Only The Dead Don't Die | Book 4 | Finding Home

by Popovich, A. D.

  “Hey!” Justin pointed to the sign. “It’s open seven days a week now. Unchipped cits have to use the back entrance.”

  A team of Enforcers glared down at them from the daunting guard tower over the entrance. “Good to know.” But Dean was more concerned with the layout of the place. An army of Enforcers stood inside the fenced perimeter, facing the market. All it would take was a heart attack. One dead-head could turn into a horde before you could say, Joe Bob Briggs.

  With the way the guards were posted, the chances of surviving a horde attack just decreased substantially. He sure as hell didn’t want to be in the center when they started shooting. Scenes of overzealous guards firing into the crowd flooded his mind, which he found odd. He wasn’t one to let his imagination get the best of him.

  “Son, they know the hordes are still out there. Why do you suppose they opened the market? Seems like an awful waste of manpower that could be better spent clearing out the hordes.”

  “I know. Right?” Justin rolled his eyes in a bout of theatrics. “They don’t give a freakin’ frack about Zhetts. All they care about are their precious Elites and citizens’ productivity levels. The last statistic I read showed cits need morale boosters. A visa to Zhetto Market increases productivity like sixty percent.”

  “Arms up, legs apart,” an Enforcer barked. Dean and Justin tolerated the brief frisk without a word. Good thing they had squirreled their Glocks into the back of the driver’s ripped seat.

  Once inside the market, they walked past the strategically placed food trucks. The tantalizing aroma of fried foods sent his stomach into overdrive, reminding he hadn’t eaten since 6:00 a.m. If one could call day-old bean burritos from a gas station a legitimate food source.

  “You wanna stop?” Justin asked as if reading his mind.

  “Why don’t we catch it on our way out.” Dean wanted to get this over with. He scanned the pop-up tents ahead, wondering what they would find. A produce tent beckoned. “Think I’ll test out my RFID chip with some of those tomatoes.” They must grow them in hothouses.

  According to Zac, their chips were preloaded with one thousand Last State Credits, whatever the hell that was worth. He selected several tomatoes, cucumbers, and a tub of ruby-red strawberries that made his mouth water. He casually placed them on the vendor’s counter.

  “Fine day, isn’t it?” the middle-aged clerk greeted, weighing the produce. “That’ll be fifty-five LSCs.”

  Dean balked inwardly as he held out his hand for the scan. He had just spent nearly one-twentieth of his credits. Relief surged through him when the clerk bagged his produce and thanked him for the purchase. His RFID chip worked. Another problem to check off his perpetual worry list.

  “See the super-big, blue tent across the way?” Justin pointed. “They sell bulk dried goods.”

  They pushed their carts toward the circus-like tent at the opposite end of the market. At those prices, they’d be eating a lot of beans and rice. Heck, they had lived off beans, rice, and cornbread back when camping along the Old Santa Fe Trail during their search for Ella and Father Jacob’s wagon train.

  Seems like they spent most their time hunting down one of the gang. He sure hoped Zac had found the note on Quinton’s refrigerator. If Zac had talked his way into acquiring a gig, they’d be leaving for the Lost States of America any day.

  A cowboy hat display caught his attention. Curiosity got the better of him. “You mind if I take a look-see?” He felt naked without a hat.

  “You definitely should get one.”

  They cut across the crowd, straight for the Western wear vendor. A selection of cowboy hats lined the countertop. He was like a child in a candy store, his eyes darting from hat to hat.

  “D-dude, this is so you.” Justin held up a Johnny Cash, black Stetson.

  “Excellent choice,” gushed the merchant decked-out in a western rhinestone-studded tuxedo, like something right out of the Grand Ole Opry.

  “Naw,” Dean rebuffed. Before he knew it, the merchant placed the satin-lined hat on his head. Dean couldn’t help but admire it in the countertop’s vanity mirror.

  “It’s a Diamante.” The words rolled off the merchant’s tongue as if it had been custom-made for royalty. “You won’t come across one of these beauties in the Zones. No siree. The fourteen-karat-gold belt’s adorned with no less than twenty-six authentic diamonds!”

  On that note, the indulgence was over. “Too rich for my blood,” Dean admitted. “Got anything in the X-zoner’s price range?” He risked one last look in the mirror, knowing he shouldn’t. His heart skipped a beat. What the devil’s Krasinski doing here?

  He gingerly handed the Diamante back to the disappointed merchant while angling for a better view behind him. The merchant handed him a cheap straw cowboy hat. For the heck of it, Dean pretended to admire it and tilted the mirror just so. Damn. Krasinski’s face came in loud and clear. Don’t tell me Krasinski’s tailing us? Dean muddled through the possibilities.

  “Dude, let’s go already. I just bought you the hat.”

  “Uh, why’d you go do a thing like that?” Dean quickly wiped off his befuddled expression.

  Justin laughed. “Like, you couldn’t stop staring at it in the mirror.”

  Dean didn’t bother asking how much the cheap rendition of a cowboy hat had set the kid back. “Thank you, sir.” Dean tipped his hat to the merchant, mentally plotting his next move.

  “You okay?” Justin asked.

  Dean ignored the question, anxious to rule out the possibility that Krasinski was indeed tailing them. “Say, there’s a bookstore. I promised Twila a surprise.” Dean strode into the three-tent store before Justin could argue.

  “Might I help you with anything in particular?” a spectacled man asked.

  Dean stood by a bookshelf with the best view outside the market. Sure enough, Krasinski lurked in the shadows inside the tent across the way. To buy time, Dean asked, “You don’t happen to have any Tom Sawyer novels lying ’round collecting dust?” Twila loved to read; she might get a kick out of it.

  “You bet I do. Don’t go anywhere.” The spectacled man traipsed off to the middle tent.

  “Really, you want to shop—now? We’re supposed to get the beans and rice. And look for Zac,” Justin chided.

  “Son, you’re absolutely right.” Dean deliberated over telling Justin about their predicament. The kid was already nervous enough for the both of them. And Dean needed to know whom Krasinski would follow. “How’s ’bout you get started on Luther’s list? I’ll catch up with you at the blue tent.” He handed him the list from his pocket.

  “Whatev.” Justin snatched the list and stomped off.

  Dean perused the pages of a gardening book and waited to see what Krasinski did next. Sure enough, he followed Justin. I was afraid of that.

  Dean headed out the tent when the vendor called out, “You’re in luck. Here’s a collector’s edition of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.” The spectacled man handed him the well-read hardcover based on its tattered binding.

  With no time to haggle over the price, Dean asked, “What’s the going rate for a Mark Twain classic?”

  The clerk regarded him shrewdly. “That gardening book you were looking at—that would set you back a good hundred LSCs. Aw, but not many reader types left on the prairie. I’ll let it go for forty-five LSCs.”

  Dean kept an eye on Justin, who had stopped at a peanut butter stand two tents down. Krasinski dawdled outside a display of fancy umbrellas, pretending to shop. “Hate to wheedle you down. Must be tough trying to make an honest living. But a man’s got to eat. I’ll take it for thirty,” Dean said firmly.

  “Sold!” The man slipped the book into a clear plastic bag.

  He held out his hand for the scan. “Thank you, kindly.” Dean would have enjoyed chatting about the good ole days since they looked to be close to the same age.

  He stepped into the noon-day sun, adjusted his new hat, and spotted Krasinski’s blue checkered shirt. Perfect timing.
Justin pushed his cart down the busy aisle of street fair vendors. Krasinski followed. Dean abandoned his cart and fell into step, keeping a two-tent distance behind Krasinski.

  When Justin went into the dried goods tent, Krasinski hung back. Dean moseyed into the tent, feigning interest in his latest purchase. Once inside, he hurried to Justin.

  “There you are.” Justin eyed him anxiously. “I can’t read Luther’s writing. Is this a twenty or a thirty?” He held up the crinkled list.

  “At these prices, better make it twenty pounds.” Dean started stacking five-pound burlap bags of rice into Justin’s cart.

  “Luther wants red beans and black beans,” Justin fretted, going through the bags. “All I see are pintos.”

  “It’ll have to do.” Dean haphazardly chucked bags of beans into the cart. “Let’s get going.”

  “So, now you’re in a hurry?” Justin nattered.

  Dean shoved the cart toward the register.

  “Wait, we can’t forget the dehydrated onions and garlic. And flour, cornmeal . . .”

  Dean held his tongue and followed Justin to the bulk bins. A nagging curiosity got the better of him. “Meet me up front.” He hurried to the nut stand near the entrance, half expecting a team of Enforcers.

  According to Zac, Justin had a hefty price tag on his head. If Krasinski had changed career paths, as in bounty hunter, the proverbial shit was about to hit the fan. He studied the exits. Ready. Although, they wouldn’t get far with the tight security.

  “Thanks for helping,” Justin spouted when he met up with him. “I spent the rest of my LSCs. And we still have to buy meat.”

  Luther would be none too pleased if they returned without meat. “Say—” Dean suddenly remembered the two grams of gold Luther had given him. He discreetly showed Justin the gold. “Where’s the meat vendor?”

  “Awesomeness! Probably down the next row of pop-up tents. This way.” Justin took off with the cart.

  Dean hustled to keep up with him. “By the way, thanks for the hat.” He was already used to it.

  “Sure. It’s hard to imagine you without one,” Justin ribbed.

  They darted through the fast-growing crowd of looky-loos, passing booths selling clocks and watches, camping equipment, clothing, and all sorts of knick-knacks, doodads, and gizmos. They finally reached Uncle Buck’s Smoked Meats. While waiting in the long line, Dean caught a glimpse of a man in a checkered blue shirt loitering outside a garden supply tent. If there had been any doubt about Krasinski, his suspicions were now confirmed.

  The market had turned into a zoo with folks strolling around dressed to the hilt, followed by their personal team of bodyguards. Zhetts stared in awe and whispered amongst themselves. With all the commotion, Dean decided it was time to spill the beans, figuring Justin’s surprised response would be associated with the Elites. “Justin,” Dean whispered, “keep your cool. Krasinski’s tailing us.”

  “Holy shit!” Justin gasped. “Did you talk to him?”

  “Naw, I want to see what he’s up to.”

  “What do you think he wants?” Justin fidgeted with the cart. Thanks to the gold, they had purchased several pounds of smoked meats.

  “Not so sure,” Dean said. “The fact that Krasinski didn’t say hello speaks louder than words.” They had walked full circle, back to the food trucks with no sign of Zac. It wasn’t looking good.

  Wanting to hang around a little longer for Zac, Dean asked, “How’s ’bout we sit a spell and eat?”

  “What about you-know-who?” Justin arched his brows knowingly.

  “I’ve been pondering that as well. He hasn’t sicced Enforcers on us. Indicating,” Dean speculated, “he wants the whole kit and caboodle, not just you.”

  Justin smirked. “Ah, he thinks we’ll lead him to our hangout. To collect the rewards for Ella and Twila as well.”

  “Why not enjoy a meal and let him sweat it out?” Dean chuckled. “We’ll make like we’re shootin’ the breeze without a care in the world on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Meanwhile, we watch for Zac. What are you in the mood for? My treat. I still have LSCs.” His taste buds had a hankering for a burger with grilled onions.

  Justin let out a long hungry groan. “I’m dying for tacos.”

  He supposed they could do for a splurge. After all, they didn’t need money for petrol thanks to Scarlett’s tip. They had found Shari’s gas ration card stash.

  They sat at the far end of the community tables and ate. He would have relished his bloody-rare, flame-broiled burger more if Krasinski wasn’t across the way downing hot links.

  “Such a dweeb,” Justin snarked. “Does he actually think he’s that sly?”

  Dean had never liked Krasinski. Shortly after a horde attack had decimated Last Chance, New Mexico, Krasinski had strutted into Boom Town with the deed to the Grand Hotel. The townsfolk had argued that the fancy hotel belonged to a fellow named Skeeter. Nonetheless, Checkpoint Charlie’s officials had declared Krasinski the legal owner since no one else had shown up to claim the hotel.

  The heart of the matter was, how were they resolving the Krasinski conundrum? They blew another hour waiting in the ice cream line, eating it, and then nursed a round of Dr. Peppers. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the crowd of avid shoppers thinned out quickly. Still no Zac.

  “Best we get going,” Dean said abruptly. “Zac would have been here by now.”

  Justin glanced around warily. “What about el dweebo?”

  Dean rubbed his chin. “Well, if he doesn’t have a vehicle, he can’t follow us.”

  “Riiiggghhhttt . . .”

  Justin pushed their laden cart toward the guard-lined security fence. Two Enforcers manning the exit glanced down at their cart and waved them through. Once in the parking lot, Dean tried his hardest not to look back.

  When they made it to the pickup, Dean husked, “Why don’t you load the camper while I watch from the driver’s seat.” Dean wanted to retrieve his Glock. Just in case.

  “Sure.” Justin’s voice wavered.

  From the driver’s side mirror, Dean spied a checkered shirt in the distance. The man jumped into the cab of a long-bed pickup. Damn!

  Dean bustled back to Justin. “That’s him in the black pickup,” Dean informed as they finish loading the camper.

  “So, now what?” Justin kicked at the cart’s wheels.

  “I’m thinking we’ll be pulling another all-nighter at the bunkhouse. If Krasinski shows up, he’ll have a hell of a surprise waiting for him.” Dean grappled with his cold-hearted decision. But the facts spoke for themselves: Krasinski could have bumped into them any number of times. And he hadn’t. Meaning, Krasinski planned to cash out on a big payday at the expense of his friends.

  Dean wasn’t about to let that happen on his watch. He was down to his last option, and he sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to explaining it to his maker—when his time came. As Scarlett had once confided, killing a man in cold blood was a grisly task.

  Chapter 10

  Luther Jones leaned forward in the recliner he had parked by the living room’s front window. I’m tired of this spookly shit. He closed his eyes and shook his head before looking again. Yup, the Z-girl in the frilly pink dress just waved at him. Maybe it was a muscle spasm? And why was it carrying a doll? Zs didn’t lug shit around.

  He had seen enough. Scarlett was due to take over his shift any minute. When she wasn’t on watch or sleeping, she meditated. Ella was minding the baby, and Twila was upstairs coloring or communicating with her spirit guide, or whatever the hell she did. As for Justin and Dean, they were MIA, due back yesterday. Ella was a wreck.

  “Mr. Big Man,” a whisper of a whisper invaded his thoughts. “Twila needs your help. Oh, please, you gotta hurry!”

  Luther broke out into a cold sweat. Was that—thing—communicating with him? He zoomed in on the child in the fancy dress. That dress looks brand new. If it was the same Z-girl who’d been hanging out there the past couple of days, it had showered and cha
nged clothes. Even its hair looked like it had recently been washed and braided with pink ribbons.

  She—it, he reminded himself—stood on the front lawn of their Bluebird Lane safehouse away from the horde meandering the street. Its bulging eyes bored directly into his brain, begging for help while its shriveled mouth twisted around like a toothless person trying to eat. It was definitely trying to talk. To him?

  Since their stay at the safehouse, weird shit had been happening. Every night Sheena visited his dreams, relaying important messages, only he never remembered them. All he remembered in the light of day was the intense bond they’d had during their brief and passionate love affair. But talking zombie children? Uh-uh. That’s where he drew the line.

  The Z-girl threw the doll to the ground. “You have to believe me. They want to eat my only friend!”

  Luther clutched the chair’s armrest. Before realizing it, his fingers punched through the faux leather upholstery. He tried shaking off the jitters when Scarlett walked into the room.

  “What’s happening?” Scarlett gawked.

  “Look at that one.” Luther pointed. “The little girl.”

  Scarlett stared long and hard. She gasped and slowly turned to Luther with a trembling hand over her mouth. “They have Twila . . .”

  He dropped his canteen. “Good God Almighty!”

  Ella came running into the room. “The tea’s gone!”

  Luther’s eyes darted from Ella to Scarlett to the little zombie girl on the lawn. It waved again. Scarlett doubled over in obvious agony. Ella tried to comfort her. Only one thought came to him; he had to find Twila before it was too late. He stuffed his tactical vest with mags.

  “I’m coming with you.” Scarlett’s voice cracked.

  “That’s a big N-O. You all need to pack what you can carry. Depending on what happens next, we’ll need a new safehouse.” There was no time to wait for Dean and Justin. If they were still alive. Not with mind-talking Zs.