She pulled a battered iPhone from the pocket of her extremely short shorts, grabbed the Stetson from my head and placed it over her windblown tangle of honey blonde curls. She leaned in next to me as she held the phone at arm’s length. “Getting a selfie. Smile dummy.”
She clicked a couple of pics and put my hat back where it belonged. She kissed me on my cheek.
“That’s from me for luck.” She said, then nipped my earlobe with her teeth and ran her tongue across my ear. “That’s from my sister, she’s the slutty one. Good luck, Cowboy. Gotta go.”
She shimmied into the back seat and was seated in the Camaro before I could fully process what had just happened. I laughed out loud, sometimes I love my life. I hoped the boys in the Chevelle got the refuel on film, that was fine piece of work. I watched in the rearview as Cicada worked the emergency brake into a controlled power slide and the pair of beauties rocketed back to wherever they came from. I took one last wistful look at the blonde curls whipping in the wind. They were quite the pair. I would never betray what me and Caitlin had, but damned if the attention wasn’t nice.
I checked the time and mileage. I was nearly halfway there. I was beating the clock thanks to the good people of this new world rallying behind me. Maybe for them it was the excitement, a break from the monotonous routine living behind the walls breeds. Maybe it was the peek behind the curtain of what the life of a retriever was really like and getting to be a part of it.
I’d fought bandits, slavers, cannibals, the undead, wild animals and just about every variety of asshole there was at one time or another, but never against these odds with the world watching. They were waiting to see if I could do what no one else had done and live to tell it. Well, in case you didn’t realize it, I’m a showoff by nature and was gonna do my damnedest not to disappoint.
11
All In
East of Greenbrier, AR
Crash and Conor, the video boys in the Chevelle weren’t with me anymore. Either the allure of the Mills sisters had been too much for them or they were getting a refuel in the Eastwood settlement, either way, I was on my own again.
There was black smoke in the distance. I was running solo, so whatever was ahead was up to me to deal with. I topped a hill in the road, ready to run and gun but the battle here was already over. I recognized Derek Leverknight’s bobtail Kenworth parked on the shoulder of the road, his Vespa scooter rocket launcher lashed to the back. The black smoke I’d seen was from the two cars burning in the ditch. He was finishing off the wounded and no doubt looking at their faces to see if they matched any of the wanted posters he kept on a clipboard in the cab of his truck. I blew the horn at Sara in the old school CJ-5 Jeep standing behind an M-60 machine gun and threw a wave in her direction. There’s just something about women in Jeeps with full auto weapons that makes me happy. I hailed them on the radio, thanked them for the assist and hauled ass.
A few miles later, I saw the 1963 Chevrolet Impala sitting at a crossroads waiting for me. The muscle car had expanded metal grates over the windows, a welded pipe bumper protected the rear, and the front wore a heavy-duty push guard adapted from a pickup truck. The bright orange vehicle sat on a truck suspension with large knobby tires that stuck out wide from underneath the wheel wells. A man with short steel gray hair and a goatee to match was hanging out the sunroof holding a Scorpion submachine gun. He wore wraparound shades and had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. When they fell in beside me, I caught a glimpse of the driver. Bearded with longish blonde hair, solidly built, wearing a black leather jacket covered in patches and driving gloves. He raised a pair of fingers in acknowledgement, and I nodded back. These must be the entertainers, Shelman and Simpson.
I’d heard of them but didn’t know them. Before the end of the world, they were singers or writers or maybe singers and writers, hell, I didn’t know or care. They had what it took to survive this far, that was good enough for me. Now, they travelled from settlement to settlement putting on shows like the bards of old. Simpson spun wild tales to the crowds about the exploits of the retrievers, Hell Drivers and bounty hunters while Shelman provided suspenseful background music, or maybe it was the other way around. I’d never seen them perform, that wasn’t really my sort of thing. I preferred the saloons and poker rooms, but Caitlin had been to one of their shows and told me about them. According to her, their shows were immensely popular, and they had plans to renovate the old theatre in Lakota into a live venue complete with a zombie chorus line or some crazy shit.
“Thanks for the assist gentlemen,” I said into the CB.
“No problem pal, we’ve gotta lot of money riding on you reaching the ferry. We’re just looking out for our investment.” The blonde driver replied.
I double clicked the mic in acknowledgement and turned my attention back to the road. They were in if for the money. Nothing more, nothing less. My kind of people.
We hit the next ambush a few miles later. My buddies on the dirt bikes had been joined by a caravan of pickup trucks and cars. None of the vehicles were armored or packing heavy guns in their beds. These were opportunists, not professionals. Most likely a rag tag bunch of degenerates who were too lazy to pull their weight in the settlements and not tough enough to join the hardcore bandits, lured out of whatever run down hovel they called home by Bastille’s radio broadcast and the prospect of easy gold. They were gonna be disappointed if they thought I was easy prey. Their lack of armor and armament indicated they weren’t willing to risk a raid on a military base filled with undead. These were the kind of men and women who’d slit your throat for a can of beans. Scavengers looking to cash in on what they saw as an easy payday. Like the coyotes, one on one they’d probably cut and run when confronted, but in pack strength they could be a force to be reckoned with.
They came at us in both lanes, like we were playing a game of high-speed chicken. They were stupid, charging headlong towards a pair of armored vehicles and a heavy machine gun. The heaviest of their vehicles, a couple of trucks, were in the front, followed by three cars and the dirt bikes. I toggled the joystick on the MK-48 and squeezed the trigger. It was a simple setup, it used a joystick from a PlayStation and an actuator attached to the firing mechanism of the MK-48, but it worked. I kept my foot on the gas and my finger on the trigger. Every fifth round in the belt was a tracer so it was easy to adjust my point of aim. I poured a few hundred rounds into one of the trucks then swiveled over to the other. The first truck barreled off the road, through the ditch and wrapped itself around a tree. Walk that off dickheads. One down, too many to go. The second truck veered into the median, so my next burst mangled the Mustang that had been following him. A tracer round must have hit a fuel line since the car immediately caught fire. The driver fought the shredded tires to keep it on the road and get it stopped before they burned to death. I solved that problem for them with another three second burst through the windshield. The dirt bikes swerved down in the ditches to escape the hail of bullets. I ignored them, their guns were still slung across their backs, so they didn’t pose an immediate threat. Motorcycles are pretty much useless in a run and gun situation, but I guess to them, a share of ten thousand in gold was worth the risk.
The pair in the Impala were running alongside me, Shelman, or it might have been Simpson, was taking shots with his Scorpion at the dirt bike riders who were trying to accelerate past us through the grass of the median and loop around to hit us from behind. He took out one of the riders with a three round burst through the helmet. I watched as the rider flopped down the road in a broken pile of broken bones and mangled flesh, while the bike cartwheeled end over end across the opposite lanes into the woods. Three down.
Bullets pinged off my hood and windshield from the shooters in the remaining cars. I kept my finger locked down on the trigger and rotated the joystick in a tight figure eight. The rearmost car slammed on his brakes when the armor piercing rounds carved up chunks of asphalt in front of his car. He skidded to a halt, threw the car
into reverse and ran. I fired another short burst for effect, but he was weaving side to side and steadily gaining speed in the opposite direction. That was the first smart play I’d seen from any of them, so I let him go. The gap between me and the rice burner headed towards me in my lane was closing fast. The passenger kept lobbing bullets from a handgun in my direction. They pinged harmlessly off the bullet proof glass and armored panels. I pushed the pedal harder, felt the Armadillo surge underneath me. I made sure my seatbelt was fastened securely. If he wanted to play chicken with my armored steed, I was willing to play too.
The one I decided was Shelman swapped the submachine gun for a grenade launcher. The Impala was taking fire from several shooters in the remaining truck that was now behind us along with the last dirt bike. The guy on the motorcycle was trying to steer with one hand and shoot Shelman from his perch with a pistol. I saw Shelman flinch from a lucky shot just as he pulled the trigger on the launcher. The truck exploded in a blaze of glory and shrapnel. Shelman dropped back into the seat with his hand pressed against his neck, while Simpson stood on the brakes. Unable to react in time with only one hand on the handlebars, the dirt bike slammed into the unyielding armored rear end of the car. The rider flew over the car to bounce down the asphalt in an impressive display of shattered limbs and muted screams. Simpson ran over his body as he accelerated the powerful machine to get back in the fight.
I was close enough to the last car, a Nissan Altima, to see the crazed look on the drivers face. He’d seen his entire crew wiped out. His passenger, a woman, quit shooting at me. She was screaming and grabbing for the wheel. He backhanded her and she fell back against her seat. I flipped him the bird and held my course. Stupid maybe, but I wasn’t gonna be the one to swerve. The distance closed to nothing between us. I held the wheel straight, I was tired of this shit. I had a lot of ground clearance and the Armadillo was a heavy machine, I’d roll right over the top of them.
He swerved the wheel hard to the right just before we collided. The tires lost their hold on the highway and the car barrel rolled through the air before landing upside down in the ditch. I heard the explosion when Shelman launched a grenade into the Altima before the bandits could crawl free of the wreckage.
The whole fight had lasted less than a couple of minutes and I was running clear again. I picked up the mic.
“You boys alright?” I asked.
“Simpson here. We’re fine. Shelman caught a nasty graze across the neck from that asshole on the scooter. He’s gonna need several stitches and lots of bourbon, so this is where we part ways.”
“Roger that. I owe y’all one. I’ll make damned sure I hold up my end of the deal. Nothing’s gonna keep me from crossing the river.” I replied.
“Copy that. Simpson out. I’m gonna hold you to it. Good luck, don’t get hit by a bus.” I watched in the rearview as he pulled over to the shoulder to patch up his friend.
12
Backdoor
Eastern AR
The Chevelle was back to dogging my bumper a few minutes later. Crash radioed to get details of what they’d missed, but I was too exhausted to oblige them. Normally, I don’t mind talking about my exploits to anyone who will listen, it is my favorite subject after all, but a bone deep weariness had taken hold of me. I’d barely slept for the past three days and after the surges of adrenaline from the running battles wore off, I was running on fumes. A glance at the gas gauge confirmed I wasn’t the only one. The Armadillo was showing less than a quarter tank on the gas gauge. Luckily for me, some old friends were waiting, I could see the black smoke from Scratch’s rig less than half a mile in front of me.
I took my foot off the accelerator and watched as the hydraulic ramps lowered from the rear of the flatbed trailer. Sparks flew when the metal ramps met the asphalt showering the mohawked man with the clawed gauntlets like sparklers at a rock concert. The man was a born performer, so he played it up for the boys in the Chevelle, who were steady filming his air guitar solo before he mimed tossing a guitar into the crowd and thrust his arms into the air as the imaginary roar of the crowd screamed for more. He was dressed in black leather boots and pants, a black t-shirt emblazoned with skulls, dark makeup shrouded his eyes while his mohawk and earrings whipped in the wind.
I rolled up on the flatbed and pulled to a stop behind an ambulance van with New Mexico plates. The back doors of the ambulance van stood open and an older woman standing between them wearing an EMT uniform beckoned me to come to her.
Stabby yanked open my door, wrapped me up in a bear hug and slapped me on the back.
“Bloody hell mate, ya gone daft on me I hear. Zombies on this side of the river not good enough for ya?” Stabby yelled over the sound of the wind as Scratch increased the speed of his rig.
I climbed out of the Armadillo and stretched my stiff muscles. A man with a long ponytail toting a pair of fuel cans shimmied past me and gave me a shit eating grin.
“East of the big muddy, aye, you ready to feel like a secondhand dartboard?” He yelled over the wind whistling along the length of the trailer.
“If you don’t already know him, that’s me mucker, Dave Small,” Stabby said, pointing at the goateed man with the ponytail. “That lass over there in the box is me mate, Beverly. She’s gonna fix you up nice while Dave tops off your fuel. Don’t just stand there bloke, time’s a wasting.”
“I know that tea sipping, biscuit munching limey bastard, can’t hold his liquor for shit.” I said loudly enough for Dave to hear. He replied by showing me the hangnail on his middle finger, then started dumping fuel in the Armadillo. His duster flapped in the wind behind him and gave me a peek at the ivory grips of the single action Colt Peacemakers he wore in a fancy leather double gun rig that sat low on his waist, leather thongs tied around his lower thighs to speed his draw. No doubt, there were more surprises hidden away under the long leather duster. On his head sat a low-rise top hat and I took a second to admire his headpiece, it was exquisite. Rumor had it that a drunk snatched it from its perch one night and ended up a couple of fingers lighter when Dave took offense. You just don’t mess with a man’s hat if you know what’s good for you, especially a fellow like Dave. I am a connoisseur of fine hats and his was as fine as they come. It was a rich shade of brown with a braided horsehair band and sported a pheasant feather waving jauntily in the wind. That fancy hat was the calling card of one of the most feared bounty hunters alive, the kind of hunter who preferred the docility of a dead bounty. Dave was also a fellow gambler and another British chap like Stabby. We’d faced each other across the poker table a few times, but I’d never been able to do more than break even against him.
I approached the ambulance where Beverly stood, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently on the steel deck of the trailer. I didn’t recognize her, but I knew her type. Most of the EMS personnel were among the first to get infected due to the lack of understanding surrounding the virus. If she was still around after all this time, either she had been extremely lucky or extremely tough. Judging from the way she carried herself, my money was on the latter. The patches on her uniform said Laude over one pocket and Santa Fe EMS over the other. Her long gray hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that whipped in the wind, a stethoscope hung around her neck. She gave me an impatient look and ordered me to sit, so I sat, glad for a short respite from the breakneck driving.
“When’s the last time you slept?” She asked as she rolled my eyelid back and shined a small light in my eyes. “You look like hammered shit.”
I started to answer with a smartass comment but got distracted by the syringes she was plucking from the pocket of her uniform shirt. “I have a policy about people I don’t know shoving sharp pointy things into my body.”
She harrumphed. “Word is you are going across the river. I’m going to give you something to boost your immune system, a few vaccinations, a tetanus booster and a B12 shot to pep you up a bit, so sit still and let me do my job.”
The look on her face said she
wasn’t going to take any shit from me, and she had a good point. I know when I’m outgunned so I held still as she poked and prodded at me. She muttered the whole time about what an idiot I was while she squeezed the bulb on the blood pressure cuff wrapped around my arm.
“Your blood pressure is a little elevated, but that’s to be expected judging from the rest of you. Bunch of damn fools, every one of you retrievers. If you don’t die first, there’s no telling what kind of new diseases you’ll be exposed to. You ever stop to wonder what all those mosquitos who’ve been feeding on the dead and the animals that eat them might be carrying? Dengue, Malaria, Zika and West Nile all flavored with a pinch of the zombie virus. Now quit squirming and hold still.” She jabbed me in the arm with the first of several syringes.
I winced as I felt the sting of the first needle. Yeah, I know it doesn’t hurt that much, but I don’t like needles.
The sound of Scratch laying on the air horn cut through the wind noise. I saw Stabby mouth “OH SHIT!” as he came running towards me.
“Bloody hell!” He screamed over the wind. “Those buggers were supposed to be another twenty miles down the road.”
“Don’t move,” Beverly warned as she kept on jabbing me. “I didn’t come all the way out here for nothing.”
I felt the thump as Scratch plowed the big rig through the leading edge of the undead horde. I heard the big diesel groan and felt the trailer shudder as we decelerated from the mass of bodies in the road. Black smoke poured from the stacks as he downshifted and floored the pedal. The flatbed jolted again as the undead were crushed into pulp underneath the tires. Stabby used his spiked gauntlets to spear a zombie through the skull as it grasped at his leg to drag its decaying body over the side of the trailer. He kicked the corpse away and turned to help Dave, who was smashing skulls with an empty gas can, trying to stem the tide that was spilling over the sides of the trailer and dragging themselves up the ramps. Dave barely had room to maneuver, trapped between the edge of the trailer and the Armadillo. A half dozen mangled zombies were clawing and snapping at him. His leather pants, knee high boots and duster protected him, but the leather wouldn’t save him when they dragged him off the trailer into their midst. Stabby dove into the fray, slashing and stabbing until the pair had room to move to the center of the trailer, away from the grasping hands of the horde. Beverly gave me the last injection, then pulled a short-barreled shotgun from inside the van and began to engage the undead that were struggling to climb or leap on board all around us. I emptied my pistol into the heaving mass and made for the Jeep.
Road to Riches: Deadline: Book 1 (Zombie Road) Page 10