They were quick to follow another leader.
Magi shook his head. “Do not be so quick to stand by me. I do not even know if we will survive. I only know that with the skin paste, we can walk among the creatures safely. Since they attack the living, their numbers may be enough to give us the advantage.”
Murmurs came from the crowd, but they were not content. The sound was of people talking in low tones to one another, perhaps discussing the validity of what he would say next.
“An army is making its way toward us,” he said. “I have heard them talking on the short-wave radio. They believe Climbing Fox caused the black rain, and rightfully so. They are coming here to make him reverse the plague he has set upon humanity.”
“Can it be reversed?” a woman called.
“You have seen the skinwalkers,” said Silver Bolt. “They are dead, and they are rotting as they walk. They crave human flesh. I do not believe they can again become human.”
The crowd was silent. They knew the truth.
“I fear the coming army will converge on us and destroy our tribe along with Climbing Fox, out of anger. I would not blame them, but now it is my duty to protect you all. I will act as interim chief. I need you to follow me and do what I say. I believe it will save your lives.”
Everyone nodded. No objections were called out.
“Good,” he said. “Now, you may shower and refresh yourselves. We have power for now, and the water is from a deep well. If you do, and you intend to go outside of this building again afterward, you must reapply the skin paste.
“As long as you are coated with it, you will be invisible to them. We will soon need to make more, and I will show some of you how. Once we are settled, we will make a plan to go to the surrounding reservations and gather our own army.”
“Where is Wattana?” called one man.
“Why?” challenged Magi Silver Bolt.
“Because he should be sacrificed to the spirits!”
“As I said before, he is the reason the army is coming to invade us,” said Magi. “He may serve as a bargaining chip. If it were up to me, I would burn him today. Unfortunately, we need him. To answer your question, he is handcuffed in the office. Nobody approaches him, and do not free him, no matter what he says.”
The murmurs were of agreement.
“Carry on. Get settled, choose a cot. Take a shower and eat some food. Help one another. We are all we have now.”
Ω
Smith Center, Kansas
Except for Brandon and our newest recruit, Eileen, we pushed our way into Las Canteras to see what was what. Turned out nobody had tried to bust open the door and ransack the place, which told me most of the population of Smith Center was either on the run or on the chase. I hoped the main part of the gun store was similarly untouched, but nothing there was gonna change in the next hour or so, I figured I could use a bite of something before I started expending a lot of energy.
“Y’all up for a bite?” I asked. Fuego just stared down the street, his expression intense. Stu, whose eyes told me he’d recently gotten primed with his weed, nodded enthusiastically. Sam Greer gave me a “Yup!” and waited patiently.
I knew Garland was right there with me. I nodded and pushed in.
The very second the light spilled in from outside, and the stale air from the shut-up restaurant met my nose, I was on alert. I moved in fast, able to see straight ahead for about twelve or so feet due to some dust-covered skylights in the ceiling above us, and pushed my back against the wall to the left of the hostess’ podium.
As the others spread out, I swung my gun around. About fifteen feet away, a table overturned and a gray-faced rotter tried to scramble over it to get to us. Said table was right beside the window and the corner crashed through it, the shattered glass dancing onto the sidewalk just outside.
I hoped like hell Brandon just stayed in the Toyota and didn’t think we needed help. Eileen whatever-her-name-was, wasn’t someone we knew and trusted yet, and she could have reservations of her own – not at the restaurant – about us.
I wasn’t so sure she wouldn’t just take off in the truck if left to her own devices.
Fuego, who had come in last, spun toward the dead thing and cocked and fired so fast it was almost impossible to hear both actions.
I was impressed. The zombie was now a dead zombie, which, if I haven’t informed you of such, is the best kind.
Like we’d held up a goddamned dinner triangle and rotated a stick around in it for fifteen seconds, the dead came barreling out through the swinging saloon-style doors that apparently lead into the kitchen.
There were four of them and four of us. Wouldn’t you know that of the four of us, we all took aim on the same two deadheads.
Me and somebody else had fired on what had to be the cook, based on his white apron. Okay, not so white anymore. It was splotched with what I hoped was salsa or some kinda sauce, but that was a pipe dream. There was a freakin’ omelet pan stuck in the side of his head, and the dark staining started right there.
Somebody had almost taken him down. Probably missed braining the bastard by a couple inches.
Two of the others had fired on a skinny waitress, whose ponytail was mostly out of her head now; all that remained was a small cluster of hair tangled in a nasty-looking scrunchie.
Our lack of coordination had the other two – I’m guessing dishwasher and busboy – so close to us that by the time I flipped that lever down, up and fired, he hit my barrel, jamming the gun into my shoulder good.
His head rocked back at the same time one of my teammates shot the last one, and the other hourly employee went down in a heap, too.
I hopped over the bodies and cocked the .22 again. I’d be ready for the next one.
“Hope that was it,” I breathed. “Jesus.”
Instinctively, we all scanned the main restaurant. Several skeletons graced the seating area, eaten so far down to the bone that no flies even bothered to stick around.
“Y’all said you had to deal with zombie crocs to get the other ones,” said Garland. “Bet this was easier.”
“The other what?” asked Sam.
“Tamales,” I said. “C’mon, but let’s be careful.”
“Wait. Zombie crocs?” asked Sam.
“What, I didn’t tell you about them?” I asked, with a laugh.
We made our way into the kitchen to find two more fully eaten bodies and a storage room filled with molded packages of tortillas and stacks and stacks of canned foods.
We found – as I had predicted in my head – the canned goods that told me these guys were as authentic as La Preferida and Bearitos would allow them to be.
There were other Mexican delicacies that I wanted, too. I jogged back out front, trotted into the street and up to the truck, where I found Brandon and Eileen what’s-her-name deep in conversation. I tapped on the window and he rolled it down.
“Hey, Boss.”
“Hey. Back the truck up on the curb and drop the tailgate.”
“You got it.”
No questions. I liked that. I ran back inside and started stacking cans in my arms, as did the others. They also had Tequila, which I noticed caught Fuego’s attention first. He was doing his part.
Ω
We’d brought out maybe twenty of those big-ass cans restaurants buy, and Fuego had carefully wrapped up about ten bottles of various kinds of Tequilas and tucked them into the side compartments near the wheel wells.
We’d decided to wait until after we finished up at the gun shop to take a break to eat.
“Okay, it’s Shellito’s next,” I said. “Get all the ammo you can carry and focus on the practical guns. Get scopes if you find ‘em, and crossbows, suppressors, anything to make us quiet.”
“The .22s are pretty quiet already,” said Sam.
“Yeah, they are,” I said. “But if we come up against another group carrying AK-47s and military hardware, we’re gonna lay those down, dollars to donuts.”
&nb
sp; “Good point,” said Sam. “I guess they’re out there.”
“Seems they always are,” said Stu. “Buzzkills.”
“Garland, with me. Stu, Sam? Cover our six. Fuego, you do what fire does.”
I could practically hear the smile on his face. Fuego muttered, “I always do, ése.”
Before we left to head to the gun store, I tapped on the truck’s window again. Brandon rolled it down, a smile on his face.
I looked over at Eileen, who was brunette and pretty, with decent tits, just perfect to capture the hearts and minds of 15-year-olds like Brandon. I could tell he was pouring on the cool.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “You guys finding everything?”
“Yeah. Need you to pull this over to the gun shop. Same drill. Back it in, be ready for Freddy.”
He looked at me. “Who’s Freddy?”
“Let’s just pretend it’s a new word for zombies.”
“Oh,” he said, smiling. “I’ll make sure you don’t run into a horde when you come out.”
“All I can ask for,” I said, slapping the door twice before taking back off toward Shellito’s.
The Toyota’s engine fired up behind me as I caught up with the rest of our group and prepared to enter the main portion of the gun shop.
The front of the gun store was locked up tight. Wrought iron bars on the windows, steel plates over the doorjambs. We took one look, then walked our way around back again– dispatching about twelve rotters along the way. We reached the security door that led to the segregated office at the back of the shop. Once inside, I realized why Eileen hadn’t attempted to reach the gun shop proper to secure herself some weaponry. She couldn’t.
These owners had been careful. I wondered what happened to them. No way to see inside the store until we penetrated the interior security door which was made of metal. As if that wasn’t enough on its own, there also appeared to be a barred security door we’d have to get through first.
I hoped it was worth the effort.
“Tractor supply is a street over, I think,” said Garland. “I can get a cuttin’ torch there. We’ll be in, in a jiffy.”
I nodded. “Sawzall, torch. Whatever it takes. Nothin’ makes me want inside somewhere more than great defenses.”
Let me just say this about our trip to Smith Center:
We got everything I ever dreamed we would need. Guns. Ammo. Suppressors. Three crossbows and a ton of bolts for them. Holsters, knives, scopes, rifles, handguns, you name it.
We hit the liquor store afterward.
Guess where most of the looting in town happened?
There’s a portion of humanity that decides to get drunk when the zombies roll into town, rather than fight. I get that. It ain’t me, but I get it.
Life’s hard. Zombies make it even harder, despite the fact that work doesn’t expect you to clock-in anymore. Chowing down on some jerky and knocking back shots of Jack can set a distraught man right.
Night-night. Don’t let the zombies bite.
Garland rode in back on the way home. It turns out Eileen Plover, who was granted shotgun for that ride home, was the last human being in that dead Kansas town, if that’s not being redundant.
I guess in the end – and I mean the end – it was just a whiskey and Slim Jims kinda population.
When I thought about it on the way back to Lebanon, I figured they deserved their peace.
I mean, let’s face it; they wouldn’t have been much help to us anyway.
Ω
CHAPTER SIX
Lebanon, Kansas
When my radio squawked out a blip of static and I heard Lilly’s distant voice, I felt the color wash back into my face. I figured they’d make it back before us, even though we were closer to Lebanon in Smith Center than they were in Red Cloud, Nebraska.
I beat her there, though. Micky was the first to roll in after me.
I swear, Rode had so much shit piled at the feet of the people riding in the back of the truck, I was surprised the shocks didn’t bottom out.
He had stacks and stacks of DVDs, a bunch of paperbacks – romance, sci-fi, and horror, bookmarks and book lights to go with them, and some kind of hard drive he said was marked with 25,000 movies on it.
Underneath all that stuff were electronics. Ham radios, two-ways, police band, weather band, batteries of every kind, and stuff I couldn’t even identify without looking at the labels. Thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth of booty. Good score.
Eileen was still hanging around then, so I introduced her to Micky. She’d heard of him from one of his broadcasts she’d caught at the beginning of all this madness, and she kind of acted like she’d met a celebrity. One of the Nacogdoche women escorted her away shortly after to give her a proper once-over and show her where to shower.
Lilly rolled in about twelve minutes after Micky did. The riders in the back of her pickup were kicked back on packages of cotton balls, gauze and Ace bandages, cast-making materials, medical tape, and underneath it all were drugs of all kinds, designed to address everything from headaches to constipation to good old, everyday opioid addictions.
She also had candy. I can’t get into it right now or I’ll have to get up and go grab me a couple handfuls. I’m talking anything and everything you can imagine that hadn’t melted or hardened. Personally, I’m a big fan of Chick-O-Sticks, and she had a plethora of them.
Lilly knows me. She knows me too well.
As we unloaded, I looked up the road. “Where’s Danny?” I asked.
Lilly followed my gaze. “Yeah, where is he? He said he was maybe gonna be ten minutes behind us.”
“Bridge still clear when you went through?” I asked.
“Same as when we left,” she said, her face crinkled with worry.
“You’ve been back, what? Twenty-five minutes?”
“About that,” she said. “CB?”
Her eyes pleaded. It wasn’t necessary. I nodded at her. “How’s your fuel?”
“Still over a half tank.”
“Just you and me.”
We both walked around and got into the cab of the truck. Garland started to say something, but I held up a hand and he just nodded.
Garland had gotten good at reading me. I fired the engine and floored it. Everything was unloaded, so nothing would fly out of the bed.
The dust trail behind me died down as I hit the clean part of the asphalt and pushed the pedal down further. We drove for ten minutes without saying a word.
“God, where is he?” she asked, picking up the radio. “Danny? Danny, come in.”
Nothing. The Toyota ate up the ribbon of road ahead.
I was driving so fast by that time that my mind was 100% focused. It was like I was on one of those video game machines in the lobby of the movie theater. Intensely watching the screen, turning the wheel to meet each curve.
As a rounded a slight curve in the road I slammed on the brakes and swerved to the left, fishtailing the Toyota, then swung it hard right to avoid a staggering man.
I didn’t. Avoid him, I mean.
It was Jeff. I didn’t know his last name, only that Danny liked him and had offered him shotgun. I heard him turn it down, saying he’d rather do some shooting from the back of the pickup.
Jeff had been maybe twenty-four years old or so, and smart. His dream – his pre-apocalypse plan, really – had been to design rockets for Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and man, did he love talking about all the things rockets and guided missiles were capable of.
His dream had died. I wished he didn’t have to as well, but he was dead before I slammed into him.
I was lucky I’d slowed enough not to really damage anything on our truck. I managed to keep the truck from crashing and mashed the brakes once more, just before the front end would have gone over the edge.
“CB!” breathed Lilly.
It wasn’t much of a gully, but it did drop off maybe twelve or fourteen feet off the road on both sides of the
two-lane blacktop.
The skid marks that led to the bent and broken guardrail were long and black, meaning Danny had to have been driving well above the speed limit as he headed south.
Debris lay in the roadway, and I recognized a shattered side mirror and a couple of the posts that had been mounted in the back of the small pickup.
There were three groups of zombies crouched down over what had to have been the bodies of those in Danny’s group of scavengers. Nothing could be done for them now.
I hurried over to where Jeff tried to stand on broken legs, the bite on his left cheek as clear as day. He gnashed and keened at me, and I stood back and fired the .22 rifle dead center in his forehead.
“Danny!” called Lilly, who was about to scramble down through the busted-out guardrail. I got to her and grabbed her shoulder. Together, we looked down and saw Danny’s pickup, upside-down, the hood half buried in the rocky mud of a small creek.
Around the truck was a horde of maybe twelve rotters. Some I recognized from our Lebanon group, and from Danny’s crew in Red Cloud.
“Get away! Get the fuck away from him!” shouted Lilly.
“Come on!” I shouted. “This way!”
We ran to the end of the guardrail and found a path that was probably used by animals or workers who maintained the small bridge. It led down to the muddy bank, and once there, I stepped into the water to test the bottom.
“It’s solid. Come on,” I said, walking in the water, trying to work my way to the truck.
Slinging my .22 over my shoulder for the moment, I pulled out a nice knife I’d decided to keep on a sheath on my belt. It was called an “Old Timer” Bowie knife, and it had a very sharp, very straight 10-inch blade.
“Seriously, a knife?” said Lilly, only inches behind me.
“Silence is golden, unless you want more up there when we come back up with Danny.”
“God, we’d better,” she said, a prayer in her voice.
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