A .22 wouldn’t bring as many as quickly as a .45 or a 12-gauge shotgun, but the dead ears out there would hear it. If we left the scene, the rotters would arrive and find nothing to hold their attention.
They wouldn’t be any more likely to stay if there were a thousand dead zombies sprawled out on the road or in the field, or just five or six. Neither the zombie blood nor the shot-up zombie bodies had any effect on them; they came, they saw, they wondered why the hell they were there, then they left.
Inside our circle of vehicles were our draggers; all part of the plan. When the trucks were in their circular position and the fight was over, four of our fighters would jump down into the inside safe zone and pull the dead rotters into a center pile, to clear them from our tires. If it was too bad, more would join.
Four handled it just fine. We’d taken out most of the dead just after they hit the barbed wire. In Danny’s terms, what we had us there when it was all said and done was a zombie short stack.
CHAPTER FOUR
Red Cloud, Nebraska
After our stop to reload and make sure any weapons that jammed or otherwise malfunctioned were replaced with good, working guns from our surplus, we arrived at the sign that said Welcome to Red Cloud.
Right after that, we came to a light green, truss bridge spanning the Slate River.
It had apparently been this town’s Hamburger Hill.
The hundred or so emaciated bodies were strewn everywhere, brown, wrinkled skin stretched over arms, legs and faces, the mouths opened in silent, permanent screams with white teeth forever exposed.
Some hung over the side trusses, others lay in the center of the road. The tumbleweaves were there, too, clinging to whatever they could.
There were vehicles parked like a barrier on the Red Cloud side of the bridge; it looked like the townspeople had tried to use it as their battle bottleneck, but it was clear that the dead had no problem at all slogging across the muddy ground beneath it, the river just a meager stream in places. The hundreds of sunken foot holes were visible from above.
They’d apparently been overrun and overtaken. I wondered how many of the ones we’d fought a few miles back were part of the group that destroyed the fighters of Red Cloud.
“Lil, Danny. Let’s grab the portable starter and see if we can move those vehicles out of the way. Bring a pistol. Micky, can you put together a crew to clear the bones away?”
“You got it,” said Micky. “Had a few elbows shatter just right to poke through sidewalls.”
“Words you never used to say or hear,” I said, with a nod and a smile.
We got our guns and gloves, each slinging a .22 rifle over our shoulders, too. We stepped over the bodies as we worked our way across the bridge.
“Man,” said Danny. “Bridge must’ve been built a hundred years ago. Sure don’t build shit like this anymore.”
“Nobody buildin’ any shit anymore, far as I know,” I said.
“You don’t know,” said Lilly. “Maybe in Australia they’re all just fine, laughing at what happened to the rest of the world.”
We both just looked at her. Neither of us asked where that came from.
We reached the other end. One of the trucks was a pretty nice Chevy Avalanche. The door was open, so the battery was definitely dead. I just hoped it had some fuel in it when it was parked “I got this one. Here,” I said, holding out my hand. Danny passed me the portable booster.
The other two were both Toyotas, and apparently were delivery trucks from the town’s auto parts store. Just as I noticed it, Lilly said, “We need to add the parts store onto the list. Danny, maybe hit that store and grab fan belts, hoses, tire patch kits, stuff like that.”
“Damned good idea, Lil,” he said. “Definitely worth a stop.”
I got the hood up and the cable connected. After powering up the booster for a minute or two, I got inside the truck. Two winding moans and the engine kicked in.
“Good!” I called over the sound, looking down at the fuel gauge. “Half a tank.”
Lilly came over and disconnected the booster as Danny turned the key on one of the other pickups and got a very low click.
In another five minutes, all three vehicles were running. We pulled them off the road and left them running while we got up on the bridge to help with the body disposal.
Ω
Finally, on the other side of the bridge, and already tired as hell from our ordeal, I think everybody got a second wind while we hydrated and scanned the distant town of Red Cloud.
“Radios on 19 everyone,” I said. “I’ll be in range for a bit, but it won’t be long you’ll be on your own.”
“Stick together,” said Danny. “If you do split up, do it in groups of three. That way you got eyes in front, eyes on your six and one head on a swivel.”
“Good advice,” said Lilly. “Safety in numbers.”
“You only agree with him ‘cause he’s your dang boyfriend,” I said.
“Yeah, and half the time I only let you have your way ‘cause you’re my big brother.”
Micky held up his hand. “Hey, everyone. I have a question.”
Everyone just looked at him. “Shoot,” said Danny.
“Population of Red Cloud may not be anything like it was, but we already found out that taking on a couple hundred zombies is a lot.”
“I’m in perfect agreement so far,” I said.
Micky smiled at me. “Good, Cole. So, it goes without saying that five hundred coming at us would be insurmountable. Don’t wander too far from your vehicles and have the keys to the truck in the pocket of your best runner.”
“Damned good point,” said Lilly. “If you find yourself cornered, get on that radio fast, and fire a flare straight up.”
“Let me amend that to call out and fire the flare if you even suspect you’re startin’ to get cornered,” I said. “Everyone have one person outside, too. If we miss the launch point of the flare and it goes sideways, you might not get found.”
That’s another thing we learned from the Nacogdoche Tribe. Their groups all carried flare guns, and when a group went out, four people back at their base remained on flare watch, fueled-up trucks ready.
All four directions of the compass were covered, no matter which way the group went.
At first it didn’t seem to make much sense to me. They explained that people fleeing danger can take unexpected turns and end up far from where they were supposed to be. Hence, the wide view approach.
They’d never lost anyone, so I wasn’t judging their methods, just so that’s clear.
Ω
Garland to my right, I cranked it around and headed back down the same highway we’d come up. I motioned for everyone in back to sit their asses down, then I floored the pedal of that Toyota and found out what that engine was worth.
Turns out it was worth a lot. Interstate 281 was as straight as a ruler, and we knew we could get through from the trip up. There wouldn’t be many surprises since we’d come north less than a couple hours before.
“You might wanna slow it down a little there,” said Garland, whose knuckles were white from gripping the grab handle. I glanced in the rear view and saw smiling faces behind me, all of them swinging side to side on their support poles, seeming to enjoy the ride.
“We’re good. Tough bunch back there. You lookin’ for anything special?”
“Welder,” he said. “Even a small one’ll do. Maybe if we come across a Tractor Supply or somethin’.”
“Got somethin’ in mind?” I asked.
“Yeah, I do. Mostly for these pick’m ups.”
“Go on.”
“You know them scoopy things on the front of trains? The old trains, at least?”
“Diverters of some kind,” I said. “I know what you mean, though. Should be pretty easy to fabricate, but the weight might be a problem.”
“Gotta be strong,” he said. “Got the idea from that truss bridge back there. Triangles make for strong braces. Learned that
in weldin’ school.”
“You know the reasonin’ behind that?”
“Somethin’ about the symmetry creatin’ its own support. Larger triangles, thicker material. You know how you can hold an egg in your hand end to end and squeeze it, and it won’t break?”
I stared at him and shook my head. “Never tried it.”
“It works. Same concept, I guess. Hold the egg sideways in your hand and it’ll break like … well, like an egg. Weak material is super strong in a particular configuration.”
I stared at the road, noticed I’d slowed down to 70 miles an hour, so pushed down on the pedal to bring us back to 75. Then I turned to glance at Garland Hunter. “You chop off some of the dumbass in you when you got rid of that mullet?”
“It weren’t a fuckin’ mullet!” he said, throwing a punch to my arm. “It was just long hair!”
“Ow!” I said. “Screw you, Joe Dirt!”
“Pussy,” he laughed, turning back in his seat. “We there yet?”
“The GPS says we’re ten minutes out.”
We drove in silence for a bit. The people in the back of our truck were all male, but before you start calling me a dang sexist, know that I picked two women but both of ‘em wanted to go with Lilly.
So we had Brandon Young, who was a 15-year-old Nacogdoche badass with a little bit of a nerves problem. He was a crack shot and a genius with a baseball bat, but come up behind him and give him a shove and a BOO! and that kid wouldn’t be worth shit for an hour.
He got rattled and stayed rattled. I planned to mess with him a bit. Maybe startle him now and then in safe places so he’d be less jumpy out on the road. I scare that boy enough, nothing will scare his ass anymore.
Okay, that’s my philosophy. But I’m no philosopher and I could be dead wrong. Still, it sounds like fun, right?
Next, we had a twenty-something-year-old guy they picked up on the caravan named Stu Morgan. Stu first walked up to me the day after we got to Lebanon. I was drinking a warm Coke when he just ambled up, his long, brown hair draped over his shoulders, flannel shirt opened with a tee shirt under it. He wore tattered jeans and flip-flops, and I’m pretty sure the earring made out of feathers was also a roach clip.
I did love my throwbacks to the 70s. Even if I wasn’t around then. I practically heard Led Zeppelin jamming whenever I saw him.
Stu’s first words to me were, “That chick your sister?”
I looked at him, then really looked at him, and smiled. “Yeah.” I held out my hand. “Cole Baxter.”
“I’m Stuart Morgan, but everyone calls me Stu. So, she is, huh? She’s hot, dude.”
“And she’s taken by that guy right there.” I pointed at Danny. “He’s a nice guy, but if you want her, you’re gonna have to convince her and him.”
Stu stared, playing with the feather roach clip earring. “Guy works out, right?”
“Dude’s been ripped since middle school,” I said.
After quite a long time, his eyebrows shot upward and he shrugged. “I’ll just wait until they break up. I’m no homewrecker.”
“Probably smart. Where’d you come from, Stu?”
“Gadsden, Alabama.”
“Passed through there once.”
“Best way to see it.”
“Born there?”
He nodded. “Yep. Never goin’ back.”
He pulled out a joint, put it between his lips and lit it. I thought it might be a hand-rolled cigarette, but when he lit it, I knew better. After he took two quick hits, he passed it to me and I took it.
I’m still not sure why, but I cupped it and looked around before taking a hit.
“Got a pound of that shit in my storage car,” he said.
“Storage car?”
“Yeah, found it in town. Old Chevy Corvair, more rust than metal. Opened the trunk and found a duffel. This weed was in the duffel, all sealed up tight in thick plastic wrap.”
“Love to know the story behind that,” I said, holding my hit.
I later learned that Stu found the weed calmed him. He’d been a mess without it, and he shared with me that just knowing he had it in his pocket was enough to help him through some tough, scary times.
We all have our security blankets. His was the only one I thought I might like to use once in a while.
I wondered if it might be good for Brandon, but hell if I was going to be the adult to recommend a fifteen-year-old smoke weed.
Like he hadn’t already.
Anyway, back on track. I was telling you about the others in our truck.
The oldest was Sam Greer. He was a gray-haired dude of about sixty-four years with a beard to be proud of, a potbelly, suspenders and tan, suede work boots that were probably all he ever wore. He wore flannel shirts like Stu, but for him it wasn’t to be 70s cool – it was a second skin. He said he was a farmer in his past life, growing potatoes in Idaho.
He could shoot that .22 rifle so fast it sounded like a string of firecrackers going off. Accurate as hell. Now, his only problem was an addiction to cigarettes that had him lighting one almost as soon as the last was out.
He sat alone a lot. I smoked with him on occasion, which is how I found out he had to kill his own wife. His daughter had moved up to Washington state years before, having fallen in love with Seattle when he’d sent her there for college.
She just never came back. Cindy, I think he said her name was. After he killed his wife, he left that house as fast as he could. No matter whether he had to or not, he couldn’t face his little girl knowing what he did. He just wouldn’t have known how to tell her what he’d done, and how to explain that he didn’t have a choice. Sam said it was hard enough justifying it to himself, much less his daughter.
There was another thing. He said he left because he just didn’t want to know if she never came back. He’d rather think she was still alive out there somewhere, than staying home and just knowing she never got back there.
I didn’t know about his logic. That was his thing. I did know I was happy to have him with us.
Last in our group was a quiet younger man who I thought was Nacogdoche at first. Turns out he was a Mexican dude who went by the name Fuego. He wasn’t the only person in our group who spoke Spanish, but I considered all of them a commodity. His name translates to fire in English.
With the southern border probably more porous than ever now, we might need negotiating skills if we encountered what we used to call banditos in the old days.
Fuego wouldn’t tell me his real name. He said he turned to fire the minute the dead started walking, and he intended to burn all of the dead, one by one. I didn’t argue; he was always first to get in line when it came time for any kind of training or work project.
He gave as much as he took, and in a world like the one in which we now lived, that’s all you can ask of a person.
Fuego was about 5’7” tall and of an indistinguishable age, as many Indian and Mexican people seem to be. If I tried to guess his years, I’d probably be off by ten – either high or low. You know the type.
Fuego seemed to be losing weight by the day. Fat, that is. He was gaining muscle, no doubt. I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone as serious as he was about everything he did. When he wasn’t working with us on a project or doing defensive and offensive training, he was lifting these plastic jugs filled with concrete.
He’d take off his shirt, sit on the ground and just stare at his muscles while he did curl after curl with those jugs. Two days after I saw him doing that, I drove down to the small, local gym and got the guy some dumbbells. He’d been a fast friend ever since.
I’m not ever gonna complain about having Fire on my side. Still, I would’ve liked to see the guy the day the world changed.
I bet dollars to donuts he was big-time fat and soft. Proof that no matter what you’ve heard leopards can change their spots. Fuego is a force of nature and another member of our team I’m proud to call a friend.
I slowed the truck and Garland pointed. �
��Dead right there. Three of ‘em.”
I nodded. I’d seen them. It’s not like they were hiding.
In a world that’s mostly silent except for guttural choking sounds, dead feet slapping the ground, and teeth masticating raw meat, engines were a sound that got their attention.
“Bats for now,” I said. Garland didn’t need further instructions. He leaned into the storage area behind the seats where we had more bats stored inside the pickup, and grabbed himself one. Sliding the rear windows open, he said, “Hey, silent mode.”
I watched in the rear-view as Brandon, Stu, Sam and Fuego grabbed their bats from the storage clips and prepared to bash some heads in.
“I’m a purist,” said Garland.
I looked between his legs where he held his bat. “Excuse me, but that’s no Louisville Slugger.
“Nope, but it’s a DSB.”
“A DSB?”
“Yep. Dirty South Bats. Composite material you can’t break. Made in Georgia, USA. Ain’t gonna get more American than that.”
“What’s that one called?” I could see some cool printing on it, but it was blocked by his legs. He held it up. “Texas Big.”
I nodded. “Nice. So get out and do some damage. They’re within strollin’ distance now.”
He shook his head. “I’ll wait my turn. You know Fuego’s gonna want these guys.”
With that, he turned, reached back and tapped the open window with his bat. “Fuego, start us off.”
Garland had a way of saying Fuego that gave it three syllables. Fooweggo, is about right, phonetically.
No matter how you say it, he was out before I had time to stop. He hit the ground in a fast walk as I eased to a stop. The bat over his right shoulder, he practically marched toward the three rotters that had now become four. He reached them, brought the bat up and swung in a flat horizontal sweep.
The first one’s head broke in two. It was a super thin, skeleton-looking thing that went down like a house of cards. With a quick jab into the next one’s chin, its neck ripped open as it fell backward.
Judgement Page 4