t trust it, they preferred the sun to illuminate the myriad of dangers that could be lurking around every bend in the track. Behind them was clear of any debris and they knew all the bridges were still good, so he fired up the engine and headed back west, picking up speed and butchering the undead by the thousands. He ran it at a steady thirty miles an hour. Plenty fast enough to plow through the horde and splash body parts for yards down both sides of the track. It was easy to doze with the steady click-clack of the rails and the high idle hum of the engines, and there was no reason to stay vigilant. Gunny double checked that the doors were solidly latched, set his alarm and hooked up his Deadman switch. He let the gentle swaying of the train lull him back down into dreams, completely ignoring the quiet thump of exploding corpses and their mindless cries for blood.

  His alarm went off after three hours and he brought the train to a stop, disengaged the transmission and cut back through the cars to the other engine, holding his breath when he passed by the bunk Griz was snoring in. That 15-bean soup was deadly the next day. He got the front engine fired up and headed back east. If his timing were right, they’d be going past the spot where they’d stopped the night before right about dawn, and it would be safe to carry on toward Atlanta.