I guess Fuego had made some pact with himself he’d never swing the same twice in a row, because the next deadhead got it right on the top of the noggin, driving it straight down between its shoulders until it looked like Beetlejuice after one or two of his exploits.
With the last one, Fuego did some crazy little wind-up, twirling the bat three times, then blasting it in the chin with an uppercut motion.
And four down.
He turned, and I could see the slight smile from fifteen feet away. That was a mini workout. I accelerated toward him to save him some steps.
We proceeded into town.
Fuego was apparently on fire.
As I drove, I hoped like hell Lilly, who was in close enough proximity to everyone else, would keep in radio contact with the others. I figured she’d talk to Danny regularly, but Micky needed to know we were here for him, too.
I can’t imagine being the one to set all this up; I figure the burden on him during his trip across the country had to be extreme. He’d pulled all these people with him, pretty much because he was the only game in town.
I know for a fact that sometimes the only game in town is crooked, and those who took a chance on the dude got lucky.
“We’re hittin’ the gun shop first, right?” asked Garland.
“Yeah,” I said, checking out a small airport on the left. No planes were parked outside, but I saw a couple of buildings on the east side of the airport that looked like small plane hangars.
I made a mental note. I’d much rather fly my ass to California, and while I’d just thought of it, I didn’t plan on abandoning that dream until somebody told me to get my head in the game and out of the clouds.
More farmland, then a small building on the left with a sign out front that said FLEA MARKET. Judging from the size of the property, it was the smallest Flea Market in the county.
Poorly attended these days.
Just past the flea market was a small, overgrown ranch. The grass blew in the breeze, lazily swaying back and forth. The house behind it was small and nice-looking, and I wished like hell the nice folks who lived there still were.
Nice, I mean. Unless they were Indians, it wasn’t likely they’d be alive.
We passed two dead horses next. Not side-by-side, but separated by about a quarter mile. Both looked to have been emaciated by the time they died. It was hard to judge, because their bellies were both torn open and I could see where something – or someone – had feasted, cleaning out the insides but good.
I just wanted to get back to Lebanon. To the little ranch house a block south of the gymnasium where most of the town was still hunkered down. Or on the road to California. Anywhere but staring into the hollow cavern of a dead horse’s stomach. This dead world was starting to bring me down.
“Jesus, Garland, how much outskirts is there in this fuckin’ town?”
“Here’s the dang sign now,” said Garland, pointing.
Smith Center City Limit. That’s all it said. Not even a “POP. 22”.
“Well, shit,” I said. “Smith County Memorial Hospital, right here.” I drove on by but made a mental note to let Georgie know. It was a single-level building and brick. The grass had grown up around it, but none of the doors or windows were broken, and it might have a good stock of necessities.
Probably more than a few zombies, too.
We drove another half mile, when Brandon leaned into the window and said, “I think we hit downtown.”
“Looks like it,” I said. “Garland, liquor, brother.”
He looked at me. “You liquor. You brought ‘er.”
“Never gets old,” I said. “But seriously.”
“I gotcha.”
“Jesus, Mexican food!” I said, as we passed a restaurant called Las Canteras. Now I had no idea how good Mexican would be in rural Kansas, but I was tempted to get in there and grab some canned refries – assuming that’s how they made ‘em in Kansas.
Fuck it. That’s what I did. Maybe they’d have canned tamales, too.
“What you doin’?” asked Garland.
“Refries and tamales.”
“You didn’t get enough of them tamales on that dang boat?” he asked.
“Hmm,” I said, remembering. “To be honest, I guess not. Totally forgot about them until you said that.”
I grabbed my .22 rifle and got out. I cocked it immediately, so I was ready for action.
“Well, what do you know,” said Sam Greer. “Damned Shellito’s is right here. Did you know that?”
I looked next door to the Mexican place. SHELLITO’S GUN SHOP was painted in big, bold lettering on the door.
“To tell you the truth, my mind was on Mexican food, but that’s gotta be a sign,” I said. “What say we all hit the gun shop first?”
The six of us each grabbed an empty duffel from a storage panel cut into the side of the pickup truck bed. Tossing them over our shoulders, we made our way to the building.
Shellito’s was on the corner of the main street and a small side street. As we made our way around the perimeter of the building, we noticed a security back door accessible only from a small alley backing the rear of the building.
I reached it first, and looked down. “Lock’s busted,” I said. The metal jamb was practically split, pushed inward, likely with a good kick.
I was sure we’d walk into that store and find a whole bunch of nothin’. I turned.
“Rifles ready,” I said. “Just like the mock-up.”
I was talking about the obstacle house back in Lebanon. Except this one was real. “Brandon, you wanna take lead?”
He glanced at everyone else – anyone else – to see if someone looked disappointed. Nobody did, so he looked at me and nodded. With a quick swipe of his brown hair from his eyes, he said, “Open it.”
While it was kicked inward, it was a pull. So, I pulled it hard and fast.
The zombie that came barreling out of there had to have been waiting just inside. The second daylight hit that half-peeled-off face, he was a foot from Brandon.
The stock against his shoulder, Brandon didn’t pause a split second. It was like he’d done it a thousand times. The shot was fired and the rotter was down. No hesitation.
“Nice,” said Fuego. “Good job, B-Dog.”
I looked at him. “B-Dog?”
“We all need nicknames.”
“What am I?”
“Jefe.”
“That means boss, right?”
Fuego nodded.
I shrugged. “Back up, boys.”
I guess I was the Jefe, because they all did. I looked at my watch.
“What are we –”
I held up one finger, interrupting him.
Another deadhead came staggering out of the back of the gun shop. “I got this one,” said Stu, raising his .22. He stepped forward, pushed the barrel against the bald, overall-wearing freak and fired a single round between his eyes. Bloody lines shot through the yellowed whites, and the grayish cataract pupils rolled back for the last time as he collapsed to the concrete sidewalk.
Fuego started to walk in. “Give it a minute,” I said, holding up an arm to stop him.
Sure enough, in about a quarter of a minute, a skinny woman came stumbling out, head down, immediately tripping over the two bodies on the floor and doing a nice face plant.
“This shit is like shooting fish in a barrel,” said Stu, putting the barrel against the back of her head.
“Hold on!” I shouted.
He looked at me. “What?”
She didn’t try to get up. I stared at her for a second while five of six guns were trained on the back of her head.
“Avert the damned barrels,” I said. I leaned down and put my hand on the woman’s back. She wore a sheer blouse that looked like it had been sweat-soaked and dried about a hundred times.
Her back was warm.
“What’s up, boss?”
“She’s alive, that’s what’s up,” I said. “She’s warm. Ma’am?�
�� I rubbed her back softly.
She moaned but didn’t stir. “Give me a hand, Garland,” I said.
He slung his rifle onto his back and leaned down to help me. “Let’s get her off these stinky bastards.”
Together, we lifted her and dragged her toward the street by her upper body, her boot-clad feet trailing.
“Deadhead, 12 o’clock,” said Sam. “I got it.”
He walked forward and raised his rifle, showing me that 12:00 was whatever direction he was facing. When he pulled the trigger, the woman below me gave a sharp twitch.
“It’s okay, ma’am,” I whispered. “You’re safe now.”
She didn’t agree or disagree. “Garland, let’s get her over in front of the shop and away from all this commotion. Get her some water. She’s gotta be dehydrated.”
This time we put our guns on the ground and both reached down, lifting her under the arms. We raised her up about three feet – she was nearly as emaciated as the horses had been, but a lot lighter – and carried her to the front of the building, resting her back against the wall near the front door. Finally, she raised her head and opened her eyes – barely. Her eyes moved back and forth like she was looking for that water.
“Hold on.” I went to the truck and grabbed a canteen. Carrying it back to her as I unscrewed the cap, I reached her and knelt beside her. “Here. Drink slow.”
Her hands shook as they clutched the canteen. Her hair was dark, streaked with just a touch of gray, and fell down over her shoulders.
She paused, lowering the canteen, then breathed deeply four times. Raising the canteen again, she drank in earnest. I suppose she figured she’d exercised enough restraint.
“I get it, but you’ll throw it up and it’ll defeat the purpose. I’m Cole Baxter. This here is Garland Hunter. And you are?”
She leaned back and closed her eyes, the canteen about to slip from her fingers. I reached for it, but Garland got it first, taking it and re-capping it.
“Eileen Plover,” she breathed.
“How long you been in that gun shop, Eileen?” I asked.
“Has to be a week.” Her voice held no accent, like she was from Omaha or something. She could’ve been from anywhere.
“Why didn’t they come after you inside?” I asked.
“I was locked in the back office,” she said. “Thank God for Chex Mix. The only one I was able to kill had a party-sized bag in his desk.”
“Was he in there with you?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes, but not dead at first. He was okay. He never told me he was bitten when I finally broke through the door lock and managed to get inside.”
I nodded. “You?”
She looked up at me, her blue eyes tired, but intense. “What?”
“Were you bit?”
She shook her head this time. “No, and you can check me out if you like. I lost my modesty with my will to live.”
I looked at her, then reached out and squeezed her shoulder softly. “Hopefully you’ll grow it back. Just a quick scan of your arms and legs will do for now. Think you can stand up?”
“If I don’t have to step over a pebble or a worm, I can probably even walk,” she said, a slight smile on her lips. Her face was dirty, like she’d just spent a week on Naked and Afraid.
I nodded to Garland. “We’re gonna get you in the truck,” I said. “You get shotgun.”
We stood her up and supported her as we made our way over to the Toyota. Once we had her deposited in the front seat, I said, “Hey, Brandon, stay with her, would you?”
I saw a flash of disappointment cross his eyes, but he said, “Sure,” and ran over. “Grab her an energy bar or somethin’,” I added.
“I’m Brandon,” he said, digging in a bag. “I didn’t catch your name before.”
“Eileen,” she said, smiling a tired smile.
“Nice to meet you. I’m glad you’re alive.”
I wondered how in the heck she’d been locked up in a gun shop for a week and hadn’t managed to secure a weapon and head out for supplies. Not everyone was cut out for this new harsh world we found ourselves in; Eileen was prime example of that it seemed.
Ω
CHAPTER FIVE
Henomawi Indian Reservation
“How many are we?” asked Silver Bolt. They had decided to use the local banquet hall to set up in, as there were working restrooms, a good generator should it be needed, and a stock of cots there for disaster situations.
The building was constructed to be the shelter should anything catastrophic occur, such as a strong earthquake or other natural disaster. It was built from solid tilt-up slabs and the entire building was created over rubber rollers so it would move with the earth rather than crumble.
There were 500 cots, which most of the town elders had thought was a waste of money but Standing Rock had insisted. Two men’s restrooms and two women’s restrooms, both with four showers each. There was also a good-sized kitchen in the back-left corner, with multiple refrigerators and two large chest freezers, all already stocked.
Our late chief was far wiser than anyone knew, thought Silver Bolt, before the answer to his question came.
Tommy Rivers ran up to him. “I count 145,” he said, winded. “How many of us were there to start?”
“It was not mine to know,” said Magi. “What matters is how strong we are now.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Tommy. “If what you said is true, is that enough? Many are women and children. They will not fight.”
Tommy was twenty years old. His hair was shiny and black, hanging down to the middle of his back. He always kept it in a ponytail, as it was now.
He’d lived with his grandmother since his parents died when he was five, the victims of a tragic fire that the boy had caused.
Tommy had been playing with bits of paper, sticking them into the wall furnace. When he saw the flame flickering inside the wall next to the heater, he ignored it and went to bed.
He awoke to distant screams – voices, calling his name. He found he could not breathe. When he pulled open his door, the hallway outside was engulfed in flames.
Tommy opened the window and jumped out, running into the street in time to watch the home become a yellow-orange fireball. Both of his parents perished in the flames.
He’d shared the story with Silver Bolt when he was sixteen years old; it was the first time he’d told anyone for fear he would be sent away, or shunned. Tommy said it was the only thing he remembered from that age or before. It still kept him awake at night.
Magi never told anyone. He liked Tommy, and nobody needed to look at him like he was a psycho or a pyromaniac.
“I share your concerns, Tommy. We must contact the nearby reservations and share what we have learned. Ask them to join with us to fight the aggressors who make their way here now.”
“How?”
“Either with our short-wave radio or a journey to their reservations.”
“But Magi, how will we survive out there?” asked Tommy.
“The mud-paste I’ve created. We must build an army of the living and the dead. But with our radio –”
“The dead?” interrupted Tommy. “But Magi, is it safe –”
“It is safe enough!” screamed Magi, fed up with his underling’s questions. “Now go find Tikka and help the others set up the cots and collect bedding.”
Tommy stared at him for a long moment, his brown eyes troubled. He nodded and walked away.
Silver Bolt walked over to the tub of skin-mud he had made. Opening the lid, he saw it was now only a third full. He would need more.
In reality, he did not know how safe they would be fighting alongside the skinwalkers, even with the paste.
He had believed them to be mythical creatures, but the book from which the incantation was read was of unknown age. Older than a century, no doubt. Probably even more ancient.
Magi Silver Bolt believed it was possible the incantation read by Climbing Fox at the ceremony had b
een performed in some capacity when the book was young – perhaps even before its existence. The story of the skinwalkers was not just an age-old tale once told around bonfires to frighten children into good behavior.
The myth that was not a myth.
He shook it off. If he thought about the odds against them too long, it might tear down what little confidence he had.
For now, Magi needed a shower. The mud had grown more rancid as time passed and the ground-up skinwalker flesh within the mixture clearly began deteriorating further, causing the stink.
With a sigh, he made the rounds of the doors, making sure they were latched. Before walking to the restrooms to get into the shower, he stopped at the front of the room, where an elevated stage was constructed for the entertainment they would often have during weddings and other special events.
The power was still on; no need for the generator yet. The grid that fed the reservation was connected to a large hospital with a trauma center just three miles west of the res. When power interruptions came, they were always brief.
He hoped the backups had backups. Once they went on generator power, the underground propane tanks would likely be gone long before they were ready to face their attackers. Walking to the microphone, he removed it from the stand and turned it on.
“May I have your attention please?” he asked.
All faces turned toward him, eyes hopeful that with a word, he would solve all of their problems.
“Climbing Fox is no longer your chief,” he began. “He killed Angeni Dancing Rain. He let the skinwalkers take her and did nothing to help her. He would do the same to any of you. He is not worthy of your respect.”
“Did he cause all of this?” called out a man whose voice Magi did not recognize.
Magi nodded. “Yes. With his ill-fated curse, he has changed many into skinwalkers. The black rain began the transformation. But with the mud I have created, we now have a new mission.”
“We are beside you, Magi Silver Bolt!” another woman called. Most of them had heard the whispers about those coming to find Climbing Fox Wattana, and if someone else made the decisions and developed a plan for them, it saved them the strategizing and worry involved in doing so themselves.
Judgement Page 5