Tomahawks & Zombies

by Joe Beausoleil

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up with the feeling we were being watched but at the same time the dread of knowing it was too late to do anything about it. I peered into the trees and thought I saw a rifle pit disguised to blend in. Just something not natural how a couple trees lay.

  I was about to ask Ron if we should turn back when someone called out.

  “Stop right where you are.”

  Every fiber in my body wanted to bolt but we had nowhere to go. I hoped Ron wouldn’t run causing them to open fire, getting us both killed. Popping out right from the suspect trees was a man wearing camouflage pointing a big gun at us. Four others came out from other spots on each side of the road. They were lined up so they had us covered with little risk of crossfire.

  Every one of them had more firepower than I’ve seen before. The four men and one woman were dressed with the same digital grey and brown camouflage pattern. It blended in perfectly with the grey trees, snow and the yellow wild grasses. They were well organized, with their ambush, standardized weapons, uniforms and team work. I was thinking that maybe we stumbled into the Montana Militia.

  With no choice in the matter we did as we were told. They strode over to us taking Ron’s rifle and our hockey stick spears, then jabbed a gun in our backs leading us away.

  Down the path towards Dave’s truck, we were met with even more from their group. They bound our hands behind our backs and put a burlap sack over our heads. We were unceremoniously tossed in the bed of a pickup truck. Any hope of jumping over the side was crushed by the bony knee of someone riding in the back with us. Being blindfolded it was hard to gauge how long we were driving, I had the feeling they were driving in circles. No matter how many twists and turns the driver made I was sure their house was close unless they dug rifle pits everywhere. It was hot and itchy under the burlap sack, I was glad when we got to our mystery destination.

  The truck came to a stop, I could feel the springs lift as the person riding in the back jumped out and opened the tailgate.

  “Welcome,” a gruff voice said as the hoods were yanked off our sweaty faces. I blinked a few times adjusting to the flashlights in shining in my face before I made out the more salt than peppered bearded face of the man who was clearly the leader standing before us.

  “Bill Carse.” he said extending a hand. With my hands still tied behind my back I had to kind of turn half around and shake his firm grip. Bill Carse like the others, was dressed in the same uniform and boots, he also had a pistol holstered on each hip, like a cowboy. As I looked from face to face standing around I noticed they all had a silver cross dangling from their neck.

  “What did they have with them?” Bill asked one of our captors, bony knees. He was answered by someone tossing our weapons at his feet. They snickered, shaking their heads in disbelief at our lack of firepower. Bill led us into the compound, a large log cabin with sturdy rivet laden doors. In the courtyard was a large cross made on railroad ties.

  He wanted to know everything about us; if there were others, were we a vanguard for an approaching group, why didn’t we have automatic weapons, where we were going, where we were from.

  “What do you know about the Phoenix Coyotes?” he asked casually.

  “I know they should have stayed where they belong in Winnipeg,” that should have been a clue that he found my journal.

  Because they had guns I was obliged to offer these holier than thous an explanation to everything they asked. I told them that we found the equipment truck abandoned. And besides we can at least play hockey so we had more claim to it than anyone around.

  They must have been satisfied. Before I could ask about Dave they led him in. He looked twenty pounds lighter and tired.

  We weren’t really free to talk so we sat around in silence. Later he told us that he was making good time when these guys threw a spiked belt in my path. He wasn’t clear about what was happening at the time just that he had a sudden flat. He stopped and got out to change the tire when they came out of the bush, guns leveled. When they saw he was in a Park Ranger’s truck they started calling him a looter. When they led him past the two people they shot Dave was sure he was a dead man. When their search of the truck didn’t turn up any human meat in his truck they decided to chain him up.

  With no clear evidence of Dave being a cannibal and the only evidence of him looting was the Park Ranger’s truck, the South Idaho militia, as they liked to call themselves, had no clear idea what to do with him. When they found out he was Canadian, they questioned him for evidence he was a communist.

  When they left us alone (locking the door behind them) Dave told us his story, “Commie, pinko, red, they really had a hate on for communism. They were focused on the possibility that I was some kind of agent. Questioning me for hours, with a hot bright light in my eyes, and threats of torture. When that proved fruitless they put me to work, splitting firewood. My hands are like leather now but for the first while I had blisters. Palms so painful I couldn’t close my hands. Eight hours a day doing manual labour under the careful eye of an armed guard. Exhausted from the days toil, they chained me in a shed at night. They fed me very little. Oatmeal for breakfast and watery mashed potatoes for dinner. These guys are maniacs. We have to get out of here.”

  But we couldn’t, not unless they let us go.

  When our story matched what Dave previously told them (and my journal backed everything else), they apologized, and unchained him bringing him to us. Bill invited us to stay for dinner. We’d rather just take our friend and leave but we didn’t want to upset them so we had to accept.

  Dinner was peppered with Bible quotes that Conservative Christian fundamentalists can spin to whatever suits them. To them everything was either black or white and the whiter the better.

  Minus the two on parameter patrol and one watching the security cameras, there were under thirty members seated at the rows of tables in the mess hall. Bill said they were loosely affiliate with a couple other groups in the North West, but were not part of the larger groups in Montana. They were happy controlling the few small towns in their area, helping when they could and doing their Christian duty during the end of days, as Bill put it. So far there had been no major outbreaks of the undead.

  After Bill said grace thanking ’the maker of all who put man in charge of all the beasts and foul,’ the women brought the food. The meal was roasted deer meat with carrots and mashed potatoes with gravy. I forgot how good gravy was. They offered us beer, which we accepted and forced down. Even in the end of days American’s don’t have good beer. Ron seemed to like it. Then again he’ll drink anything, especially if it’s free.

  Bill pointed to my Hard Rock Café Albuquerque T-shirt and asked how they were holding up.

  “I heard the savages are making a go for it down south,” he said with a mouthful of meat.

  When I didn’t reply he continued.

  “Good for them. Maybe you are the lost tribe. Wouldn’t that be somethin’?” He looked at my missing finger. Reading my journal he knew everything. He didn’t bring up me surviving an attack.

  Ron spoke up, “It’s mostly white people running things there now. Most of the locals were either picked up by the army or ran off.”

  Bill tossed his fork on his plate in disgust, “Shiiit, probably better off if they were running the show by themselves. Most likely some fat ass politician is runnin things now. Or bureaucrats’. Or book types. Take over and mess things up real good. Yep, the ones who runned off are the smart ones. Poor bastards were the ones who got picked up by the army. And that just leaves the fools who trust the white man to do what’s right.”

  As we ate Bill boasted about a relative, supposedly the regimental bugler who served with the 7th Calvary, and who fought at the Battle of Washita River and survived Custer’s last Stand.

  I let him talk. No use correcting him. Washita wasn’t a battle but a massacre. As I chewed the meat now tasted bitter and like copper. I wanted to tell him Custer was an asshole, a killer of
woman and children; instead I ate another fork full of deer meat. I wanted to tell him the battle was not called ’Custer’s Last Stand’ but called Little Big Horn.

  Where else is the loser awarded the name of the battle?

  I wanted to tell him the only survivors were horses. The man was misinformed and full of delusions of grandeur. Pointing out the truth would do no good. It wouldn’t convince him. It wouldn’t change him mind. It would only make him angry. Better not to anger someone who was as well armed as Bill is. Ron knew what I was thinking; he looked over at me, furrowing his eyebrows, letting me know he was with me on this one but to keep my mouth shut. I wanted to reach across the table and grab Bill by the throat and smash his face in his mashed potatoes. Instead I cut the last of my meat, soaking up the rest of the gravy.

  He had this image of Custer and his men as fighting valiantly against savage forces, when the truth was they expected to ride into a defenseless camp, expecting to kill old men, women and children, how heroic. That mythical American west, the facts long lost to movies. Bill broke my train of thought when he spoke his next line.

  “You know the military has a bounty for any injun turned in?” he paused to let what he said soak in.

  I couldn’t read his eyes. He smiled as he pulled out a flyer. I tried to swallow but my dry mouth wouldn’t let me.

  He went on, “$250 000 useless American dollars. Can you believe that? An Army column heading north sent a truck up here and handed this to me. Cocky bastard drove right up to the gate. We had snipers on him from three different locations. I kind of wish they would have tried something.”

  He smoothed out the flyer, proving what he just said, “Gentile, Jew, or savage I wouldn’t turn no man over to the military especially with the rumors of what they are doing to your people.”

  $250 000 REWARD!!!

  For every American Indian or person with Indian blood/heritage turned over to the US 7th ARMY

  In addition, protection at a secured facility for you and up to two people will be provided.

  Subjects are wanted alive. Report to nearest military patrol or base.

  Before I could ask him what he meant by what they were doing to my people he asked if we were going to the other gathering, the one that was “mostly Injuns not like Albuquerque.”

  I was too stunned by the flyer to answer.

  “What other gathering?” Ron asked between bites.

  “On Pine ridge.”

  We hadn’t heard anything about it.

  “They’re keeping it quiet what with the military hunting you down. No radio broadcast, that kind of thing. What’s it called?” he paused rubbing his beard in thought “The moccasin telegraph? That’s it. Moccasin telegraph. We stopped a bus full of Spokane with a few Flatheads mixed in heading out to Wounded knee. They said they are organizing and taking a stand, which was okay by us. We gave them a meal and let them on their way.”

  “Did they mention white buffalo calves?” I asked a bit too eagerly. Ron and Dave gave me a confused sideways glance. Bill didn’t, but he’d read about the vision. A white bison calf is special and sacred but two? Not sure what that meant but it must be a good sign. Where are they? Do they even exist? How to find them if they did? No clue but I somehow feel where they are is where I am supposed to go.

  “How should I know? Didn’t come up,” Bill said as he ate a mouthful of mashed potatoes “Didn’t talk about no damn animals. Talked about what’s going on in Montana and Alberta now. They made it all the way to Calgary, took it over as their territorial government for the militia.” Calgary is about 350 km to the south of home.

  The conversation made me lose my appetite but I managed to I finished my meal. Not sure when we’d eat this good again. We thanked them for their hospitality as they brought out the burlap sacks. With the sacks on our heads they drove us around before dropping us off at Dave’s truck. We were handed back our “primitive” weapons. They gave us two replacement tires and offered to help us change the flats. Dave refused. I can’t blame him. Other than this goodbye meal, they didn’t treat him too well. He has deep purple bruises from the shackles.

  Sleet fell as we changed the tire. That didn’t stop us. We wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. Dave didn’t say much about his captivity only that they beat him for the first while when they were questioning him. With the tires changed, we sat in the truck’s cab letting it warm up and hoping for the rain to stop, not knowing what to do next. The heat from the vent stopped our shaking. Our route home would have to bypass Montana. We didn’t want to get mixed up in the Montana Militia vs. the U.S. Army, all vs. the undead.

  We use the Ranger’s truck to scout ahead about half a kilometer in front of the Jeep. I’m taking the lead, with Dave and Ron trailing. It’s reassuring to know that there is back up just behind me. The plan is to get a couple hours away from here before we stop for the night. That way we can take stock of what we have in both vehicles and get rid of stuff that’s just taking up valuable space, weighing us down.

  This part of the United States is sparsely populated so it’s quick going, barring some rusting traffic pile ups. It’s been a mild winter but with no one to sand or plow the roads they are icy and there are snowdrifts across both lanes of traffic.

  We found a place to stop for the night, just a few miles off the road. No one talked about what happened since Dave left. At one point it sounded like he was about to apologize for leaving, Ron stopped him. There was no need. No hard feelings. He did what he thought was right. Dave just wanted to get home. No issue with that. I just wanted to delay a day or two to find out some news. We’re heading into things blindly, not knowing what’s going on, any news would be helpful. Tomorrow Ron will take the ranger’s truck, with Dave and I trailing in the jeep, we hope to make good time. Cut around the trouble and start heading north. The dangers of getting fuel for both vehicles outweighs the added benefit of the extra cargo room. We’ll have to abandon one.

  February 24.

  One moment the road was clear the next we were surrounded. They swarmed and buzzed around us like a thousand hornets. A biker gang, both Harleys and crotch rockets united in chaos. The two would never associate before this. The zombie apocalypse makes for strange bedfellows. They came up from behind. Ron was well ahead in the ranger’s truck didn’t know what the hell was going on.

  A black street bike zoomed along our driver’s side, he casually pulled out a gun and fired. A bright white light of a flare bounced off the window, I blinked but that blinding light was burned into my eyes, Dave reached over grabbing the wheel as I floored the gas. If it was a warning shot, it got their point across. When we didn’t stop they fired a few more flares

  Without a gun we couldn’t fire back. Ron had it in the scout car. They had plenty of weapons, usually wielded by the person on the back. We had the weight advantage. When it’s a SUV vs. motorcycle there is a half a ton in our favour. A simple bump caused a few of the bikes to crash but they had numbers. And speed. And maneuverability. Taking out one didn’t matter when there were a dozen more to take its place.

  Dave opened his window, the cold air blasting in brought tears to my eyes and froze them on my cheeks. He started dumping handfuls of nails out the window. The nails bounced and danced across the asphalt. Our swerving kept the bikers away but they still followed. The nails were harder to dodge. In the rearview mirror I saw the lead bike lose control; the rider launched high into the air as the bike flipped end over end. The next bike slid sideways too, only to be ridden over by his fellow gang members. A huge pile up slowed them down. We pulled away. As quickly as they set upon us they abandoned the chase. To be safe we sped up to catch Ron. He saw the flares in his rearview mirror and was circling back. Together we pulled off the highway taking some back roads before finding a safe place for the night.

  We couldn’t risk a fire, not with those Mad Max bikers out there. Ron’s camouflage paint job made the jeep blend in. As we cut branches to cover the ranger’s truck with Dav
e smiled and said, “And Ron wanted to get rid of those nails.”

  February 25

  We spotted it up ahead and pulled off the road to get a better view without being seen ourselves. There were dozen army trucks and a couple Humvees lining both shoulders of the highway. There wasn’t anyone or any of the undead around, just some abandoned trucks in the middle of nowhere. All these detours and back roads are eating up fuel and slowing down any progress. We decided to blow past them. My heart was thumping in my chest as we drove through them. I half expected soldiers to lift up the canvas covers on the back of the trucks and fire on us. When we didn’t see a threat as we went by we stopped about 100 meters away and waited before reversing. We sat in the truck looking scanning the fields and tree line for an ambush. The only thing we saw was a fox cross in the distance.

  It was Dave who spotted the dead officer in the ditch. The officer lay face down shot in the back. It didn’t look like he wasn’t bitten or turned. Looking at the bars on his lapels Ron, with hours of Call of Duty under his belt, guessed the soldier was a Captain.

  The military probably knew more about what was going on than we did and if things looked hopeless they wouldn’t want to throw their life away for a government which may or may not even exist. It would be easier to just eliminate a gung-ho officer or two, who was gambling with your life and take what you need making a go of it on your own. Just past the ditch in a field were two more loyal troops that must have refused to go along with the others. Whoever did the shooting made sure to finish things off with a head shot. Would those that deserted turn into bandits or would they lay low waiting for the worst to pass. I’m just guessing. Maybe I’m just trying to make some sense of all this.

  To save fuel they cut back on the number of vehicles, loaded up a couple trucks, siphoning off the fuel, abandoning everything else. Desertion or not, whatever happened they took all the food, water and all the ammo and fire arms they could carry. But they left plenty of weapons at least. And that’s where we come in. Ron and Dave had big smiles on their face as they worked together to open a box in the back of a truck. Someone left a lot of guns behind, more than I’ve ever seen. True you only need so many. Well, unless you are Ron and Dave, who are in heaven pulling out create after crate on to the road and diving in like kids on Christmas. I don’t even know how most of this stuff works. It just took the end of the world and an assortment of weapons for Ron and Dave to find some common ground.