The stench of pulverized zombie was nearly unbearable as the combined forty tons of truck and trailer ground them into a greasy stain on the asphalt. The boys in the Chevelle had cut off on a side road to avoid the horde. Smart move, I wish I was riding with them, I thought as I pulled my M4 from the Armadillo and began picking the nasties off as they continued to spill over the sides of the trailer and flying over the cab of the rig. There were thousands of the undead seeking to press in and devour us from both sides. I felt the truck slowing down as Scratch tried to push through the dense mass of the horde.
Did I mention that it was raining zombies as they were smashed against the cow catcher and flung in the air? I barely avoided being crushed by a large male that was streaming his rotted intestines behind him like macabre confetti as he sailed over the cab, mouth full of rotted teeth wide open to tear out my throat, jagged nails reaching for vulnerable flesh, all while he did his best impression of a pro wrestler springing from the top rope. He had the flying thing down to a tee, but his landing needed some work. He hit the trailer headfirst, exploding like a watermelon tossed off an overpass, showering me with gore and chunks of rotted flesh. I pumped a round into what was left of his head for good measure, then picked off a few more that were climbing up the trailer ramps. Most of the airborne zombies were top halves, their bottom half already severed by Scratch’s massive cow catcher bumper. Getting cut in half slowed them but didn’t deter them. It never did, when they couldn’t walk, they drug themselves by their hands, when they couldn’t drag, they’d lie in wait for someone to get close enough to their lethal teeth. They didn’t feel pain only a single minded desire to rend and infect. There were some fresher ones in the horde too, the party wouldn’t be complete without them. They leapt with superhuman strength at us from the sides, over the tops of the others, easily clearing fifteen or twenty feet with a single bound. We hit them hard, pumped rounds into their hips and center mass, hoping for spine shots that would slow them down. Headshots are the only way to keep them down permanently, but their numbers were too great, the motion of the truck too unsteady for precision shots so we focused on driving them back. The staccato chatter of the guns competed with the keening wails of the undead as the truck continued to plow through their ranks. Stabby was laughing and howling as he skewered the attackers with his gauntlet spikes. Heads shattered and fetid brains coated the claws of his weapons as he tore into them with a maniacal grin on his face. Dave had traded his gas can for a Colt Single Action revolver and was fanning the hammer rapid fire as he cut them down with the six shooter. Heads exploded and rotted bodies fell back into the relentless horde as the forty-five caliber slugs did their deadly business. He was wearing several more of the Colts in holsters around his chest and waist as well as carrying a pair of micro-Uzi submachine pistols on a harness under each arm. As soon as one Colt ran empty, he’d spin twirl it back into its holster, pull another one and keep firing.
I fired a round through the skull of a crawler that came out from under Beverly’s van, just before it sunk its rotted teeth into her calf muscle. She startled as the bullet whined and ricocheted off the steel trailer. She gave me the first smile I’d seen out of her while she reloaded the Remington twenty gauge. I tipped my hat at her and went back to the business of killing the undead that were still crawling aboard or landing on the trailer with wet thumps.
Scratch sounded the horn again and the ride smoothed out as we burst through the last line of the horde. We were all splattered with rancid blood and gore, but everyone seemed to be unhurt otherwise. Stabby threw his head back and howled, we all joined in his victory cry.
I pulled in a deep breath of fresh air, zombies’ reek, and kicked a lower leg still wearing a Nike tennis shoe off the flatbed, onto the highway. Broken bodies and severed limbs littered the road as far as I could see, the scavenger animals would feast well for days. The ones not destroyed in our assault followed in slow pursuit of us as we raced eastward, some of them still upright and mobile, others dragging themselves by their fingertips. They would keep on coming until something else drew their attention, but they were someone else’s problem now.
Stabby clapped me on the shoulder. “Ya see me performance, mate, I showed them buggers a thing or two. If it wasn’t time for you to go, I’d have Scratch turn around and have another run at those chaps.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” I shouted to the trio. “Drinks are on me at the Old Goat when I get back.”
“Drink this,” He grinned. “It’s me own version of Gunny’s trucker speed.”
I took a big swallow from the recycled Gatorade bottle. It was nasty, but it hit my system like high octane jet fuel. My heart raced and I swear I could taste colors as the potent potion pushed my body into overdrive.
“What the hell is in that?” I roared over the wind. My heart was hammering in my ears, my body felt electrified. My nerve endings were standing on end. Holy shit, no wonder Stabby was so manic.
“Little of this, little of that. Keep it!” He said and slapped me on the shoulder. “Now get outta here, ya bloody wanker. I’ve got money riding on you!”
I paused to inspect the watch on the severed hand laying on the hood, a fake Rolex, my practiced eyes told me. I climbed back in the Armadillo and fired her up. I backed down the ramps onto the highway and within a couple of minutes I passed the truck, pedal to the metal, the Hemi under the Armadillo’s hood strong and powerful. I pushed hard, the time on the flatbed had been beneficial, but the slow slog through the horde had cut into my lead time. Scratch laid on the air horn as I pushed onward. I hailed him on the CB and trash talked him for a minute.
I never did find out Stabby’s secret trucker speed recipe, but with it coursing through my body, I felt like I could probably get out and run faster than the ninety-five miles an hour showing on the speedometer, then skip across the Mississippi without even getting my feet wet.
13
Fish
Eastern AR
I slowed for the spike strip stretched across both lanes of the highway. I could see a black El Camino nosing out from where it sat backed into the woods. I could circumvent the spike strips by driving down into the ditch, but there was probably a trap there too. There wasn’t time to deal with patching flat tires, so I brought the Armadillo to a stop and slipped the shifter into neutral. Someone wanted my attention. Well now they had it, but they weren’t gonna like it. I grabbed the joystick for the MK-48, ready to shower them with all the attention they could stand.
He stepped out of the woods beside the El Camino. A young man wearing a derby hat pulled low over his brow and a long black duster. A stick of red licorice protruded from the corner of his mouth like a cigar. He swaggered out into the road with all the confidence of a barnyard rooster. He was small statured, not long out of his teens judging by the wispy hairs on his upper lip that barely qualified as a mustache. I watched to see what happened next, waited to see if he had more friends hidden in the woods.
He spread his hands wide and yelled, “I’m all alone and I’m here for you, Rye.”
Great, a gunfighter. Another kid off his medication that fancied himself a badass, one who didn’t have to settle for getting his rocks off torturing house cats any longer. Every one of them I’d met seemed to fit the same mold. Societal outcasts with no motivation, no life skills. Young men who’d spent their lives hiding behind their keyboards and game controllers while the world passed them by instead of chasing girls and hanging out in parking lots with their friends. Desensitized to violence and emotion from the countless hours of online fighting and bloodshed. Those digital outlets were gone, years from coming back, if they came back at all. Thrust into real life after the outbreak, they were ill prepared for survival in the harsh world we inhabited and turned to the only thing they understood to get by. Unrestrained violence against anyone and anything they perceived as weaker than them.
I did not have time for this shit. I contemplated cutting him down where he stood. It would be easy,
just a squeeze and he’d be one more stain on the cracked asphalt. Instead, I shut off the engine and got out.
“Kid, today ain’t the day for this. I’m in a hurry, now step aside and let me pass while I’m still in a good mood.” I took it as a bad sign when he just grinned at me.
“Kid? I ain’t no kid. My name is Stratton Haisch, from Bossier City, Louisiana. I’ve killed seven men in fair fights from Texas to Oregon and a shitload more just because I felt like it. Five different settlements have a bounty on me, but ain’t nobody out there bad enough to collect it. You’re gonna be notch number eight after I cut your head off and trade it for the ten-thousand-dollar reward.” He swept his duster back behind his hip to reveal the pistol holstered there, a Glock semi-automatic sitting in a drop rig that hung down to mid thigh.
He cracked his knuckles, wiggled his fingers to limber them up, made a big spectacle that I guess was supposed to scare or impress me. It did neither. “My brother, Briggs, ran with Pascal’s gang. You murdered him!”
“I’ve killed a lot of folks kid, but I’ve never murdered anyone. Walk away, I won’t tell you again.” I eased my hand towards the butt of the Ruger Blackhawk holstered on my hip.
“So you can tell everyone you backed me down, that I was afraid! I ain’t afraid of no son of a bitching retriever!” He went for his gun.
The .45 caliber bullet from my Ruger took him in the right side of the chest, midway between his nipple and collar bone before he could raise his own gun. He discharged his pistol into the asphalt, staggered one step towards me, then fell forward on his face. His head bounced off the asphalt with a sickening thud. I walked to him, kicked the pistol into the grass beside the road and rolled him over with the toe of my boot.
He gasped for air like a goldfish on linoleum. Pink froth bubbled across his lips. The hollow point had destroyed his lung and punched a baseball sized hole through his back. He was done and I doubt anyone would miss him.
Stupid kid was no gunfighter, just some punk who’d ridden out the outbreak in his mom’s basement until he ran out of Spam and Raman noodles, then disappeared into the badlands to act out his sick fantasies. He was full of shit or had been lucky if he’d fought seven men in fair gunfights. I recognized his face from a wanted poster when I rolled him over and the derby fell off. He was wanted for the murder of several homesteaders. A sick and twisted individual based on the stories I’d heard about what he did to the women after killing their families in front of them. He wouldn’t be murdering anymore, consider it my good deed for the day. He was on Nancy’s to do list but managed to always slip away whenever she’d gotten too close. Well, she could have him if the animals didn’t get him first.
I left him where he lay, buzzards gotta eat too. He could serve as a warning for anyone else that might be on my back trail. I retrieved the Glock pistol. He’d taken a file and made seven lines across the backstrap. I rolled up the spike strips and threw them in back of the El Camino. It was a nice car, modified for use against the undead with armor and off-road tires. A quick search of the car turned up a half-eaten bag of red licorice, a blood-stained hunting knife, a snub-nosed thirty-eight special and a pint of Fireball but nothing of real value. I pocketed the keys to the car, the gun and whiskey. A modded armored car was worth a pretty penny to the right buyer.
14
Three of a Kind
Eastern AR
“Got those ears on High Roller?” squawked my CB. I knew that voice.
“Loud and proud, Moneybags,” I replied. “What brings you out in this neck of the woods stranger.”
Arthur Ashmore III was a retriever whose specialty was breaking into bank vaults and other highly secured locations. He was highly selective in the jobs he took. He didn’t need the gold or precious jewels that he retrieved, he had a hidden bunker filled with enough wealth to last him for the rest of his life. He just loved the challenge. His specialty was in priceless artwork and artifact recovery. The man was a straight shooter all the way around and a hell of a good guy to have in your corner.
His work vehicle was an extensively modified armored truck he’d picked up on the road after both he and his old Chevy gained a few too many bullet holes. The zombie security guards trapped inside didn’t need it anymore, so he traded them two bullets to the head and let them keep all the worthless cash they were escorting. Inside, the renovated beast had all the comforts of home with hideaway bunks, mini fridge stocked with beer and groceries, along with a shower, microwave oven and a weapons locker stocked full of neat toys that always caused me to turn a little green with envy. He also had installed a welded steel cage for livestock retrieval or to hold the occasional bounty he brought in. Outside, the armor had its own armor. Heavy steel beams and chunks of railroad tracks formed up the point of the triangular front bumper. It was real handy for breaching a wall or plowing zombies out of the way. Expanded metal covered all the bullet proof windows and he’d installed murder holes in strategic spots around the rear cabin. The custom rack mounted to the top held an air conditioner refitted from an RV, auxiliary fuel cells, a welding machine that doubled as a generator and freshwater tanks. He could stay inside in relative comfort for a long time.
“I was headed for a job on the outskirts of St. Louis until I heard the relay about you coming this way and in need of assistance. Word is you’ve lost your mind and are crossing the river into no man’s land.” He answered.
“Much obliged partner. Just another job. Fame and glory and all that jazz. Where you hiding Ash? I know you can’t outrun me in that turtle you drive. Roads clear as far as I can see.”
“Maybe ten, fifteen from your current location if Radio Lakota can be believed. Put your foot on the right side pedal and come on. By the way, I’m not alone this time, got a pretty little seat cover from down Texas way riding shotgun that says you stole her grandpa’s artwork and her heart and you ain’t worthy of either.” I heard him chuckle.
“Shanna Banana!” I exclaimed into my mic. This was going to be interesting.
“Got it in one, the infamous Ms. Titwell herself.” He answered.
I heard her exclaim in the background before he could let go of the transmit button. “It’s Tidwell you prick!”
Shanna Tidwell was one of the first retrievers I met after getting into the business. She was a safecracker without equal. She’d been sitting in jail in Houston, awaiting trial after she’d been busted for stealing corporate secrets, ready to turn state’s witness against her employer in exchange for full immunity. When the zombie virus swept through the jail, the guards abandoned them to their fate. She pulled a bobby pin hidden in her mass of dark curls and strolled out of there a free woman. After releasing the less violent offenders from their cells, she stole a sheriff’s cruiser and headed to her family’s cabin in the Black Hills of South Dakota. She reemerged after Lakota was settled and the skillset that made her a criminal in the old world put her in high demand in the new one.
If these two were teaming up for a job, I couldn’t wait to hear the story. I’d been unaware of her existence until she tracked me down to a biker hangout in Wyoming with a sob story about her grandfather’s missing art collection that had been on loan to the Whitney Art Museum in Cody. The same collection I’d been hired to retrieve after fighting my way through a museum full of ladies in cocktail gowns and gentlemen in tuxedoes, all fast, fresh zombies of course. She’d laid it on heavy about how much sentimental value the paintings held and how important it was to her dear old grandmother living out her days in the Kansas settlement to have some reminder of dear old gramps. She was good at spinning a tale and I almost fell for it hook, line and sinker. Clients don’t like it, but every once in a while a successful retrieve just isn’t possible. I’d contemplated telling my client someone had already beaten me to it and letting Shanna have the collection for her grandmother’s sake. A few too many drinks into the evening, she’d overplayed her hand let the word client slip out when she meant to say grandma. She’d tried to backpedal, but
I’ve spent too much time gambling and dealing with all sorts of con artists to fall for her ploy. I’d called bullshit on her story, informed her that the only payday she had coming from this job was the tip I’d give her if she got me another whiskey. She smiled sweetly and sauntered over to the bar to fill my glass, then proceeded to throw the drink in my face before stomping towards the door, after calling me a few choice words. I’d hated to see her go but enjoyed watching her leave until I noticed the gold pull strings from the Crown Royal bag sticking out of her coat pocket. The bag I kept my gambling money in. I’d let her go, knowing she wouldn’t get far. Unbeknownst to her, I’d already palmed the keys to her truck. We’d been friends most of the time, and adversaries sometimes, ever since.
“I turned Radio Lakota off a long time ago. They’re trying to get me killed.” I said.
Road to Riches: Deadline: Book 1 (Zombie Road) Page 11