by Jack Flacco
RANGER MARTIN AND THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE
BY
JACK FLACCO
RANGER MARTIN AND THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2013 by Jack Flacco
Cover illustration by Jack Flacco
Cover photography by RJ
Cover design by Jack Flacco
ASIN: B00G141CHY
www.JackFlacco.com
For Luana
Chapter 1
Ranger Martin gnawed at the matchstick, grinding it with a clenched jaw. Beads of sweat dripped from the bill of his Oklahoma City RedHawks cap. His steel eyes narrowed hard at the restless crowd from behind the door of his rusty pickup. He had one round left in his sawed off shotgun. He had one chance against them. If he failed, he might as well kiss his ass good-bye.
Those resilient zombies he had attempted to quell earlier with a spilled gasoline tanker and flare did not take a liking to Ranger’s attitude toward them. The only barbeque they desired stood in front of them wearing a tattered flannel shirt with rolled up sleeves, and worn out jeans. Their slow movement forward would have otherwise scared the hell out of a novice. Not to this seasoned fighter of the undead. Instead, Ranger’s grip tightened harder on the muzzle of his companion he sported around several months, making worms’ meat out of walking cadavers.
The stench of gasoline still permeated from the soaked field. Even if Ranger attempted to blast away at the crimson flare that lay unspent on the dry patch near a foreboding clump of moving bodies, he would have to haul himself out of there before the flames engulfed him too.
Adding to Ranger’s laundry list, a defiant zombie pushed away from the others with hunger in its eyes and menace to its brow. Its determined pace met with Ranger’s steadfast barrel pointed straight at the ungodly beast’s face. With the pull of the trigger, brain matter spewed from the back of the zombie’s maggot-infested head, dropping the once-again corpse on Ranger’s scuffed-up boots.
“Damn it.” Ranger uttered under his breath as the spent shell flew from his smoking gun on the body before him. His last chance at survival wasted on an eater too impatient to die with the rest of the miserable lot.
The mouths of the frontline crept to subtle smiles. Ranger drew a disgusted scowl at their amusement. He didn’t have time to fritter away at nuisances. He had to get out of there quick before they made him into hamburger meat.
Hurling a glance behind, Ranger’s truck stood at the precipice of an enormous cliff. He had nowhere to go but hundreds of feet into the bowels of the canyon. He pitched a darting glance in front, scanning the zombie mob, the double fuel tanks spewing their liquid destruction, and the drenched field ahead where the throng skulked closer.
Chucking his piece on the passenger’s seat of his faithful pickup, Ranger hopped in. The gas gauge read empty. A smirk escaped him as he shifted the chewed matchstick to the other side of his mouth. He’s had tougher situations.
Cranking the key, the engine wailed. Nothing. The zombies edged closer. He tried again, this time he pumped the gas pedal harder. Nothing. The zombies rocked back and forth about five feet from the front of his truck. One last chance, he thought. Ripping the key from the ignition, Ranger plunged it back in place, spinning it as he floored the pedal. One of the brain-chewers made it to the front of the truck.
“C’mon, you sonofa—” At that moment, the engine burned anger with a great roar. A wild grin beamed from Ranger’s face. The gas gauge propped up enough to get him out of there. He let off a bellow of a laugh as he shot a mischievous glare through the murky windshield to the stubborn zombie pounding on the hood of his dilapidated pickup.
Ranger shifted his tired vehicle to drive and let loose on the zombie mob. The pickup crushed the hood-pounder without much effort, leaving behind a trail of nasty green puss, spewed from the dead creature’s innards. Next, the wanton truck mashed through the crowd at full speed, sending body parts flying in the midst of the chaos. Nothing in the rulebook says you can’t have fun with a four-by-four, a shotgun, and an undead horde.
Plowing through the hungry mass, Ranger cleared a path to the awaiting flare. He spun his truck around in full circles, splashing a mixture of mud and gasoline all over the unsuspecting victims. Those who missed it the first time, transformed to gooey messes when the truck struck them a second and third time. When he spotted his target, he kept circling in the muck until he pushed open the driver’s side door. He bent, reaching to grab the flare with his left hand.
“Yee haw!” Ranger screamed, propping back into the vehicle in sweet delight of retrieving his object of affection.
Without wasting time, Ranger pulled the flare to the side of the truck. As he drove, he smacked the bottom of the red candle on the side of his door. Nothing happened. The zombies, bewildered by the fracas Ranger had caused, walked around dazed along the perimeter of the circle created by the ravaging truck. Ranger stopped the vehicle and attempted to light the flare again. This time he used more force, smacking it several times. Again, nothing happened. The undead regained their bearings to notice the idling mechanical monster at the center of their gathering. They drew together to approach the beast. When Ranger recognized this, he tossed the lifeless flare into the approaching mob. He pressed on the gas but the vehicle gave up its spirit. It stalled.
“Damn it! What are you doing to me?” he flung his arms in the air, screaming at his truck as if he would expect a response from an inanimate object.
This time, the walking corpses quickened their pace. Ranger attempted to restart the steel beast in haste. One dead soul couldn’t wait for the rest. It tore through the swarm, limping, hopping about, until it threw itself into the passenger side window, smashing it to bits. The intruder’s arms swam in the air attempting to grab hold of anything belonging to the maverick undead killer.
Ranger would not have anymore of it. Slapping the top of his steering wheel, he lunged for the shotgun, aimed it at the unwanted and clicked.
For a moment, silence fell in the truck—a silence with Ranger realizing he had no more shells, and the zombie realizing it had life left in its body. Everything continued from where it left off.
As the zombie’s arms flailed, Ranger flipped the gun to smash the butt into the monster’s face. Green goo splattered on the inside of the windshield, all over the passenger seat and all over the stock of the weapon. Gritting his teeth, he delivered a final blow to the creature’s left eye, forcing it outside to screech in agony.
Letting off a gasp of air for relief, Ranger pitched the goo-covered shotgun on the green-laden passenger seat and attempted to, one more time, start the pickup. Without even hesitating, the machine snarled hard, spewing black exhaust everywhere. When the fumes cleared, zombies had surrounded the truck with only a few feet between them and the muscle-touting vehicle.
This time, Ranger adjusted his RedHawks cap firm upon his head. With his left hand, he held the sweat-filled steering wheel, and with his right, he seized the gearshift.
In an outburst, the one-eyed zombie rammed through the passenger window again.
However, instead of using the butt of the shotgun to greet the heinous guest, Ranger introduced him to the heel of his right boot. With both hands on the steering, he plowed his leather cowboy footwear into the hideous thing’s nose, cracking it a few times before it fled squealing.
Wiping off the emera
ld guck from his boot with his hand, Ranger’s hardened eyes burned in anger at the obsessive throng. Hunger smoldered from their blank stares. With his truck stuck in park, he plunged his foot on the gas as a warning to step aside. The next time, he’ll shift to drive and mow them into wasted puddles of compost.
Somehow, the ornery bunch understood Ranger’s intentions. They separated from side-to-side, opening a path among them, big enough for the pickup to pass through.
“What the hell?”
Suspicion gripped Ranger’s judgment. He knew better than to trust eaters. They opened a path not so much to allow him to pass, but to prevent him from fleeing. In their infinitesimal minds, they had gathered broken tires from the crashed tanker and set them as barriers in order to thwart his next escape to the other side of the ridge.
Clumps of the crowd backed away further to widen the path. Ranger shook his head in disbelief, revved his truck one last time and grinned at the wanting multitude of deteriorating demons. His sense of humor grabbed a hold and he let off his trademark bellowing laugh in the face of impending danger.
In their rush to stop the killer of their kin, the undead assumed he would use their path for a getaway. In that respect, he had proven them wrong once again.
Ranger cranked the pickup truck’s gear to drive, stepped hard on the gas and crushed through the crowd on the right side of the path. Green ooze splattered on the windshield. Sinew filled the radiator shield. The crackling of bones under the tires caused him to smirk from the side of his mouth.
In front of him lay another road to freedom, which the festering maggot bags didn’t protect. As he made his escape, Ranger tore the matchstick from his mouth, struck it on the door of his truck and dropped it.
“Have a nice trip!” Ranger cried out.
The lit match hit the ground. The gasoline soaked field transformed into an incendiary device, devouring everything in its path. Ranger and his pickup had long gone, leaving the monsters to fend against the rushing flames. Some had charred to a cinder. Some ran way, dropped to their knees and formed a clump.
The flames spotted the tanker, engulfed it and the zombies ran away in defeat. The tanker blew into a ball a fire taking out the rest of the undead.
Out of the hundreds dead, one survived—the one-eyed zombie with a limp.
Chapter 2
“C’mon,” she said, waving him in.
“How much longer?” the little boy asked.
“Not long,” the redheaded teen pointed forward, “It’s just over that hill.” She doubled back when the boy fell on his hands and knees into the stream. The petite girl pulled him to his feet. The cold three-in-the-morning air had chilled the kids. They once again sought warmth in each other’s arms.
“I’m tired and hungry.” The defeated boy explained, holding her tight, vapor escaping from his quivering lips.
“I know.” The concerned teen removed her jacket and covered the trembling boy’s shoulders. She looked no more than fifteen, but she acted older. Being a guardian to an eight-year-old does that to a person. No one knew what they went through before reaching that spot in the morning.
“Just a bit longer?” the boy wondered.
“Yeah, over the hill and we’ll be safe.”
The boy threw her the jacket, propped himself full height, and shook the water from his feet. “Let’s go.”
She led him by the hand, but he wouldn’t have it. He let go and ran ahead. The girl smirked at his resilience. She drew strength from him and followed.
* * *
When they arrived at the top of the hill, they spotted it, Peggy’s Gas Station in the middle of the Nevada desert, just off of I-15. The little boy patted her on the back. Good job. “Let’s go,” the boy climbed out of the ditch.
“Wait!” She pulled him back in by the loose strap of his backpack.
With a huff, he landed on his butt, right where he started, “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t you find it odd a gas station sits with its lights on, abandoned, almost teasing us that whatever’s there will welcome us when we arrive?”
“What?” the boy shot her an incredulous look.
“Something’s not right.” She proclaimed, smacking her lips together with a determined resolve.
The boy has seen her like this before, like she had a sixth sense about things. Women’s intuition, whatever. He has learned never to argue with her when she gets this way. After all, she had guided them this far, who’s to say she’s wrong this time?
With a fiery determination she said, “You stay here. If those roaming nut jobs see me by myself, they’ll leave you alone.”
As if her words made sense to the boy, “No way!”
“Stay here.” She pressed his shoulders firmly against the hill.
“Fine.” The boy dropped his chin to his chest, closing his eyes.
Her tousled red hair tied into a ponytail framed her delicate features. She didn’t hide in the face of danger. Instead, she rose and trekked with a silent sprint to one of the gas pumps illuminated by the glowing fluorescent lamps overhead. With her back against the pump, the panting teen snuck a glance of the front portion of the station, enough time to determine it to be empty. She then inspected the mirrors positioned above the surrounding pumps. She couldn’t detect any movements. It was safe. The same stealthy dart she used from the top of the hill to the pump, she used again to fall into a crouch at the foot of the door of the station.
Meanwhile, the boy’s curiosity dragged him from cover. He traced the teen’s footsteps to the pump. He never liked anyone telling him what to do, especially a girl.
From her crouched position, the teen poked her deep green eyes through a crack in the door. Everything appeared normal, nothing out of place. Had there been a struggle, a fight, a mess, she would have known. Hard to miss those things when that is all she had seen for months. No, what caught her imagination was not the state of the station, but the shelves. Her jaw nearly dropped to the ground. Candy in colorful plastic wrap filled the aisles. Cartons and boxes of cookies lay unopened. Chip bags of all varieties still had their puffiness to them. The sight made the girl’s stomach rumble. She rubbed her tummy gently, soothing the pangs. Her back fell on the glass next to the door. Temptation and caution screamed at her. Should she or shouldn’t she? She took a deep breath and held it for what seemed an eternity. Slowly she let it go. Once more she poked her head through the door crack. This time, she eased the door open and snuck in.
The boy darted to the front of the station with the skill of a cheetah. He also pressed his head through the door crack. His mouth watered seeing the delectable candy, cookies and chips on the shelves.
Inside the bright white station, the teen slunk the floor. She inspected one aisle after another until satisfied no one else roamed the store. Leaning against the end of a shelving unit, she rested, her heart pounding, wanting to burst from her chest. She closed her eyes and inhaled heavy allowing peace to surround her.
The calm lasted a few seconds before the exploding sound of a firearm broke the silence. Standing over the little boy, Ranger Martin held his still-smoldering shotgun.
The teen flung open the door to the gas station brandishing a silver Colt .45 pointed directly at Ranger’s satisfied smirk.
“Stop, Matty. Look!” The boy extended his index finger to the dead creature lying in a pool of green goo in front of him past the door.
“Who the hell are you?” Matty didn’t flinch. She kept the gun pointed at the stranger.
“Ranger Martin.” He gave her a nod and retracted his weapon.
For a split second her attention drew to the corpse and back again. “What kind of a name is Ranger?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” He reloaded his shotgun one shell at a time.
“It’s short for Matilda, if you don’t mind.” She adjusted the grip to the handle of her gun, allowing the sweat to dissipate.
“I don’t mind at all. Now get the gun out of my face.” Rang
er holstered his weapon and brushed Matty aside. He headed straight for the snack shelves inside the station.
The boy ran past her too, but her quick reflexes grabbed at the scruff of his neck, “Where do you think you’re going?” she whispered.
“Let go,” he whispered back, “and put the gun away.” The little boy’s hand tugged at his jacket, breaking free from Matty’s grip. He ran to where the larger-than-life Ranger browsed the candy bars. He refrained from taking one. He wanted to know what the undead killer liked to eat.
Ranger lingered his hand over the peanuts and chocolate bars. Which one? He wondered, noticing the boy’s fascination with his potential choice of food. The boy’s face lit when Ranger chose the plain chocolate bar without the fancy peanuts or creams. The boy promptly filled each of his pockets with the same candy treats. He left one for Ranger on the shelf, in case he was still hungry. The boy grabbed what he could, tore into the wrapper and munched without restraint. One tear of the wrapping after another, the little boy kept staring at Ranger while shoving chocolate into his drooling mouth.
Matty holstered her weapon in the small of her back and removed her knapsack placing it on the floor next to the door. She slowly strolled to the candy bar section, examined Ranger then the shelves. Her eyes widened when she spotted the chocolate and peanuts. She quickly snatched a bar, went next to the door, and sat on the floor, next to her knapsack, with her back against the wall.
Ranger looked at the boy and asked, “What’s your name, kid?”
“Jon.” He said, between gulps of the delicious candy.
“Leader of the resistance?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” He unwrapped more of the chocolate and bit a piece.
“Are you really a Texas ranger?”
“Jon!” Matty scolded him for his nosiness.
“I’m just asking him about his name.”