After the Apocalypse Book 3 Resurgence: a zombie apocalypse political action thriller

by Warren Hately

  “How’s the stew, Vanicek?” he asked. “Heard the first serve wasn’t to your liking.”

  “Something like that,” Tom said. “It’s good. You eat like this always?”

  “Meat supply’s good,” Freestone answered. “Grits are harder to come by.”

  Tom nodded.

  “Are there really more cattle out there roaming on the range?”

  “‘On the range’,” Freestone chuckled.

  “We’re not exactly high country, camped outside Columbus, Ohio,” he said. “You’ve got towns and cities abandoned thick and fast ‘tween here and Oklahoma. But the world’s growin’ over on everything that used to be. They’re out there, yeah. Plenty of ‘em, if you know where to look.”

  “And how to drive them,” Tom said.

  “I can’t take any credit for that.”

  Freestone motioned at several of the nearby men, including the big bruiser who kept staring Tom’s way, most finishing up their dinners no matter how big and hearty the meal. It didn’t seem like anyone was waiting around for ice-cream. The men watching Tom had taken off their shirts now and wrapped strips of fabric around their hands. Teller kept his eyes locked on Freestone and Tom as if hungry for the details, but too far away to eavesdrop.

  Many of the women – free from work at last, and with just a handful of them needed getting the children abed – moved in among their men, most of them proudly, a few of them shy, as if the Confederates’ world was still new. Tom wondered which of them was the young woman Kate he’d heard about from Leon Henderson just days before, and then he was certain he spotted her, even though they’d never met – a pretty but weather-beaten blonde in a yellow anorak standing beside Gary, most lately known for tipping food all over Tom.

  Freestone grew long-winded as the fire crackled and the camp mellowed and he settled down beside Tom.

  “I grew up around horses,” he said. “Knew my way outdoors before any of the Book of Revelations shit started rolling downhill on us.”

  Freestone eased back, resting on one elbow like a man who could, one boot cocked towards the crackling fire.

  “I came across a few of these Texas boys when they came north, tryin’ to find out how far the plague spread,” he said. “Had to give ‘em the bad news how everything was knocked out. They were cattle men, going back generations, and those fellas taught me a thing or two.

  “We stuck it out. A few more folks were likeminded, saw how goin’ back to how things used to be was the safest bet. I’ve seen men, women . . . children too, torn to bits tryin’ to stay with cars and trucks, even with all the fuel run out or spoiled. Didn’t make a lot of sense to me. Life out in the open’s best of all.

  “Hell,” Freestone said. “I sometimes only wish it happened sooner.”

  Something in Tom’s face made the other man’s bemused expression soften.

  “Not that I really mean that,” he said.

  “I’m just surprised to hear you say it,” Tom said. “And mostly because you might be right. The City – and the people I was with – they had you pegged as lawless men. Gangs. Armed raiders. I’ve seen some bad shit too, people turned to eating each other just like they were Furies themselves.”

  “Yep.”

  “You’ve got a good thing here,” Tom said.

  He waited, catching Freestone’s eye.

  “But it could be better.”

  There was curiosity as well as bemusement, maybe even a touch of respect in Freestone’s look. Thus encouraged, Tom plunged on with his pitch.

  *

  SOMETHING IN FREESTONE’S pensive silence encouraged the men standing in a knot near the bonfire. The bigger of the men strode towards them, though he halted a dozen feet away.

  “What do you say, boss?”

  There was no mistaking the look as his eyes flicked from Freestone to Tom and Freestone joined him in it.

  Sucking his teeth, Freestone stood with an older man’s groan.

  This didn’t bode well.

  The sinking feeling in Tom’s gut was only familiar once it returned, the chill certainty of doom banished from memory after each precious past survival. Tom’s body knew the jig was up, even if there was nothing in Freestone’s expression to give anything away.

  Freestone barely looked at him, though he still managed to scan Tom up and down before turning back to the would-be pugilist.

  “Does he look like he could go a round with anyone right now, Frank?”

  The other man’s face split into a wide grin, clearly unconcerned. Freestone waved him back. The other men were still rolling their shoulders, warming up for whatever passed for entertainment around these parts. Tom shot rapidfire looks at Freestone, mouth gone dry, scanning about to see if any of the men had drawn guns or if the ropes would return.

  Maybe it was possible he was a mere witness to the Confederates’ rough brand of self-adapted social order, fisticuffs the outlet for dissent and rivalry within their ranks. That’s how Leon Henderson made it sound. And maybe they really were doing better without the City. The deaths on Tom’s conscience was testament to that.

  But the men kept glancing his way, checking the wraps around their bare knuckles, Gary removing his belt and using that instead.

  Tom almost didn’t notice Freestone’s slow and theatrical moves towards them.

  “Which one of you’s angriest?”

  The men glanced among each other, but Teller only had eyes for Tom, and pushed between his comrades to the front. He was six foot and rangy, long reddish-blonde hair in a ponytail. Maybe thirty. Everyone looked older in zombie years, as Tom’s kids said it. The thought of his children far away and maybe never to be seen again plunged an icy dagger into Tom’s chest amid the nonsensical thought that soon it’ be yet another night they’d been apart.

  And one more night felt like all he might have left. The idea of spending it without them, beaten or throat slit or shot in the back of the head in the middle of nowhere, lit a reluctant, slow-burning fire in him. Despite his decrepitude, Tom squeezed his hands into fists.

  The other men didn’t even think to vie for the honors as Teller joined Freestone’s side.

  “OK now, just a mild one,” the leader said.

  He looked at Tom and drank in his look of trepidation.

  “I’m not going to kill you, Vanicek,” he said with a mild chuckle. “But I’m more’n happy if you end up wishing you were dead.”

  Then he took a deliberate step back as Teller closed in.

  *

  THE WOMEN AND all of the other men joined together watching as Teller glared at Tom and unbuttoned his checkered shirt to reveal a broad-shouldered, but sinewy frame. He threw the shirt behind him, unmindful the knuckles he cracked and squeezed into fists went unwrapped, the look in his eye suggesting he welcomed the release of pain for both of them.

  Tom got to his feet again, but knew he seemed almost helpless, hunched to one side, filthy and wounded and weak and deserving their contempt – and their anger. Once again, he was staring death in the eye, and it was only the thought of all he had to lose that made it even possible to think he might have one last fight left in him still. Inspired by Gary’s move, Tom undid his belt and pulled it free, and Teller merely watched him, unimpressed, as Tom fashioned some kind of protection around his left hand and did everything in his power to conceal that he could barely move his other arm at all.

  Teller snorted, and one of the women yelled out to warn him in case Tom tried using the buckle, but he had nothing like that in mind. Tom wanted to live, and fighting dirty was just as likely to see them haul his ass into the desert for the execution he so feared. Tom glanced at the spectators, not all, but most with looks of vengeful glee on their faces. He was shocked to see the newcomer Kate in among it all, pointing at Tom as she yelled, “Watch out, he’s a big bastard!”

  Teller lumbered in at a run to close the distance and Tom barely lurched aside to dodge a punch to the head, though the follow-up, Teller’s left jab, brushed
the tip of Tom’s nose and somehow missed. It didn’t matter. Tom tripped backwards, breath exploding from his lungs as he tumbled end over, starbursts of pain in his shoulder as he got to his feet again just in time for Teller to club him in the side with another fist.

  Tom couldn’t draw a breath, though he bent out of the way of the next blow, shuffled aside, completely failed to deploy his right arm, then barely managed to block a punch with his left. The stink of Teller’s gum disease was the least of his worries. Tom made an exploratory push with his left arm, forcing his opponent back a step, then simply walked right into Teller’s right hook.

  Pain and galaxies exploded in Tom’s skull.

  He stumbled and somehow didn’t fall, but that didn’t matter either. Teller danced in, confident now he could see the extent of Tom’s invalidity, short jabbing blows raining down on the side of Tom’s head and left shoulder. Blind instinct saw Tom grab with his leather-bound left hand, falling against Teller who flung him aside into the dirt with a disgusted grunt.

  His boot came down on Tom’s ribs and they broke like traitors.

  Teller then dropped his weight on one knee, right into the middle of Tom’s chest. He poised his right arm like a snake waiting for the moment to strike as Tom tried wriggling free, lifting one forearm to cover his face and trying not to shriek in pain. Teller hit him again three times anyway.

  “Alright!”

  Freestone clapped loudly and Teller paused, getting himself into check and sneering down at Tom like he wanted to spit. Then he stood, removing his weight, and Tom rolled to one side and spat blood and could only listen as Teller and Freestone clasped hands.

  *

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the man who beat him brought him a horse.

  Not that he had an eye for such things, but Tom recognized the old palomino as the same animal Pamela led towards them during their ill-fated escape attempt two days before, and the significance of the selection wasn’t lost on Tom. Teller handed Tom the reins and shot a look across as Freestone emerged from his tent and started towards them carrying Tom’s bow.

  Teller sniffled.

  “I’m surprised we’re not riding to find you a good strong tree or a street light,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  Teller obviously wasn’t prepared for agreement. He stared at Tom, not quick enough to formulate a smart reply, and the admission turned into a begrudging grin.

  “Can you even ride?”

  “About to find out.”

  “OK,” Teller said. “Her name’s Trigger.”

  “Like Roy Rogers’ horse,” Freestone said.

  He nodded to Teller, who dismissed himself.

  “Don’t fall off and get yourself killed,” Freestone said, then offered Tom the archery gear. “I want you back three days from now with Trigger here, telling me if they’re desperate enough to buy into your idea.”

  Tom turned the longbow over with one hand, his right arm frozen to the shoulder and bound now in a sling. Then he slid the weapon into his mount’s saddle, clutched the pommel, and gave a reluctant look towards Freestone, who chuckled disdainfully, shook his head, and used his shoulder to help Tom up onto the beast. Every part of Tom hurt, and shunting atop a gigantic animal didn’t help much. It was all he could do right then not to fall straight off again.

  It was at least thirty miles to the City. The idea of another night out in open terrain with his ribs taped and one arm not working sent a chill through him. If any of that awareness of what Tom risked registered in Freestone’s sunny disposition, it didn’t show.

  “Good luck, Vanicek,” was all the older man said. “If you quit on me and don’t come back, keep your people away from mine or there’ll be hell to pay. Got it?”

  “I hear you . . . Colin.”

  The name caught Freestone off guard, and Tom wished he could use that moment to wheel the horse about and expertly take off, but he barely knew what he was doing and could only leave the Confederates chief with his mouth screwed up watching Tom weakly nudge the horse into action with his heels. But the horse was reluctant to take heed and the moment dragged on long enough Freestone felt no need to comment except to watch with a wry expression as Trigger took her own damned time doing as Tom wished, and then a minute later trotted south as if eager for a run.

  *

  TOM MADE HIS way to Route 61, letting Trigger walk beside the roadway to protect her feet – or “hooves” as he reminded himself they were called. The horse had a callous disregard for the human on her back as if she also held a grudge for her master’s death. And Tom remembered the fireball billowing after old Cyril recklessly opened up on the farmhouse with his grenade launcher, and was momentarily disoriented by the passage of a mere two days since that pitched life-and-death firefight. Looking back, he wondered why in hell he didn’t question one of MacLaren’s men toting a grenade launcher in the first place.

  So much for a recon mission, Tom thought as he rode, earnestly aware he’d somehow survived the ordeal. Two days before, they’d thought the Confederates mere outlaws, and the decoy farmhouse with its smoking chimney their base. Instead, they’d stumbled on another world, and now only he and Pamela lived to tell the tale.

  He pushed thoughts about Dan MacLaren back in the line.

  Tom muttered something about Gulliver’s Travels under his breath instead as he lifted his gaze from the back of Trigger’s neck to see several faded barns standing isolated and lonely amid the hip-high grass growing everywhere, seedlings taking root in the cracked blacktop, then the first of several wooden homes on the approach to Sunbury with their easy picket fencing. A tree had fallen on one, and where it crushed the once-noble roof, nature had invaded in force. Now the whole building was festooned as a green ruin. Not too much farther ahead came the first intersection in several hours, and then a cluster of commercial buildings at another crossroad even further along.

  Carrion birds circling overhead drew Tom’s raised eyebrow, and for a while as he rode he wondered if the crows smelt the death on him and were just waiting for his exit. But as Trigger and he approached the intersection, he realized the pests had other prey in mind.

  It was too late by then to stop Trigger’s clip-clopping hoof falls.

  All morning he’d checked the slumbering scenery for threats, hyper-sensitive thanks to his injuries. Now, the first of two scarecrow-like Furies appeared in the trees off to Tom’s right, across the highway from an L-shaped brick building with a carpark brimming with hastily-parked vehicles covered in dust and fallen leaves.

  Trigger veered left before Tom could direct her, and he huddled over the horse clutching the reins one-handed wrapped around his fist for dear life. The horse vaulted a ditch on the far side of the road and cantered up loose asphalt to the corner of the old bakery and reared in surprise when another Fury lurched out from the corner wearing a deadly snarl.

  Nothing could stop Tom falling, but he kept hold on the reins and felt his left shoulder nearly pop as the leash snapped taut and his knees crashed into the stony ground. Trigger tried to shake him off, her life depending on it, and Tom unwound his hand as fast as he could, forcing his right shoulder to move through sheer force, gasping and silencing himself as he did it to snatch his longbow from its improvised sheath. Then Trigger reared again, kicking backwards. Tom rolled aside and only then realized the mare’d struck the latest Fury in the chin and midriff and sent it crashing back into the low-roofed brick building with a gut-wrenching snap.

  The pain overwhelming him made survival a mere consequence as Tom staggered onto his feet with the quiver over his shoulder spilling several arrows onto the concrete pavers at the corner of the defunct building, the longbow awkwardly clutched beneath his malfunctioning right arm, his left shoulder in almost as much agony thanks to the rough dismount from his loyal steed. Bucking a mere handful of yards away from him as if demon possessed, Trigger was a force to reckon with. The first of the other two newly-arrived biters was flattened, caught unaware, and though its
head stayed intact, arms and legs were hopelessly broken as it lay split open on the ground like a rotting melon with hurt feelings.

  It’s fellow steered as clear as it could, the former businessman throwing snarling and confused looks as it whipped about and almost seemed to sniff for trace of Tom. It was wise enough to move out of the way as Trigger finished her dance. Then it lurched for the corner of the building for cover, whereupon the shambolic figure sighted Tom a mere ten yards further along the sidewalk and it scrambled after him with bare, bloody feet slipping on the concrete as Trigger wheeled herself away to safety and then broke into an open run and took off for good.

  There was no time even to think about the supplies she carried. Tom was lucky to have his ancestral weapon – for all the good it would do him. Thinking on his feet, he hauled himself further along the pavement with the merest glance back to confirm the foul deadly thing in pursuit. Then he ran stumbling along the storefront, its huge glazed windows sticky and obscure with dust, his eyes probing for the main door.

  More than a dozen vehicles were parked along the front of the bakery, testament to mankind’s mad rush for coffee and donuts in the last hours before the end of the world. The rest of the carpark was a crush of yet more cars and SUVs and minivans parked haphazardly, perhaps at a later time, a handful of wind-eaten cadavers moldering on the ground between them on a carpet of spent brass casings and dead leaves.

  To Tom’s widening horror, a second, seriously large Fury appeared at the other end of the walkway as if caught by surprise. It emitted a bark like a sea lion and threw itself into a mad run at him, the black guy with a powerful frame before his life was taken, revived in the last few months and now hurtling at him with big hands outstretched with rending fingers.

  Adrenalin dulled the pain in favor of survival as Tom twisted about and ran into the carpark, taking the longbow in his left hand, twisting the stave around to position it, and suddenly aware he couldn’t even draw an arrow. The loose gravel of the lot was slippery footing as he veered around the first odd-angled wreck, where he reclutched the bow with his right arm, forced back his hand to tug free an arrow, then turned and let the bow fall downwards, trapping it with his left hand and more or less slotting the shaft into the right alignment to be nocked and drawn.