The Zombie Road Omnibus

by David A. Simpson

  45

  Jessie

  Jessie couldn’t remember when he last ate. When he last slept. When he last stopped for a bathroom break. How long he’d been driving, how much farther he had to go, how he’d feel when he arrived.

  He couldn’t tell you what day it was, what road he was on, or what state he was in. But he could tell you exactly how much longer the bag was going to last. And that was ‘not long enough.’ It was nearly empty and his brain was in a quiet fog, same as it had been since she first shoved the needle into his arm. He’d slowed the drip as much as he could stand. He didn’t keep the pain away, he kept it at bay. Kept it manageable. The bones in his arm no longer seemed to grate against each other, but he knew it was the drugs in the bag that made him not feel it. Bones didn’t heal in a day. Or had it been two? Surely not three. Same with his ribs, or the holes in his other arm. He kept the drip going just enough so he could function without screaming every time the car hit a bump.

  He kept his foot on it when he remembered, the miles racing away and the trees hurtling by in a blur. Sometimes he would come to full alert with the car speeding through a wheat field, the road nowhere to be seen. Sometimes he would catch himself creeping along at ten miles an hour and had no idea how long he’d been doing it. Sometimes with the pounding of fists and the undead screams right outside his window, as he ghosted through an abandoned town with Bob whining at him to come back from dreamland. To take another sip from the bottle of cloudy, bitter, tonic water. He never nodded off entirely, though. Not completely. Some part of his brain kept pushing him forward, some internal beacon kept the nose pointed toward Lakota, kept the wheels spinning and the fuel tank filled. He didn’t know how the fuel gauge was on three quarters. The last time he remembered looking at it, he was running on empty.

  I’m a road zombie, he giggled to himself and took another acerbic swig of the trucker speed.

  Time passed.

  The miles rolled by.

  Jessie kept at it.

  He had to make it to Lakota before the bag was empty.

  He had to.

  46

  Casey

  Casey wasn’t sure what to do. They were in the woods a mile south of the walled town. Him and all two hundred of his heavily armed men and women, all of them waiting for him to give an order.

  The problem was, someone else was already attacking the town and from the looks of it, they were doing a pretty good job.

  They had spent most of the night ferrying the cars across the Canadian River on the homemade rafts his advance team had built. They knew all the roads and bridges anywhere near Lakota were being guarded, so they couldn’t use them. Getting the armored cars on the rafts had been easy, they’d used a boat ramp to load them and pulled them across with ropes. Getting them out had been arduous, they’d had to cut a path and build a makeshift dock. They still had to use muscle and winches on most of the cars to get them through the mud near the banks, all the while trying to maintain silence.

  By dawn, they were all tired, muddy, and hungry but also a little jubilant. They had done it. Casey kept them motivated all night with stories of Hannibal crossing the mountain on elephants and deploying surprise attacks with trojan horses. Many of them had never heard the tales before and were duly impressed by how smart their leader was. He knew tactics and things like that, not just brute force. They had kept hidden and quiet all day, resting up and waiting for the right moment to strike. By late afternoon, Casey was going over the plan one last time with the infiltration teams. He had chosen the men and women with few or no tattoos, and hair that could be considered normal. No mohawks or vivid colors. As close to middle-aged as they had. All they needed to do was play their roles long enough to get past the screening process, to get inside the walls. He was sending in four cars, but two couples would be enough. Once they were in, they would kill the guards and open the gates. It was a simple plan. By the time the people in Lakota figured out what was going on, he’d have fifty cars flying in and two hundred armed men and women ready to gun down anyone that tried to resist. The town would be theirs and he could have a little fun with the sheriff.

  After that, it was all over but the crying.

  That was the plan, but somebody was messing it up. They heard a train in the distance and shortly after, they heard the explosions and the sounds of battle. They left the cars and ran up through the woods to see what was happening.

  The sounds of heavy machine guns and rocket launched explosions filled the air. Casey watched as round after round of some kind of handheld missile was fired at the town, blowing huge holes in the wall and exploding all manner of goods and products high into the air from the containers. The guys with the rocket launchers were well hidden in a trench and the guys on the wall couldn’t get a bead on them. It wasn’t for lack of trying, machine gun fire filled the air. They heard the heavy thump-thump-thump of a big machine gun and also the ripping zipper sound of chain guns spitting walls of lead into the attackers. The trench protected them, though. They’d pop up with the rocket launchers and be hidden again before the bullets found them. They were slowly but surely taking out the machine gun positions one after another, slowly running down the line, popping up to fire a shot, then disappearing.

  Casey and his crew were hidden in the woods watching the battle unfold and discussing when they should join the fray. Definitely let them kill each other off for a while longer, wait and see who was going to win. Either way was going to be good for them, whichever side won would be pretty shot up, wouldn’t be at full strength.

  Casey felt the cold steel of a gun barrel against the back of his head and stopped speaking mid-sentence. His lieutenants realized a few seconds too late what was happening and brought their weapons up as they spun on the newcomers. He heard his men yelling, heard safeties being clicked off, but never heard the man holding the pistol say a word. Never felt the gun at the base of his skull waver, even in the slightest. He knew who it was and concentrated with all his might not to start shaking. An eternity passed and he was still alive, so maybe there was a chance he hadn’t come here to put a bullet in his head. Not right away, anyway.

  “You’re on my people to kill list,” Gunny said quietly, finger on the trigger, arm extended and as steady as granite. His words were only for Casey, but sound carried in the quiet as everyone stopped yelling and sighted down barrels at the two strangers.

  Casey turned slowly to face him and saw that big asshole Griz standing easy, like he was waiting for a bus. Like he didn’t notice that he was completely surrounded and had a hundred guns aimed at him. Casey’s eyes darted around. This was it? No one else? Those two had waltzed right into the midst of his armed soldiers and looked like they didn’t have a care in the world. They could have been shopping for avocados and discussing the weather, for all the concern they showed at the hardware pointed their way. Griz hadn’t even raised his rifle, but Casey knew it could be up and spitting lead faster than any of his men could pull their triggers, even with their fingers already on them.

  “Heard you were dead, Mr. President,” he said when he found his voice and smiled his smarmy smile, forcing himself to act calm, sound calm, be calm.

  Gunny wasn’t one for small talk.

  “I’ll give you a reprieve,” he said. “Help me with those Muslims and I’ll let you live.”

  “And if I got better things to do?” Casey asked, trying not to sweat. Trying not to lick his lips. Trying not to look scared.

  “I’ve got four pounds of pressure on a five-pound pull,” Gunny replied, his gun barrel two inches from Casey’s forehead, finger gently squeezing the trigger.

  “We got about a million zoms coming up behind us,” Griz said conversationally, popping his zippo and lighting up a cigarillo. It wasn’t lost on Casey that he did it one handed, the other firmly on the grip of his gun. “They’re following the train in. The only way out of here is through town. The only way you’re getting through town,” he calmly pointed his Swisher at Gunny, �
��is if he says so.”

  When he and Gunny realized who they had come across, Plan A was to blow Casey’s head off and then get the group to help. They watched long enough to establish that Casey was in charge, though, he was their leader. Killing him first thing probably wasn’t such a good idea. They needed him to give the order.

  Lucinda had never seen these men before, but when she looked into their eyes, she knew they were the kind of men who would pull triggers and keep pulling. She’d known some pipe hitting bangers back in Memphis, had seen that cold-blooded look in their eyes. These men were the same. The Cold One would kill Casey and Mr. Sassy Pants would have that gun of his up, spitting lead faster than you could blink. In the confusion of gunfire, everyone shooting everyone else, they’d blast their way out, killing everything that stood in their way. Everybody would panic except them. The Cold One would do what he said. He wasn’t the bluffing type. They seemed to think they could kill everybody here if they had to, and then go fight the Muslims by themselves.

  It was ridiculous.

  It was impossible.

  This wasn’t the movies and they weren’t superheroes.

  They were a joke.

  But there they stood, bold as brass, staring down a hundred guns. They really believed they could pull it off.

  She was starting to believe it herself, and from the nervous looks the guys were throwing each other, they believed it, too. She saw a twitch under Casey’s eye, a slight trembling of his hand. He was going to try something stupid. He was going to get himself killed. All of the rest of them, too. If ol’ Mr. Devil-May-Care were telling the truth, if there really were a shit ton of undead chasing those trains in, they had to get through the walls. Lucinda didn’t think they were lying.

  “You say them bastards Muslims?” she asked, willing Gunny to look at her, to divert his attention, if even just a little. Those two hated each other and it wouldn’t take but one wrong eye blink to set off a gun fight.

  “They are,” he said, never moving his eyes from Casey’s.

  “We owe them,” she said, thinking of her Cindy. She had been strangled at the prison before the girls rose up.

  “I’ll kill me some Muslims,” another woman said, her face still yellowed and bruised from the beating one of them had given her.

  There were quiet murmurs of agreement. They all knew how the virus had started and who had done it.

  Casey nearly sighed in relief. He wasn’t going to get his head blown off after all.

  “Well, I guess we can help you out, Mr. President,” he said, some of his old swagger coming back. “We’ll do our civic duty and all that, won’t we boys?” he raised his voice so the ones farthest back could hear.

  “All we ask for is a presidential pardon so we can visit with you fine folks for a little while. We don’t want you or that bitch sheriff of yours to try to put us back in a cage.”

  Griz’ calm face turned into a snarl and Casey hurried on, thinking maybe he was pushing it too far. “We just need to resupply, that’s all. Food and fuel, food and fuel.”

  The chatter of machine guns was sporadic now and the rocket launchers had nearly stopped. It looked like the Muslims had taken out all of the fortified gun positions, blown enough holes in the walls to rush and get through, and would probably be able to take the town. Time was running out.

  Gunny didn’t waver, his Glock’s black eye still stared at Casey’s forehead. His arm still rock steady. His eyes still glints of icy diamonds.

  “No,” he said. “I’ll give you safe passage through town. We win, you live. In one gate and out the other. Get gone and stay gone. Tick tock. You have five seconds.”

  “Sounds fair,” Lucinda jumped in, afraid Casey would try to waste time negotiating and get his damn fool head ventilated. She had no doubt that the Cold One would pull the trigger in four more seconds. No cocking the gun for effect. No second chance. No more small talk. Just a few more ounces of pull on his trigger finger. She wondered if Casey would see the flash or hear the sound before he was dead.

  Casey nodded. “You heard the man, Pounder,” he nearly shouted, glad the gun was finally going to be pointing somewhere else besides at him. “Let’s kill some ragheads.!”

  Their response was a little disturbing to Gunny when he saw them pound their chests once and shout, My life for yours! in unison. This guy was no longer an idiot with an attitude. He had somehow brainwashed a whole army of people to fight and die for him. Or at least say they would. He was going to be a problem if he survived this battle, and Gunny would have to make sure he didn’t.

  “How many cars do you have?” Griz asked as Gunny finally lowered his gun.

  “About fifty, hidden in the woods, just south of here,” Pounder replied as the two men sized each other up, Griz noting the Big Red One and crossed rifles tattoo on his bulging bicep. “We can have them here pretty quick if we send fast runners.”

  “Send them,” Gunny said, naturally taking over the detail work, now that he had an army to command.

  “You served?” Griz asked the heavily tattooed man that was nearly a head taller than him.

  “I’ve been down range,” he replied. “Two tours in Hell.”

  Griz smiled. It would be good to have somebody who would know what to do without lengthy explanations.

  “Sit Rep?” he asked as runners took off for the cars.

  “I think they’re out of LAWs or getting low on them,” the former prisoner said. “We’ve got natural cover, good concealment all the way up to within a few hundred yards of them and that trench they’re hiding in.”

  He was eager for a fight. Beating up spooks and spics in jail was one thing, but an all-out gunfight had him smiling at the prospects. He hadn’t seen real combat in years and was having a hard time controlling his enthusiasm.

  Griz and Gunny nodded, letting the man tell them what they already knew, trying to see what kind of field marshal he was going to be. He seemed competent enough. He would do. As long as he didn’t turn on them as soon as most of the Hajis were dead.

  “We’ll go in hot, chew them up as much as we can, then when the cars get here we’ll finish them off,” Gunny said. “The only cover they have is the train and the trench, and we’ll be coming straight at them. It’ll be an easy mop up.”

  He scanned the crowd, quickly sizing them up by their weapons and the way they held them, then separating them into groups.

  “Casey and I will take this bunch and come in on the other side of the train.” He indicated a group of about forty men and women. “Griz, you and your big friend set up on this side with these folks.” He pointed out a second group, just as well armed as his team.

  “The rest of you jump in the cars when they come,” he pointed out the last group, who looked ill at ease with the guns in their hands. “Just don’t shoot any of us when you come in.”

  He nodded to Griz, letting him know he had the floor to add anything he’d forgotten.

  “Hold your fire until both teams are in place,” he said. “Once we kill the Hajis, you get safe passage. Get in your cars and go. Keep going and don’t come back. I hear Mexico is nice this time of year. Questions?”

  Neither man wanted any of Casey’s gang inside the walls any longer than necessary, they had no idea how many of the townspeople were still alive and in fighting shape. They knew Casey’s Raiders had come here to take Lakota for themselves, they weren’t going to invite them in and give them a chance to attack when the town was at its weakest.

  “It’s over a mile to the other side of the train,” someone said. “I can’t run that fast.”

  “We need to stop them before they start their advance on the wall. If they get inside, it’s all over,” Gunny said. “They’ll have the high ground and we’ll be stuck in the trenches when ten thousand zombies show up.”

  He looked over the ex-cons, making sure they understood. There was no way out unless they won.

  “The lead elements can start engaging as soon as we’re in range,
” he continued. “That’ll keep them busy and in the trench. They’ll have bullets coming at them from both directions. It will distract them until we can all get in position.”

  It was a simple plan, a straightforward assault with the cars coming in a few minutes after they cut down the easy targets, to take out the rest that were still hidden in the trenches. They could do drive-bys, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. The men on the wall were high enough, they were shooting down into the trenches, the cars wouldn’t get hit by friendly fire. Not a perfect plan, but it was all they had to work with since there was going to be huge hordes of undead running in soon.

  The hajis knew they had a limited amount of time to get inside. Maybe they had planned on using the trains to get out of the area if their assault failed, but they hadn’t planned on the chain guns ripping them to shreds. The bullets couldn’t penetrate all the way through the locomotives, but they had surely destroyed the engines and perforated the fuel tanks. Cobb had parked a train on the tracks outside of town, so if their plan had been to ram through the wall, they’d been outfoxed. They’d been forced to stop and attack on foot. Gunny could still hear sporadic machine gun chatter from the other side of town but no more explosions. He hoped that meant they were out of rockets. The main attack force was coming from the plains south of Lakota, right in front of him. The force that was on the verge of taking the town.

  “Let’s roll,” Gunny said. “Stay low, move fast.”

  “Kill first, die last,” Pounder added.

  He took off, grabbing his group of men and women, Casey running right at his side. Casey needed to be a battlefield casualty before this was all over. Gunny hadn’t forgotten his willingness to kill anyone, for no reason. Or the stories he’d heard about what they had done to the women in the warehouse when this all began. He wasn’t absolutely certain they were true, but the men in the bar had some demons they were trying to keep at bay by drinking themselves to death. Lastly, and maybe most of all, the way he had already gathered an army of loyal followers. He’d seen the tats, the spiderwebs and crude neck pieces, he knew they were all cons he had busted out of some prison. He didn’t necessarily hold that against them, but the fact that they were following a ruthless animal like Casey told him all he needed to know about them. The head of the snake had to be cut off, then they wouldn’t be something else he had to worry about later on. He couldn’t let Casey raise another army just as ruthless as the Muslims.