Zombie Road VI: Highway to Heartache

by David A. Simpson

  Even if it was real, not some weird experiment the kids were totally wrong about, it didn’t work. Everything that went through it, whatever it was, came back dead or misshapen or just a little different looking. Like they got beamed up and reassembled wrong. It was a last grasp of a dying girl, he told himself. She wanted him to survive, not die with her. She’d tossed the crazy idea out to give him a reason to live. To give him hope but he knew it was false hope. Just a dream. A fantasy. This was the real world and a piece of him had already died when he felt the cold blood oozing out of her body. A piece of his soul left with her and he’d catch up to it as soon as he finished what they came here to do. Just a few more minutes, he told himself. Told her. I’ll be there soon. Just a few more minutes.

  Jessie rested on the landing of the top floor. He had no ammo, he hurt all over from the impact of the bullets and his heart ached with each thud in his chest. Maybe he’d walk through the door and catch a round in the face. That wouldn’t be so bad. The building was burning, the entire bottom floor was engulfed and no one was going to escape. He would try to finish what they started, though. He’d made a promise and he’d keep it if he could. He’d bury his blade in the cult leader, rip him wide open. He closed his eyes, gathered his strength and lunged. He slammed the door open, caught movement and a flash of light at the same time he felt the air displaced from the bullet streaking past his head. He didn’t slow down, didn’t even try to dodge when he saw the guard firing in panic, sending more rounds his way. They went wild, hitting the walls, the ceiling or the door behind him as Jessie lowered his head and pumped his arms. The lights in the hallway were pulsing, growing dim then bright then back to dim. The generator was cycling up and down, maybe shorting out and resetting or maybe starving for fuel. Rickets turned and ran, tried to get through his door, tried to get to his arsenal before Jessie caught up but barely turned the handle when he was hit from the side.

  Jessie didn’t slow. He slammed him like a linebacker, wrapped his arms around his waist, lifted him off his feet then tried to run him all the way to the end of the hall and out of the heavily curtained window. Rickets finger tightened on the trigger, fired once more sending a bullet grazing down Jessies back and the slide locked to the rear. He slammed the .45 into the side of his attacker’s head and kicked out with his heavy boots. Blood spurted from Jessies scalp, his feet tangled with the guards and they both went down hard with Jessie on top. Rickets used his gun as a club, smashed his head again, lightning fast and viciously hard. Jessie rocked with the blow, bounced off the wall and slashed at Ricketts face, a trench knife curled in his fist. Ricketts reacted, flinched faster than the eye could see and clubbed out with the pistol again. Jessie blocked, the armor on his leather taking the blow then countered with an uppercut into the meaty part of the guard’s arm, bouncing the blade off bone, punching out the other side. Ricketts pushed and rolled away, sprang to his feet and ignored the spurting wound. He dropped the empty magazine, wrapped his fist around it and gripped the gun around the slide, ignoring the heat. He shoved a finger through the trigger guard and smiled. He had steel in both hands now. Bludgeoning, cutting steel and he would pound this pup down. He’d bash his brains out himself. He’d end this little problem once and for all.

  Jessie was on his feet as fast as Ricketts, blades in each hand, staring at the black clad man with ribbons adorning his chest. His vision cleared and he wiped at the gash on his head, smearing the blood away from his eye.

  “You.” the man said, getting a good look at Jessie for the first time in the pulsing light.

  “She was supposed to kill you.” he growled. “Never should have sent a girl to do a man’s job.”

  Jessie snarled and sprang at him, sharpened steel plunging for his neck, he was going to sink them both all the way to the hilt. Steel met steel when Ricketts deflected with the pistol and magazine. Jessie swung again, both arms, blindingly fast. Ricketts met each, deflected each in a blur of clanging metal and grunts and curses. An elbow caught a jaw, knees thrust for groins. Foreheads became weapons as the men fought, circled, bounced off walls and attacked again and again with raw ferocity and visceral strength. Ricketts was faster and stronger. Hyper in his movements, like flashes of lightning. Jessie was experienced and armored, his leather saved him from brutal bone breaking blows. A plinth with a millennia old vase crashed to the carpet and pottery shards were crushed underfoot. A boot went through a wall. Priceless paintings were torn and trampled. A door smashed open and they tumbled into a suite of rooms and a bevy of screams. Fearful people watched in horror as the two bloodied men punched and counter punched, kicked and blocked, cursed and spat. It was a flurry of movement they couldn’t follow with their eyes and when the punching, clawing, stabbing men crashed over the coffee table, when the TV shattered, they ran from the room.

  Ricketts barely avoided another slash aimed at his calf, spun away and ripped open a refrigerator door, blocking two double quick thrusts from the dancing blades. He jerked on the handle, sent jars and cans of food flying as it tipped over. He stood there panting, a small barrier between them. A small respite in the violence. He bled from a dozen or more cuts, waiting for the boy to spring at him again but he’d stopped his relentless attack. He was just as winded, just as bloody with criss-crossing gashes from the metal in his fists. The kid had stopped trying to gut him like a fish, to make a killing blow. He’d started working on bleeding him. Shallow or deep, it didn’t matter. Every time they clashed, he came away with another gash. The kid was wearing him down, slicing him to ribbons and it seemed like all he was doing was adding a few more knots to the boy’s head. He was missing his little finger, it had been sliced off when he wasn’t quick enough to turn the metal of the magazine against the blade. For the first time, he started to be afraid. This kid, this Road Angel, was going to win. There wasn’t any backup coming, downstairs was already roaring in flames, the servants all fled and his guards were dead.

  “I can help you.” he said between pants. “We don’t have to kill each other.”

  “You’re not killing me.” Jessie said. “I’m killing you.”

  “Listen, dammit! I have knowledge. It can help. I’ll join you.” he managed to spit out between gasps. “We don’t have to be enemies.”

  “Yes, we do.” Jessie said and leapt over the tumbled fridge, blades flying, looking for flesh.

  Steel rung on steel, more punishing fists and knee kicks and smashed furniture. More blood loss, more torn skin, more overworked muscles. Ricketts felt the burn of a deeply sliced bicep, Jessie felt more blunt force from steel and elbows punishing him.

  Breaking him.

  Wearing him down.

  The fight in both of them was waning, both were exhausted and coughing on smoke drifting down the corridor. Jessie had a gash on his forehead that kept dumping blood in his eyes making it hard to see. Ricketts own eyes were watering, tears from a smashed nose and the smoke curling in and gathering near the ceiling. Daylight streamed in from the glass doors leading to the balcony and outside the world looked peaceful. Beautiful. The sky was that impossible blue again and the clouds hung full and fluffy. Jessie saw it and smiled, felt the old scar pull at his face.

  They stood apart again. Circled. Looked for an opening. Another small respite. A little calm between two warriors who knew this was a battle to the death. Only one would be walking out of the room. It could come at any second, that killing blow. A razor-sharp blade would get past the blocks and feints, finally slicing a jugular. A steel-wrapped fist would make a solid connection, not a glancing blow, and splatter brains all over the wall. Both men breathed deeply and coughed, the air heavy with burnt electrical smells. Jessie’s hair was a matted mess, crusted with blood from the hammer blows of the gun frame. He balanced on one leg and tried to hide the damage to his knee from a snap kick that had connected. Ricketts noticed and smiled. He saw weakness. He saw victory. He saw himself triumphant.

  “Should have joined with me when you were winning.” he sai
d and repositioned his hand around the gun.

  “I’m still winning.” Jessie gasped through broken lips, an eye nearly blinded from a brutal jab and flexed his fingers on his knives. He pushed himself off the wall and swayed a little.

  “I see why she liked you, kid. You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that.”

  Jessie hobbled back a step when the black clad man took one towards him.

  “You can’t walk, you can barely see and from the way your holding your arm, I’d say it’s busted.” Ricketts said and his smile grew even wider.

  He was going to be the one to defeat the Road Angel. In hand to hand combat, man versus man, he was the one who would do it. All those tales he’d heard, all those stories everyone repeated over and over again were going to have a new ending. The boy was a legend and he’d be the one to stop him. Maybe he’d join up with Casey’s outfit, those raiders everyone was so afraid of. He was faster and stronger than any of them. He’d be the legend now. They’d talk about him, tell stories and maybe write songs. He could envision it, he could see a new future. The Movement was over, they’d never be able to rebuild it and he was glad. He was going to be the only super soldier left standing. He would do mighty deeds and great exploits. Him. Captain Ricketts. From lowly underpaid security guard to the greatest warrior on earth. He watched the boy struggling to remain standing. He looked like he was about ready to pass out.

  “Say goodnight, boy.” he said, spotted Jessies weakness and moved in for the killing blow. He was liquid fast, wicked quick and brutal, his big fists wrapped around the steel that would bash the kids brains out once and for all. Jessie saw it coming, saw the bunching of muscles in his shoulder and leg, knew when the spring would come and twitched. Something crashed outside in the hall but he couldn’t worry about it, couldn’t consider reinforcements coming. Rattlesnake fast he dropped his shoulders, barely avoided having his head split open from the pistol, spun the blades and slid them across the inside of Ricketts thigh as he rushed by. The captain of the guard cursed his speed, turned and faced him again. He crouched, waiting for a counter attack, ready to deflect the flying blades one more time but it didn’t come. He was nearly choking on the smoke now and by God he was tired. He needed to end this. He was hurt and cut and nearly finished but the kid was worse. The kid was way worse than him. He’d conked him pretty good that time, the boy had gotten distracted. His face was bloody and swollen and bruised and one eye was nearly shut. He’d beaten the snot out of him and he was almost finished. He’d get him with the next rush. He’d bash him so hard he’d have to pull his fist out of the hole in his head.

  Jessie hopped on one leg, regained his balance and waited. The world was closing in and he fought to stay upright. The lights flickered and he heard the roar of the flames in the stairwell, working their way up. He leaned his shoulder against the wall and through the swimming darkness he looked at the man in the shredded black uniform: slashes and cuts across his chest and arms. Blood dripped from a slice on his cheek, spilled from his missing finger.

  “It’s over, kid.” Ricketts said and readied himself to wade in again. This time for sure. This time to finish it.

  Jessie said nothing and lowered his eyes to the guard’s legs and the huge puddle of red already forming on the carpet. The femoral arteries on both pumped blood, some spurted out, most poured down his pants legs, filled his boots and flowed onto the floor. Ricketts shook his head to clear it and nearly fell. He was getting light headed and the kid just stood there, staring at him.

  “Time’s up.” he panted then lost the grip on the .45. His fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. They weren’t doing what he told them to do.

  It dropped and made a splashing sound. To his surprise, he was standing in a spreading puddle of crimson. The room was starting to spin and everything was getting dark around the edges.

  “Oh, you bastard.” he said, when he realized what had happened and dropped to his knees. His legs didn’t want to support him anymore.

  Jessie watched him die. Watched him fall to his side, close his eyes and drift away. The pumping heart slowed then stopped. He took one last breath, let it out and it was over. He almost looked peaceful. It had been an easy death and Jessie felt cheated. The man hadn’t suffered enough. Hadn’t hurt enough. Hadn’t paid for what he’d done enough.

  He waited for whoever was in the hall to rush in but it remained quiet. It had been someone running away. His breathing slowed and he took a tentative step forward, limping a little but nowhere near as bad as he’d pretended for Ricketts. Appear weak when you are strong had been one of lessons that stuck in his head for some reason. Maybe because it had been a last resort gambit. He’d been losing badly to the Captain, he couldn’t have taken many more hits to the head, that last one had been solid. Or the leg. His broken arm had been all fakery, though. That had been what it took for Ricketts to be a little over confident. Let him think he could easily avoid that flashing blade. Jessie coughed, stepped around the body and limped to the door. There was one more bit of killing he had to do. One more promise to keep. Then he could rest. Then he could decide where to join her and hopefully he could find a gun. He didn’t trust sliding the blades across his wrists, they might heal up faster than he bled out.

  The electric lights had finally fizzled and darkened but the orange flames from the stairwell showed him a smoky corridor with rows of closed doors. Casino suites for the high rollers. Top floor views and garden tubs with massaging jets. Balconies with tables and chairs. Small city Minnesota luxuries.

  He hobbled to the stairs first, closed the door and shut off the roiling clouds of acrid, black smoke. Fire spread through the stories below him but he wasn’t concerned. He wasn’t planning on leaving. He just had one more job to do.

  34

  Jessie

  He leaned against the door, felt the heat against it and rested. Everyone was trapped and he was fine with that. The lower levels had been barricaded and even if the fire wasn’t raging through them, there was no way out. It was filled with all the undead soldiers. He wondered how his old man had done against Casey. He’d probably won. He couldn’t imagine him losing a fight. He wished he was more like him. Wished he was stronger. He was so tired and everything ached or hurt or pulsed with each heartbeat. His head throbbed, and he felt like he was going to throw up. Concussion, if he remembered right. Big ol’ bonk to the head. He closed his eyes, considered sliding down to the carpet and going to sleep. The fire would take care of the rest of the people, the gold robed men with the fat bellies and petty demands. The spineless men who sent armies out to kill and couldn’t be bothered to care about all they destroyed, all the innocent lives ended or ruined. He didn’t have to kill them, he’d let the flames or smoke do it for him. Let them burn to a crisp like his Scarlet had.

  Her rooms were up here, he remembered. She said they’d worshipped her as Bastet, a goddess, and she lived on the top floor. That would be a good place to meet her. A good place to be with her again. A good place to remember her as she had been, not the snarling monster burning up in the flames below. He pushed off the door with a groan and shuffled down the corridor. Her door would be special. It would be different and he knew he’d recognize it. The walls were full of holes, hung with crooked pictures and shattered glass glittered dully in the smoky light. Broken vases and art and tumbled pedestals were strewn everywhere and he was a little amazed at how much damage they had done. The fight seemed like it lasted forever but it was probably only a few minutes.

  He found her door, shouldered it open with a grunt of pain and saw how she had been. What she’d given up to be with him. The rooms were untouched since she’d left. They were sumptuous, filled with golden statues and casually tossed necklaces that were heavy with jewels. The suite looked nothing like a twentieth century hotel, it was like being transported back to ancient Egypt. The floor was marble tiles, the walls stone and relief carvings. Genuine columns from ancient tombs were etched with hieroglyphics. She’d had cats, t
heir toys were still strewn about and a carpeted cat house was in one corner, huge and sprawling. She’d left them all behind to do her duty and once she was away and her head was clear, her duty had changed.

  He walked over to her bed, still unmade months after her absence. The doors had been locked and it had been left as a shrine. Her father had held out hope that somehow, someway she might find her way back. Jessie sat, then remembered he wanted to look for bullet for his empty guns. He was weary, so unbelievably tired and needed to rest for a moment. A single, long black hair was on her pillow that was still slightly dented where she had lain.

  Jessie lowered his head, closed his eyes and tears streamed down his ragged cheek.

  He was so hollow. So empty and full of black, he could feel the heartache all the way to his bones. His head pounded and he was sure there were brains leaking out along with the blood. He couldn’t think of any reason to rise again so he lay there, his head finding the same spot where hers had rested. He stained the sheets with his tears and blood and tried to sleep. Tried to make it all go away and never wake up. He heard screams coming from far away, down the hall somewhere and didn’t care.

  He heard violence being done to someone, breaking glass and crashing furniture and didn’t care. Maybe whoever it was would barge in and put a few bullets in him so he could sleep forever. He hoped so. Then they would be together. He closed his eyes and thought of her, breathed in her scent still lingering on the pillow and abandoned all hope. He was tired of fighting, tired of living and all of his old ghosts came back to stare at him.

  Their eyes held judgement, they weighed his soul on the scales of justice and the faces of men he’d killed swam before him.