The Zombie Road Omnibus

by David A. Simpson

  The blood had been wiped from Jessie's face, but it was still in his hair and felt all crackly when he moved his head. Both of his eyes were already black and nearly swollen shut, a result of the boots they put to him after he was unconscious from the kick in the head. He just grunted in reply.

  “Heard you killed two of them. Good for you,” someone said.

  “Did I?” Jessie asked. “I don’t remember.”

  The man chuckled and a few more people came over and hunkered down beside him.

  “Where are we?” Jessie asked. “And what do these assholes want?”

  “We’re in the underground sewers. They’ve got them blocked off from the rains so they stay dry,” a man with a patch over one eye replied, then explained further at the questioning look, “I’ve been here for a few weeks, not exactly sure how long. They’ve had me out on a few work details.”

  Jessie nodded. It made sense. No more power, no more flushed toilets, no more sewer flow. Safe from the hordes, warm in the winter. He looked around. He could see the dirty water marks on the walls. The place had been hosed down, but not very well. Gross. He was glad he couldn’t smell anything.

  Someone had set his broken arm and bound it in rags, using his own belt to try to hold it in place. It obviously hadn’t been a doctor, just one of the people down here doing the best they could with what they had. More people came over to see how he was doing and he recognized a few of them who had been in the back of the truck with him.

  “What do they want?” he asked through cracked lips. “All this trouble just to make us work?”

  “No,” a woman replied. “They’re using us as guinea pigs. They do medical experiments or something. They’re trying to create a vaccine.”

  “Emma works as a cleaner in the hospital area,” another man explained. “She’s probably seen more of this place than any of us.”

  “So, it’s the government?” Jessie asked. “What the hell, man. They can’t be doing this. What kind of government is that?”

  “It’s not the government, or even the military. It’s just one scientist. He probably worked in a biomedical lab before all this happened, but this place is run by another guy. A nut-job who thinks he’s an Egyptian God.”

  Jessie was hurting too much to even react. Just thinking about it ratcheted his headache up a few notches. It was ridiculous, but it had a weird sense of predictability to it. Nearly every video game he ever played had some madman and a cult of followers who would do whatever he said. Real life, too, he supposed. He knew a little about dictators from his old man. Every time his dad would see somebody wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt, he’d get annoyed and always wondered aloud why anybody would proudly display the face of a “mass murdering piece of shit.” If his mom weren't there to calm him down, he’d get right in their face if they said anything back, and tell them about the millions of people the communists and socialists had killed. It was embarrassing and Jessie would always try to blend into the background. But he learned a few things about charismatic leaders and their followers, even if he didn’t want to.

  “It’s the end of the world and now there’s some Charlie Manson wannabe? What’s wrong with people?” Jessie said through his swollen lips.

  “That’s probably why he can,” an older, white-haired man said in his quiet voice. The others fell silent and Jessie picked up on their respect.

  “I’m Father Murphy,” he said with a tired and worn smile. “Many of the people held prisoner here are from my congregation. I was the fool who welcomed those men in when they came to the Abbey.”

  “We all welcomed them in, Father,” someone else said. “You need to stop blaming yourself.”

  The priest acknowledged him, but Jessie could tell he still shouldered the responsibility. Still carried that burden. Still bore that cross. He knew a little something about that, the soul-crushing feelings of guilt because something you did got people killed.

  “I believe that’s why he has such a devout following,” Father Murphy continued. “People always turn to a higher power when they are at their lowest. No atheist in foxholes, as they say.”

  “But an Egyptian God? Give me a break,” Jessie said.

  “Desperate people want to believe in something,” the priest continued. “They no longer believe in the God of the Bible, so they flock to the man who speaks the loudest and offers them safety and shelter. Even if they don’t believe him at first, they believe in the shelter and the full belly. He promises them a vaccine, so even if they don’t buy into all of his teachings, they follow anyway. They don’t have much of a choice, actually. He feeds unbelievers to the undead.”

  “I’ve seen them,” Emma said, with a little revulsion in her voice. “The Anubis cult. They all try to out believe each other. They’re all caught up in the madness and it doesn’t take long before they aren’t pretending to believe. They really do. They swallow his bullshit hook, line, and sinker. Sorry Father,” she added.

  “Sumbitches didn’t offer me a chance to convert,” Jessie said. “Just busted me up and killed my dog.”

  “Err, sorry Father,” he added.

  “Probably because you killed a couple of their people,” the man with the soiled eye patch said and grinned, showing a few missing teeth, “I tried to take a few out myself, but all I got was an ass beating. Um, Sorry Father.”

  The priest just smiled. He’d gotten quite used to their language by now, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell them it was fine.

  “They come in every morning about this time,” he said and glanced toward the chain link gate. “They take someone, usually the sickest among us, and they never come back. I’m not trying to frighten you, son, but you will probably be the one they take. You look like you’re on death's door.”

  Jessie almost didn’t care. He hurt so much, a quick execution might be nice.

  “You’ll get a shot from the good doctor, then he’ll watch and take notes,” Emma said with a shudder. “They always turn into zombies, though. That’s why they keep rounding up more people.”

  She saw Jessie grimace and realized what she’d just said.

  “But don’t you worry none, hun,” she quickly added and patted his knee. “I’m sure he’s perfected it by now. You’ll be just fine.”

  The priest continued, ignoring her interruption.

  “What I mean to say, son, is if you have anything to confess, if you need to make peace with your Maker, now would be the time.”

  “I’m not done yet, Father,” Jessie said. “I might get a chance to pay them back for shooting my dog.”

  The priest gave him a patronizing smile, seeing a broken young man, beat nearly to death and still laughing at eternity. The young think they’ll live forever, he thought.

  One of the women that had been in the back of the truck was staring uncomfortably hard at him, trying to see past his blackened eyes that were little more than slits, his swollen cheeks, the blood-matted hair, the cracked lips and his broken nose. She kept staring at his scar.

  “Your name’s Jessie, isn’t it?” she finally said when there was a lull in the conversation.

  “Yeah,” Jessie said, trying not to move his aching jaw when he spoke. “How did you know? Have we met?”

  “I thought so,” she said in triumph as a few of the others gasped in recognition. “Maybe they’ll let you go, then you can get us out of here. You’ve got to tell them who you are!”

  “I’m nobody,” Jessie said. “Just a guy who wasn’t ready to go home yet.” But he averted his eyes, he couldn’t tell her the real reason, couldn’t tell her about the faces in the mirror or the voices whispering in his ear telling him he must atone. The accusing eyes that were there even in his dreams.

  “You’re the president’s son,” she said, almost indignant. “That’s not nobody.”

  Jessie looked up sharply at her and regretted it instantly as knife blades of pain shot through him. He snorted laughter that turned into a groan.

  “Yeah, right,” he
managed as he willed the agony in his arm to subside just a little. Dear Lord, just a little.

  “You’re Jessie Meadows. The Road Angel. The boy who saves people. Son of President John Meadows, missing since the beginning of all this,” she declared, knowing it was all true. How many people were left in this world that could match the description of this boy, or the car he had been driving?

  She had been with a small group of survivors who were holed up at an old warehouse when the cult found them. They had been listening to Radio Lakota since it came online, gathering supplies and courage and preparing their vehicles to make the trip. The past week had been filled with stories of the newcomers to the settlement and most of them talked about the boy sitting in front of her now.

  The Disfigured Road Angel, Bastille called him.

  The president’s son.

  He was an inspiration to people all over the nation. The newcomers Bastille interviewed all told a similar tale, how he’d either saved them from huge hordes, or had merely told them where to go and how to prepare their cars to make the trip. If a sixteen-year-old kid was out in the wilds and surviving, others started to believe they could, too. They could do what he did, reinforce their cars and trucks with bed frames and pieces of roofing tin. They didn’t have to have welders and power tools, or an armored tank to make it. If the kid was doing it in a beat up old Mercury, so could they.

  It took them a while to convince Jessie they were serious, his dad really was the new president, they weren’t all in on some elaborate joke.

  “Well, if those bastards find out, they’ll kill me and everybody that knows,” he said. “The last thing they want is my old man pissed off at them. So, if I were you, I wouldn’t say anything.”

  The lights suddenly went bright and there was a rattling at the front of the tunnel as the chain was removed from the gate. Most of the people cowered under their blankets and a few who had been with Jessie scurried off into the shadows farther back in the tunnel.

  “That one,” one of the men with a shotgun said, pointing at Jessie.

  “You guys have room service?” he asked squinting up at them. They couldn’t hurt him any more than he already was. “I like my toast buttered and not too crunchy.”

  “A smart ass, huh?” one of them said and went to grab him.

  The priest stepped in front of him, his black clergy shirt and its dirty white collar causing the man to hesitate.

  “You have already condemned this man to death,” he said, quietly furious. “There’s no need to punish him any more than you already have.”

  The man started to bluster but was cut off by their leader, a man in a crisp uniform.

  “Leave it, Chet,” he said curtly. “We don’t need him to die before he sees the doctor.”

  Chet’s bluster left him immediately and he waited while the priest helped Jessie get unsteadily to his feet.

  “Besides all of the damage to him that is readily apparent,” the priest said, “One arm is badly shattered, I believe he has broken ribs, and there are nine holes in his arm from a shotgun blast.”

  “We’ll take good care of him,” the man in charge said.

  The two other guards did show restraint as Jessie slowly went with them, trying not to scream, trying not to pass out. He felt too much pain to feel fear.

  43

  Jessie

  Jessie sat on a metal chair in a sterile room, one leg chained to a bolt in the floor. He was living from one second to the next, each one took all his willpower and concentration to survive. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his teeth hurt from grinding them. The walk had been slow and exhausting. Too slow for the men and once the Lieutenant or Captain or whatever he was left them to go do Captain stuff, they’d grabbed his arms and dragged him. He didn’t black out, but he wished he would have. Tears were leaking down his swollen face and he was breathing in short gasps, every one was a fist full of fish hooks gouging through his arm. He wished they’d hurry up and inject him, zombies didn’t feel pain.

  “Oh my God,” a voice said, feminine and full of outrage. She stood in front of him, hands on her hips and her eyes wide.

  “Ma’am, you really shouldn’t be in here,” an uncomfortable guard said.

  She whirled on him, razor blades and ice in her eyes.

  “Go get me Lieutenant Ricketts,” she said, her fury barely contained. “I told him this was never to happen again. NEVER!” she shouted.

  “But…” he started but she was having none of it and he knew it. She had just gotten her injection from the doctor and they always caused chaotic emotional reactions for a few hours, until they were absorbed. Her face was a storm of anger and she had a reputation for discipline when it came to handling the prisoners, even without the destabilizing effects of the boosters. The last man she’d caught raping one of the women before she was to be tested had found himself being used for the experiment instead.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said and nearly ran from the room, eager to be away.

  She was livid, apoplectic with rage. This had happened before, her men pounding on someone, almost beating them to death. These poor people were doomed to die to help find a cure. It was sad, but necessary, and she regretted each death, but each one brought them one step closer to a vaccine. Using her position as her father’s daughter, she demanded they treat them as patients, not prisoners. She would not tolerate this inhumane cruelty: it was unnecessary and counterproductive. They were too valuable, and replacements were getting harder to find. It seemed everyone was leaving their fortified homes and warehouses and going to the new Lakota. She looked back at the boy, at his scarred face, at the fresh blood running in small rivulets from his nose. The cuts on his cheeks. The blood trickling through the soaked bandages and down his buckshot arm. The dirty make-shift cast on his other.

  Her heart ached almost as much as it was filled with rage at the guards for doing so much damage to him. Healthy specimens were the best, the most useful in the tests. He didn’t look like he’d even survive the shot, let alone be of any use to them.

  The thoughts were running crazily through her head and her heart was speeding through a storm of emotions.

  This poor boy had been through enough hell. He didn’t need to become another zombie in the herd they already had. He was beaten so severely, his immune system didn’t have a chance to fight. Someone else could take his place today. It would be the men who had administered the beating to this kid. She pulled out one of the injections she had come to the lab to get for herself, the week's supply of her boosters. It wasn’t a vaccine or a cure, but it significantly raised your chances of not getting infected if you got bit. It had been synthesized from a careful study of the original virus, a few of the more radical elements removed, and the rest thoroughly diluted. It was a direct result of their experiments and it was vital they had healthy test subjects, not a walking slab of hamburger. The boosters masked the scent of human blood somewhat, it seemed to make the corrupted think you were already diseased. That you were one of them. It had a few other side effects that would benefit him, if he lived through the day. If he wasn’t so far gone it killed him. It would speed his recovery, help the broken bones and ripped flesh heal. She plunged it into his arm and he didn’t even flinch. Just smiled at her.

  “Am I being killed by an angel?” he asked through slitted eyes, still leaking tears. “Not a bad way to go.”

  “I’m getting you out of here,” she said, without thinking, and decided she would do it even before she said the words out loud, her mind had been instantly made up. She wouldn’t take him back to the cell to heal. The guards needed to be taught a hard lesson and if he weren't here, one of them would be taking his place.

  “Stay here,” she ordered.

  Jessie jiggled the chain on his ankle. “Sure. I’ll just hang out. I don’t have plans.”

  She was gone, the door hissing closed behind her. He rested, concentrating on not feeling the grating of bones rubbing together in ways they weren’t supposed
to.

  He awoke again when he felt a prick on his arm and watched her through his bloodshot and tear-filled eyes as she inserted an IV. She hung the bag of clear liquid around his neck with a piece of plastic tubing she’d fashioned into a loop, then unlocked his ankle and watched him for a moment.

  “That should be taking effect by now,” she said brusquely. “Let’s go. Be fast and be quiet. I’ve got some influence around here, but I don’t want to test just how much. I don’t know if I have enough to waltz out of here with you.”

  Before he could tell her to just leave him alone and let him die, that he was tired of the pain and the guilt, he realized he really didn’t feel much of anything anymore. He felt kind of good, actually. He squinted down at the bag, barely seeing it through his swollen eyes and wondered what was in it as he stood up, testing his legs. He felt really good. He couldn’t feel his broken toes, he wouldn’t have to limp. In fact, he couldn’t recall what he was groaning about, he wasn’t even sure his arm was actually broken.

  She took his uninjured hand and led him through a maze of corridors and down flights of steps, getting farther and farther away from the lab and the men who maintained the discipline there. Jessie could barely keep up. He kept getting distracted by the most fascinating hospital signs or the glorious green arrows painted on the floor, illuminated by the incredible sunshine. It was so beautiful, he wanted to stop and stare, but she kept dragging him forward. He could barely see out of the busted-up hamburger meat of his face, but every blurry thing he saw, he wanted to take a closer look. To feel it. To taste it. To touch it.

  “Hurry,” she would urge. “Hurry.”

  Jessie was laughing at her silliness. There was no need to rush, she should stop and smell the plastic plants, they were so gorgeous and had so much to tell them! They might whisper the secrets of the universe to them, if only they would stop and listen.