Ranger Martin and the Zombie Apocalypse

by Jack Flacco

  Wildside needed a detonator. The part went along with all the other materials Ranger had supplied Wildside over the course of weeks, including the packages of fertilizer.

  After they both agreed to the plan, Wildside went to bed, leaving Ranger to enjoy his coffee under the warmth of the amber lamp in the kitchen. For a while, he sat playing with his mug thinking how things in his life before the change didn’t make sense. How he’d wandered through life without purpose. Now he understood where he fit. Everyone depended on him. Everyone needed him.

  Jon couldn’t sleep. He made his way from the second floor steps to where Ranger sat. He rubbed his eyes, removing the slumber. A yawn took hold, then an itch behind his head. He scratched.

  “Why are you up?” Jon asked, taking a seat across from Ranger.

  “You first.”

  “I thought I heard talking. Your turn.”

  “I was doing the talking.” Ranger took a swallow of his coffee and placed the mug on the table. “You ought to go back to bed.”

  “I will.” He eased Ranger’s mug closer. Anything to be like his hero. Even if it meant drinking coffee before bed.

  Ranger dragged the cup away from the kid. “I don’t think so. We don’t want you jumping on the mattress all night.”

  Jon nodded. “What are you thinking about?”

  “That’s a pretty grownup question.” Ranger thought for a moment. “Then again, you’re not exactly in a kid’s world, are you?”

  Jon didn’t answer.

  “I’m thinking of how best I can help. Of how can I protect y’all without making a mess of things.”

  “I don’t think you could ever make a mess of things, Ranger.” Jon leaned forward. “You know, when you met us at the gas station, we didn’t know what was going to happen to us. We thought for sure we would end up dead in some cornfield with eaters chewing on our bones. We had gone through so much: those things attacking our bus, running away for days with only a few snacks in our backpacks, not knowing if we’d find anyone else alive…”

  Ranger exhaled but remained quiet.

  “Then…well, you came along. Wow. If you weren’t there that night, we’d still be out wandering, hoping we’d find others like us. You’re a superhero, Ranger. You saved us.”

  For some reason, he needed to hear those words. Ranger Martin, everyone’s hero.

  * * *

  A shotgun over Harper’s shoulder, a pistol in Martha’s dress, they accompanied Randy to his former home. The morning dragged on, leaving a bitter, pale light in the wake of the day. Each house they passed in the neighborhood had an overgrowth of grass, unkempt gardens, and dirty windows. The mailboxes lay empty while the driveways collected litter from flying debris.

  “Your momma was a good woman,” Martha said. “She knew how to brighten up a room with her cheery smile.”

  “Is it much closer?” Randy asked, uninterested in what Martha felt about his mother. Not that he didn’t care. He just didn’t have the memories to express an emotional connection.

  “Right here, son.” Harper stopped at the house with the traditional white picket fence.

  “Can I go in on my own?”

  “How ’bout we take y’all the way to the door.” Martha answered.

  No arguments. To the Morrow door they went. Before Randy stepped in, Martha grabbed him by the elbow and handed him her gun. She cupped his hands around it, passing him a reassuring smile, as if saying, it’s all right, son.

  When he made it into the living room, his eyes drifted to the photos on the fireplace mantel. A slow walk overtook his feet compelling him forward. With interest, he scanned the frames. One photo showed two people pushing a child on a swing. Another, the same two people strolled with the child along the bank of the creek. His gaze drifted to a photo of a junior high graduation. He picked up the frame and stared at it for some time. He recognized himself. The people next to him must’ve been his mother and father. The same people in all the other photos.

  Randy turned the frame around, unfastened the backing, and slipped the photo into his hands, returning the empty frame to the mantel. He bent the photo once and slipped it into his back pocket. The empty frame stared at him. It felt robbed of its memories. And with the nagging in his heart to restore the frame’s sense of belonging among the other frames, he reached for his wallet. The picture he kept hidden in the snakeskin billfold of the house with the white picket fence and car slid into his hands, and came to rest over the empty picture frame. Things were now as before. A memory for a memory.

  The same slow step he used to approach the mantel, he used to enter the kitchen. He attempted to recall something from his past but nothing sparked his memory. Before leaving, he threw a disinterested glance out the back window. That was all it took for him to decide to investigate further. He swung the door open to reveal the reason for his curiosity.

  Two fresh graves lay side by side in the backyard. Each marked with a stick. Randy couldn’t help but think the graves belong to anyone else other than his parents. The question in his mind took form. How did his parents come to rest in the backyard of their home? Did they die because the eaters killed them? Or, did they die as eaters, killed by others in self-defense?

  Randy emerged from the house with a question at the ready, “How did my parents die?”

  “Now, son, let me have that gun.” Harper said, before taking it from Randy’s hand.

  “There’s nothing we could do.” Martha said. “Everyone was killing each other, and we was all running scared.”

  “How did my parents die?”

  Harper placed his hand on Martha’s shoulder, answering as direct as he could. “Your father died being eaten alive.”

  “And my mother?”

  “I’m sorry.” Martha stared at her feet. “I killed your momma.”

  Harper added. “She was eating your father alive.”

  “We buried them together.”

  Randy stepped away from them, to the walkway, past the gate, and headed to the car.

  “Where are you going, son?” Martha asked.

  “There’s not much for me to do here. Maybe I can help somewhere else.”

  Chapter 9

  Close to noon. Ranger’s pickup trekked the distance from the silo to Jessum. He’d made the journey so many times that it had an air of routine to it. His worn eyes tell the story of a restless night, keeping the demons he had slain out of his mind. More than once, he’d risen from his slumber to empty his head with a walk. Yet, with the town fast approaching, he focused on his goal. He wanted to get some food to make the day special. His visitors, Matty and Jon, needed a home cooked meal to allow them to forget about what they had gone through to get to the silo.

  Arriving at Jessum, Ranger’s truck crawled through Main Street. Prepared for anything, he never liked the fact zombies could jump out at any time. With a watchful eye, he kept his gaze on the sidewalks. If they jumped out, they’d come at him from the sides.

  When he saw the empty streets, the quaint shops, the desolate alleyways, he smiled. The many trips he took to the town made it feel like a second home. The market stood silent with cars parked in the lot. Many of them stood abandoned by their owners who either met their fate with a belly-crusher or became an eater themselves.

  Ranger didn’t have to worry about his truck. He could park on the sidewalk if he wanted. Who would ticket him? Who would fine him? Who would tow him? With no ramifications for his actions, he could do what he wanted. A society without people is a society without laws. He parked his vehicle in front of the market, without the need to worry about the ticket, the fine or the tow.

  Scanning his surroundings, he popped from his pickup. His shotgun in one hand and a duffle bag in the other, nothing would stand in his way in his hunt for a lavish evening meal. Slamming the door, he settled into his confident strut. Into the market he went.

  The store shelves appeared half-filled. The selection limited. He knew what he desired, and he knew where to find it.
With a selective eye, he examined the stock on hand. No one had taken the canned goods yet, which always meant to him the change must have happened rapidly. It also meant not many survivors from nearby townships had come to pillage store supplies.

  When he came upon the shelf he had so searched for, his stomach growled. Italian tomato sauce jars covered the one side. And right below, pasta packages lay there for the taking. Ranger didn’t have to worry about paying anyone because no one stood at cash. He didn’t have to worry about a store guard either, arresting him because he used a duffle bag to steal the goods from the store without paying.

  He filled the bag with a couple of jars of sauce and plenty of spaghetti pasta packages, then headed to the snacks area. He grabbed the last box of crackers and stuffed it in the bag. His eyes then spotted a shelf of treats. Studying his choices, he settled for some chocolate-filled cookies and marshmallows. Ranger’s sweet tooth declared his vice.

  As he filled his duffle bag with goods, he couldn’t believe what he saw passing the window of the market outside. A figure with a slender frame walked the streets alone. Could it be someone had a death wish? Gathering the last of his foodstuffs, Ranger zipped the bag, and headed to the wanderer without fear. Always aware, his senses didn’t detect a trap. The figure kept walking as Ranger left the market, and placed the goods he had taken into his pickup. Keeping his shotgun pointed down, he moved to the figure.

  When he stood about ten feet away, Ranger called out. “Hey.”

  Like a frightened bird, Randy spun around. Ranger’s quick reflexes heaved the gun to his face, aiming it at the boy.

  Randy threw his hands up without thinking. “Don’t shoot.”

  Ranger drew the shotgun away from his eye. “What are you doing here, kid? I thought you were one of the flesh-gatherers.”

  “I’m not. I’m—” he exhaled deeply, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  “Put your hands down. I ain’t gonna shoot you. We’re on the same team.”

  Randy dropped his hands to his side and pondered on Ranger, the pickup, and the shotgun. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “I’m from a ways down the road.” Ranger holstered his weapon. “Where did you come from?”

  “I came from the Katlyn County Jail.”

  “What? You some kind of murderer?”

  “No.” Came his flat reply. “At least, I don’t think. I woke up there.”

  “Well, I can’t say I’ve had the same thing happen to me, and I’m good for looking.” Ranger joked, speaking about his attractive features in an immodest way.

  Randy peered over Ranger’s shoulder to examine the beat-up truck.

  “What? You eyeing my ride?” Ranger asked. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  Walking a few paces ahead, Ranger brought him to admire the pickup parked by the side of the market. “This here ride’s got me out of one jam after the next. I’m never gonna get rid of this beauty. Too many memories for me to throw her to the dump heap.”

  “It looks like it’s about to pass out.”

  His hand stroked the hood’s brown, tarnished paint. “One time, you know what this here vehicle did? I well near had me a crowd of zombies surrounding me in the mountains. They pushed me to the edge of a canyon with no escape. Well, I tell ya, I took this here truck, plowed backward into the belly-bursters, shifted into drive and ran the edge of the cliff with it. Now I hadn’t seen another edge on the other side since the first comin’. Well, she went and spotted it and burned air to get to the other ledge. Mmm, hmm. She y’all went and made it. I was woohooin’ so loud, I thought the zombies would pop out of nowhere to tear at my innards. That was one of the single best days in my life.”

  “Quite a story.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “My ride’s over there, but...I don’t know where I’m headed right now.”

  “You’re more than welcomed to ride with me.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “Listen, we have food, electricity and safety. For now at least. Before you make up your mind, you can enjoy my hospitality.”

  Randy glanced in the direction of his parent’s home. He didn’t have anything there to keep him in town. His sights then turned to the car he had taken from jail. Where could he go with that? Then he pondered on Ranger’s offer, his pickup, and Ranger’s animated, good nature. He didn’t have a history to hold him down. He could go wherever he wanted. His thoughts drifted some more, thinking about it. “How about some other time.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Randy just about turned to his car and left when he detected movement coming from one of the bakery windows next to the truck. He froze, not able to make out shapes. At first, he thought he saw one of those bread making machines churning in the back of the store, but that idea soon faded when shadows against the walls of the shop seized his stomach in anxiety. Silence chilled the air, forcing him to remain motionless.

  Ranger saw the movement too, and held a tight grip on his weapon, rubbing the butt almost as if he needed the comfort. His eyes widened at the prospect of finding others like Randy. Yet his senses convinced him otherwise.

  A shadow floated aimless at first, but then stopped. Both Ranger and Randy gazed into the darkness not knowing what to think of it. They remained glued to the street, not wanting to startle anything or anyone. Ranger’s eyes narrowed. Randy’s breathing slowed.

  At the moment when all went quiet, a cat popped from under one of the cars behind them and shrieked across the street to a nearby alley. The pair threw reassuring glances at each other, relieved. A slight smile edged the corner of Ranger’s mouth. They relaxed their postures.

  “I nearly burned a shell on that critter.” Ranger said.

  And with those words, the door to the bakery shop slammed open. Two flesh-suckers poured from the store. One of them, which stood a few inches shorter, lunged at Randy. The other limped to Ranger.

  Randy’s anger at the walking rat pile boiled, and caused him to rush the fiend, taking it down with a tackle.

  Amused, Ranger peeked over the hood of his vehicle, and watched, ignoring the limping zombie. “Watch the bites.” Ranger said, seeing Randy as more annoyed then threatened. “Grab him by the hair.”

  The limping zombie couldn’t get through the parked cars. It attempted to squeeze between the bumpers. It didn’t work. It got stuck.

  Meanwhile, Ranger couldn’t contain himself any longer. Not wanting to embarrass the boy, he chuckled to himself. He held his gaze on the struggle, even shaking his head at his own amusement. Randy had pinned its shoulders to the sidewalk. The zombie thrashed about. It chomped a few times at Randy’s face, but didn’t do any real damage. The other eater couldn’t break free from its jam. It’d wedge itself solid between the cars and could only move its arms, swiping in mid-air to Ranger’s yawns.

  “A little help?” Randy grabbed hold of the zombie’s head and kept smashing it on the sidewalk.

  “You’re doing a good job. Keep it up.” Ranger turned and leaned on his pickup, waiting for the kid to finish what he’d started.

  Giving an exasperated sigh at Ranger’s attitude, Randy kept pounding the vile beast’s head until it stopped moving. When he had reduced the zombie to a mound of jitter, Randy rose, brushed off zombie matter from his shirt and asked, “Why didn’t you help?”

  Ranger turned to him. “It’s dead, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah. But—”

  “Then you didn’t need my help.”

  Like magic, the zombie leapt from its temporary sidewalk grave and pounced on Randy.

  “Duck.” Ranger said in a dry voice.

  “What?” Randy spun around to the attacking fiend.

  “I said, duck.”

  “No!” He ducked.

  Ranger’s knife caught and penetrated the eater in the eye. The body hovered there for a moment with the handle sticking out of its head. Disappointment and surprise flooded Ranger’s face. It should ha
ve fallen by now, he thought. Instead it stood there with its knees locked for a long time until it finally dropped.

  Randy hopped straight to his feet, and glared at Ranger wondering why he hadn’t killed it earlier when he needed help the most. Was it Ranger’s way of proving the boy’s manhood? Did Ranger do this with everyone he met? Whatever the motive, he didn’t feel threatened by the knife-throwing champion, but reconsidered his offer. “Mind if I come with you?”

  Hopping into his truck, Ranger said, “Don’t forget to fetch the knife.”

  Randy took his answer as a yes and crouched to the dead body. Seeing no movement, he pulled the knife from its face, and cleaned the green slime from the blade on the eater’s shirt. He then rose to stare at the festering bag of bones still stuck between Ranger’s pickup and the car behind it. He ignored the flailing hands and jumped into the passenger seat of the truck, closing the door behind him. Curiosity blanketed his face as he shifted his eyes from Ranger, over his shoulder to the pinned zombie.

  “You know what I don’t like about my truck?” Ranger asked.

  “That it looks as if you haven’t vacuumed the inside for years?”

  “I still can’t seem to get the gears right.” He started the engine and shifted the gear. “Sometimes I want to go forward.” He pressed the gas, and the truck crushed the eater’s legs to a scream. “But it goes backward.” He shifted the gear again, moving the truck forward and watched in the rearview mirror the bag of bones collapse between the bumpers, its head leaning against the bumper of the other vehicle, writhing in pain. “And sometimes…well, sometimes I want to go backward.” Again, he shifted the gear, floored the gas pedal, and slammed into the eater’s head, crushing it to a flat mess of green sludge. Ranger shook his head at Randy, “I’m never too sure, from one moment to the next, how my truck’ll react when I hit the gas.”