Tank, his biceps bigger than two of the hoses that would connect to the side valves on the tanker, nodded and took off without a word. He slithered between the brush and the right side of the tanker and was engulfed by foliage.
A minute passed. I thought I heard some clanking, but couldn’t be sure. “Tank? How’s it goin’ over there?”
“Good,” he grunted. “Just … almost ….”
I heard a loud pop. “Got it!” he called. Then: “Give me a hand, would you?”
I looked immediately at Danny. He was bigger than me, and if Tank needed help, it was probably more Schwarzenegger help he needed. I was more Willis.
Danny smiled, shook his head, and jogged down there. I moved behind him but stopped at the rear of the tanker, supporting myself on the back.
“Help me uncap this thing,” said Tank.
I heard grunting, followed by the sound of metal spinning on metal. “Good!” came next.
Something sliding. Then: “Okay, it’s rigid. I’ll need to extend it out to screw it on.”
I felt like I was listening to a live porno. The only disconcerting thing was, both voices were male.
“Okay, put that one on the end and clamp it.”
It was getting kinky now.
A second later, Danny and Tank came out of the brush, both covered in sweat, holding a three-inch diameter hose between them.
“Y’all need a smoke?” I asked.
“If you wanna blow up, sure,” said Danny. “Bring the cans over and we’ll crack the valve. See if we got premium or regular.”
“Horde’s gettin’ close!” called an unfamiliar voice.
I wanted to kill the unfamiliar man connected to it.
“Everybody, get your cans over here and let’s move!” I yelled.
Danny smiled. “And the porn talk continues.”
I smiled as I manned the hose end with Danny while Tank shimmied back alongside the tanker and cracked the valve. “Yell when it’s fast enough!” he called.
The fuel came out, and the second I smelled gasoline and not diesel, I wanted to cheer. It trickled.
“More!” I shouted.
The trickle became a stream. I wasn’t too worried about the environment right then, so too much was better than not enough.
The stream began to flow, and now we were cookin’ with gas. “Good, Tank!” I called.
A second later, with two 5-gallon cans already full and on their way to the first vehicles, Tank came jogging out of the brush. Before I knew it, he was back in line with two big, red gas cans in his hands.
It was like a production line. I had so much gas on my jeans, if anyone had lit a match, I’d have been jumping around like a dumbass playing with fire on YouTube back in the day.
As each vehicle’s tank reached full, it was fired up and driven west, parking in a straight line in our intended direction of travel. In another forty minutes, we had every Toyota’s tank filled, and fourteen cans topped off and strapped to the rear cargo racks.
The horde was within a thousand yards by the time we were done. I don’t know if our frantic movement was putting a spring in their steps, but that four miles Danny estimated was getting eaten up quick.
“Can you smell them?” asked Georgina, coming up beside me.
“Can’t smell a thing, sweetheart,” I said. “Just gas.”
“Yes, you are ripe,” she said. “Dump those clothes before you get in the truck.”
I smiled. “Shit. I’ll need to hit a Levis store down the road somewhere.” I walked away from the pool of gasoline we’d created on the side of the road and leaned against the wrecked Kia. Pulling off my boots, I put them aside.
“Shirt, too,” said Georgie. “I think you were sweating gasoline.”
“You just wanna see my man stuff.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to choke on fumes. You’ll be fine. Everybody’s seen it all before. At least in our vehicle.”
The noise seemed to come at once. It was like a low thunder. A breeze was blowing from east to west, carrying the horrific smell of the dead, plus moving something along the ground that I initially thought were rats.
With the wind increasing, we found out the truth in a hurry.
It was hair. A lot of it was in small, round balls, but there were some damned big ones, too. They were rolling and flying along, picking up more of the same as they came, every one growing larger with every foot of westbound progress.
Yes, indeedy, they were giant goddamned spheres of nasty-ass zombie hair, caught by the wind and coming toward us ahead of the enormous horde by a few hundred yards.
The ill-reputed hair tumbleweeds. Now I headed to the truck fast and saw most doing the same. I didn’t need that disgusting shit sticking to my bare skin.
There were some stragglers, I noticed.
“Let’s go!” I called, before ducking inside our Toyota. “Unless you think you can fight a thousand-strong horde while you’re gettin’ pelted by giant hairballs!”
Clearly nobody felt they could do that. It wasn’t something you practiced at the range.
That thought gave me an idea that I quickly discarded.
That’s a strength, by the way, not a weakness. Recognizing your own stupid ideas helps you grow.
But something stuck with me, and I was unable to stop it. “Stop the truck, sis.”
“What?”
“Just for a sec. I’ll tell you when you can go.”
The caravan started rolling and with one hand, I waved the others around us. Every motor sounded strong, and we still had 500 yards on the horde. It was close, but no … would it be a cigar?
“What the hell are we waitin’ for, CB?” groused Lilly.
I dug in my pocket for a lighter. The hairballs were now blowing behind us, the gusts pushing them north, south as well as west, grabbing them into spinning hair devils.
Danny burst out laughing. “Hell, I know what he’s up to!”
The hairball blew up to the door – it was a big one, at least two-and-a-half feet in diameter. I struck the lighter and it flashed into a ball of fire as it moved.
Other balls touched it, and they were lit, too. Soon, it was like a chain reaction.
“Go, go!” I shouted, and Lilly punched the gas. All the rest of us were turned in our seats, marveling at the crazy chain reaction. Despite the mostly westward movement with the wind, it also fanned the flashing flames, and it was like a crazy Pachinko game, or some kind of real-life video game, where ball after ball burst into, as Jerry Lee Lewis might say, Great Balls O’ Fire.
“Shit! It’s gonna hit the horde!” shouted Danny, an enormous smile on his face.
“My dastardly plan comes to fruition!” I said, unable to turn away.
The horde was forward-moving, so it created its own wind, but the hair was all around their feet, clinging to their filthy clothing and everywhere in-between. As the fire reached them, it appeared to engulf the mass of walking dead.
“Holy Hell!” I yelled, slappin’ the back of Lilly’s seat.
“CB, you had your fun?” Lilly asked, but there was a smile on her face, too.
“Yeah. Wow. Not sure how many will come outta that inferno.”
“We’ll smell them coming, that’s for sure,” said Georgie.
My little sis was back to business. “Let’s drive for about a hundred miles and look for a place to call it a night,” said Lilly.
Three heads bobbed up and down in agreement.
My sister drove. I got on the radio and let everyone else know. Then I added one more call-out.
“Is Stu along on this trip?” I asked.
A long pause came, but then a familiar voice came on. “Yeah, this is Stu. What’s up, Cole?”
“Stu, when we find a place to hole up for the night, bring a bowl of that trunk weed over for Lilly. I think I’ve inadvertently caused some tension.”
“Inadvertently my ass,” said Lily. She swung her arm over the seat and swiped at me, but I was able to dodge it
. “But good call. I need to sleep tonight.”
Ω
Night had not really settled over the Hintoka Reservation yet, but Magi Silver Bolt knew his people would sleep. They were dead tired.
A term he did not like thinking, much less speaking aloud.
Running through his mind – and keeping the sleep he knew would take him quickly at bay – was the skin paste he needed to make for their continued journey. With so many new warriors joining them, he would need a lot of it.
He would have to show the Hintoka how to make it as well. Even if they were going to travel together, Magi sharing that kind of knowledge would solidify their trust of the Henomawi.
Magi considered the ancient leader of the Hintoka, and in an instant, he realized he would not need to share his knowledge of the protective paste. He could read Henomawi, and no doubt had already found the notations in the book detailing its ingredients.
It didn’t exactly worry Magi, but the old man acted as though he had personally known long dead men when they were mere boys.
They were not merely relatives. They had been dead so long, they were tribal ancestors.
Just how old was Qaletaqa?
The light through the slight cracks at the seams of the tent had faded to black. Night had fallen. Magi could lay here and let his mind run, or he could have a piss and just shut it down.
He stood, listening for a moment to the snores of his male and female tribe members. They had followed him; they knew Climbing Fox was no longer in charge. If they would have known what he did to Angeni Dancing Rain they might have hated him as much as Magi did.
He moved over to the toilet seat to the right side of the door, around which a half-circle of stones had been placed, preventing people from settling in there.
He lifted the lid, revealing a 12” diameter hole in the earth. It looked deep, and no smell of sewage wafted up.
The Hintoka knew how to live close to their roots. The Henomawi had embraced many of the white man’s ways, adopting their technology.
Positioning himself over the hole, he crouched rather than sat, and relieved himself.
A shadow appeared to pass by the large entry flap of the teepee. Magi reached out to push it open.
It did not move. He pushed harder. The flap was sealed somehow.
Feeling panic in his spine, Magi finished his business quickly, then used the toilet paper. He stood, pulling up his pants. Moving to the center of the flap, he pushed outward.
It was securely tied closed.
It’s a security measure, nothing else. Calm down and go to sleep.
Magi Silver Bolt listened intently and stared at the closed flap for a long time, then let out a long breath.
The reservation was so quiet. Nothing was going on. It was for their protection.
Somehow. The old man was wise.
Qaletaqa.
Ancient and wise.
Ω
Magi was awakened by coughing. The coughs turned to choking voices, then to panic.
He sat up. It was pitch black inside the teepee, but now he realized it was more than just the darkness. There was a low, yellow glow through the minute gaps in the wall material.
The space was filled with smoke.
“What is it?” he called out. “What’s happening?”
“The teepee is on fire!” another voice called out.
Now the voices inside, all around him, rose to a fever pitch. The murmurs turned into screams, and everyone was up, running into one another as the heat inside the conical space increased.
The darkness was broken by the furs and skins around them igniting, sending sparks up toward the top flue of the huge tent, which essentially provided oxygen to the flames.
Magi instinctively dove to the ground, but around the edges of the teepee, these furs were sparking to life, too. He slapped at each ember he saw, but there were more beyond those, and the wind he created seemed to be fanning the flames.
A distant chant rose above the crackling that grew so loud it threatened to drown out anything else. But somehow the ancient voice seemed to rise above their own screams and the sound of the spreading fire.
Dizziness overcame Magi Silver Bolt. He took another choking breath and felt his lungs burn as he collapsed to the floor, his face falling between two unlit furs, finding a small gap of cool air.
It came from beneath the edge of the teepee. He pushed his face forward.
A sudden weight fell upon him from above, and a voice came in his ear. The words were raspy, but he recognized the person who spoke.
It was Tommy.
“Chief Silver Bolt! I kept one knife when they let us in. I could not give away all of our protection. I will cut the wall now to see if we are being watched.”
The last words were nearly obscured by the choking coughs, but a second later, Magi heard the sound of ripping hide, and felt a burst of cool air hit his face.
He turned his face upward to see the massive fire crawling up the angled walls of the teepee, swirling balls of flame dancing above him like hell’s own pyre.
He looked to Tommy, who had stuck his head through the hole. A moment later, he pulled back in, his voice clearer from the fresh air. “Nobody is there! The door is on the other side. Come, Chief Silver Bolt! We must escape!”
Magi, partially refreshed from the air coming through the hole, blowing into his face, took several deep breaths, his mind clearing. He said, “Go, go!”
Tommy crawled off him and pushed through the side of the teepee, disappearing. Magi scrambled through immediately afterward, and once on the sandy earth just outside, he rolled onto his back. There was nobody within view, but from somewhere, the chant continued. Despite its ancient tenor, the sheer power behind the voice that allowed it to soar above even the crackling of what had to be four teepees aflame. The meaning of the ancient words of his people came back to him. He heard Qaletaqa sing:
The death and destruction is necessary;
For my people to live, my people must die;
It is the way of the earth.
“Let’s go, Tommy,” he managed, but he was unable to stand. He felt the young man scoop him from the ground and begin to run, keeping the teepee between them and whoever stood to watch the carnage on the other side.
As Tommy charged away into the night, Magi Silver Bolt watched the hole at the base of the teepee.
No other Henomawi emerged from the hole. It was now filled with horrific, ravaging flames.
His tribe, once strong, was now diminished to only two.
He must find a way to escape the Hintoka lands before anyone realized he was still alive.
Ω
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I-80 and SR-30 Interchange, Buford, Wyoming
We drove more than a hundred miles, as it turned out. The road was clear for the most part, but we did encounter a few dozen of the worst members of our current humanity along the way.
We dodged by them or clipped them with the corner of a bumper.
Buford, Wyoming looked like a spot to drink a cup of coffee, based on all the signs planted on the side of the road. Some crap about it being the coffee capital of Wyoming. There were only a couple of buildings that I could see. Lilly drove the whole way, so when she stopped, I hopped out and looked around.
The air was cold, and the wind that blew forced it against my skin like a bunch of razor blades. Still, some memory came back to me and I had to check it out. I yelled at everyone else, “Hang tight for a sec! We’ll be right back.”
I got back in. “Lilly, head back the way we came.”
“Why?”
“Just … indulge me. I think I remember something about this place and I gotta see if I’m right. And trust me anyway, you’re better off in here. It’s cold as hell outside.”
“I hate the cold,” said Georgie. “It’s why I lived in Florida.”
“I hate zombiegators more,” said Lilly, dropping the transmission into drive and spinning it around to face east dow
n the highway. When she drove about a quarter mile back, I spotted the back of the green, steel sign and said, “Okay, stop and turn around.”
“Jeez, make up your mind,” huffed Lilly. Despite her attitude, she did what I asked.
“Okay, stop,” I said.
“Population 2?” asked Georgie. “Is this that town?”
“So you remember the story. A guy … Simmons, Sammons, or something like it – lived here alone after the other six or so people moved. He wanted to buy the town, but it’s unincorporated, so all he could do was buy every business. After a few years, he sold it to some Vietnamese dude, who renamed the town after some coffee he wanted to sell.”
“I thought I smelled coffee when you opened the door!” said Danny. “Damn. Now I want a cup. But PhinDeli Town Buford?”
I looked at the sign, on which the official white lettering still just read Buford. Above it, written in block letters by hand, was PhinDeli Town.
“Like I said, the guy’s Vietnamese.” I thought more about a hot cup of coffee and slapped the dash. “If we can find a way to make it, I’m up for it.”
“Find a way? CB, I have that electric percolator in my bag. Goes everywhere with me.”
“Didn’t know you brought it along on our hunt.”
So the town of Buford was now called Buford PhinDeli. Lilly drove us back into the center of town.
Which, to be specific, was right next to the edge of town.
Bruce Springsteen would’ve had a tough time turning that into some drama.
By the time we got back, everyone was out of their vehicles, stretching. One or two trucks drove over to some houses, directed by a sign that read, Suzi’s Appaloosas. The business did not appear to be a going concern any longer – at least I didn’t see any Appaloosa horses running around.
When they got back, we’d all finished with our stretches, and a bunch of us made it over to the Trading Post. It was the only store, after all.
There were two old gas pumps out front, but judging from the dried-out squeegees and towels hanging from the dispensers above them, they’d been up and running when the black rain hit.
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