Tomahawks & Zombies

by Joe Beausoleil

  They also send out expeditions to truckstops, to nearby towns, to farms and ranches to collect abandoned rigs and supplies. I heard the roar of motorbikes drive past. The Dreadfuls venturing out scout the area. If there are only a few undead they like to handle it themselves, otherwise they call in support. No one is too macho not to ask for help, not with what’s out there.

  My arrival was just one small bit of business for the council. The council met with a dozen others that came in that day plus the business of running a growing camp on limited and dwindling supplies. They asked me a few question about where I’ve been and how I made my way. I told them about Mexico, the Bill and his group, and about the border. I told them about getting bitten and that there was no long-terms effects. They knew I’d been bitten already from the guards at the barricade. Someone made a note about that in a journal, along with my name, age, and place of birth.

  They asked if I brought anything to help out. I told them I might have (my truck full of guns) but wasn’t sure I could trust them yet. A couple of the chiefs nodded. They know what it’s like out there. I was told that if I decided to stay then I could decide the give whatever I wanted.

  The rules were pretty simple:

  Everyone helps out.

  Don’t steal.

  Everyone is free to leave, but don’t reveal the location of the All Nations to anyone if they do.

  They heard what news I had to tell, told me what they knew. Then they told me there was room for me in the community centre, and sent me on my way.

  Wandering around the camp, I hadn’t seen so many people in a long while.

  After a while the tents thinned out and I came up to the stockade. There were cattle in one pen and bison in the other.

  As I walked up to the pen with the bison, a mother shielded her calves from me. After a while she moved to a hay bale. There was just one white buffalo calf. It pranced in the snow but my heart did not feel any joy. I felt deflated, confused, my body sagged. I leaned against the fence, fearing my legs would give out. This white calf was a sacred sign, a sign of hope but my vision had twins. Was this the wrong place? Was I supposed to be someplace else? I went back to the camp, disappointed. My vision was false.

  A snot nosed kid pointed me towards the gymnasium.

  That’s where I’d find, food, shelter and a three minute shower (once a week). Rows and rows of army style cots and gym pads for the new comers to sleep on. I gave my cot up to a pregnant girl, so it’s a stinky blue gym mat for me. Still beats car seats or abandoned buildings. A few families have made small rooms and walls out of cardboard making something of a home out of the school gym.

  The late night sounds of strangers was easy to fall asleep to. A mother cooing to her crying baby, an old man clearing his throat of phlegm, an anonymous person farting in the dark and the scattered snickering that followed it. It’s that fart in the darkness that made me think of Ron and Dave as I write these last few lines. It sounded like one of Ron’s squeaky ones. The type you think if you let it out slowly you’ll get away with. I can’t help but join in the laughter as someone from a different part of the gym answers the first farter with a duck call of his own.

  March 6

  It’s been two days since I’ve arrived. This place is alright. I’ll let the chiefs know about my truck with guns. At breakfast, I saw the girl who drove me to the meeting. I told her I wanted to see the war council.

  “Good morning to you too. You want to talk to the chiefs? Great follow me,” she said as she got up clearing her tray.

  We walked down the hallway. I was still chewing my last piece of bacon when she stopped.

  “They’re in here today,” she said spreading her arm regally as she bowed to let me through.

  “They’re in here?”

  As I opened the door the musky sent of potatoes filled the room. Sacks upon sacks of potatoes took up half the kitchen.

  She handed me a potato peeler.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Everyone here has to work. Today your job is to peel these.”

  She selects a potato and put it in my hand.

  “What about the chiefs?”

  “Somehow they’ll just have to get by without you,” she turned away, looking back over her shoulder, “At least until lunch when they enjoy your mashed potatoes.”

  Three hours of peeling potatoes. It’s a bullshit job, but with this many people feeding them isn’t easy. Still, I’d rather it wasn’t me. I’m not alone here there are others peeling and doing other prep work. They have two meals a day. For supper people are on their own, eating whatever they brought with them, can trade with others for or they just go hungry.

  At lunch I’m in no mood to eat, but I made these potatoes so I’m going to damn well eat them. They go nicely with the meatballs and gravy that others prepared.

  “This seat taken?” She said as she slid in. I looked up and rolled my eyes.

  “You’re the last person I want to see,” I said as I sent a meat ball down a mashed potato mountain into a lake of gravy.

  “No, the last person you want to see is one of those rotting walking corpses.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “I’m Eve. One of the originals that actually lived here before the shit hit the fan.”

  “Jake.”

  “Don’t get down. Everyone has to pull kitchen duty now and then.”

  “Even the chiefs?”

  “Every once in a while. Everyone has a part to do.”

  “When can I see the chiefs?”

  “Always with the chiefs. Later. Come with me.”

  “Not again. Seriously I’m not falling for that again.”

  “Trust me it’s better. I found you a place to sleep.”

  Against my better judgment I followed.

  Eve didn’t trick me this time but I still don’t trust her. I’ve been assigned a place to sleep on the edge of the main camp. It’s shared but much more private than the gym. A canvas tee pee with lots of blankets on the floor and a small fire keeping us warm. The “Us” are not only my bunk mates but others who have been bitten and lived. Those bitten form a warrior society that patrols the furthest from camp, often camping out for days at a time before returning.

  I’m now part of what’s called the Twice Shy Warriors Society, after the idiom “Once bitten, twice shy.” Believe me once you’ve been bitten you don’t want to be bitten again.

  Turns out Eve is one of the six in my squad. She tossed my bag onto a free bed and flopped herself on a cot on the other side. When we ride out, a squad that is on patrol now takes our beds. We aren’t super heroes and we know we weren’t invincible. It just means that we got lucky. We got this second chance. Some people read this a sign that we can battle the undead on their terms, that we have “big medicine” within us. Although we take extra risks and do more of the dangerous tasks, we are also far more careful this time around.

  From the look at my bunkmates, immunity to the virus does not appear to be based on racial purity which is a good thing as to one degree or another all native people are mixed. Blame or thank horny voyageurs and fur traders. Natives of all skin shades and mixes have been bitten and lived, from the hook nose, high sharp cheekbones of the perfect Hollywood Indian to the blonde-haired, blue eyed Métis. There is no rhyme or reason to who lives and who turns Windigo.

  The Twice Shys are organized in squads of eight. I didn’t want to ask but including myself there are seven of us here. I’m not sure if there were just waiting for more people or they had lost some. Better to have more squads riding even if they are undermanned.

  The weapons are a mix of whatever they could get their hands on; shotguns, hunting rifles, nothing too impressive. They didn’t seem excited or overly welcoming at me being there but my M-16 was a hit. My new bunkmates passed it around, admiring it, clearing the chamber, checking the slide. Most of the questions they asked about it I couldn’t answer. They handed me back my gun and went about their business, sleeping, readi
ng or sharpening their weapons.

  My squad mates are an interesting mix. The few that talked to me are:

  Rollie Trottier is in his mid-thirties. A Métis from Winnipeg. The Metis came from French voyageur and Scottish fur traders who mixed with the local population creating their own culture. He drove for UPS just a few weeks ago and now he is sitting here sharpening an axe.

  Ambroise Beauchamp is a Mohawk from somewhere in Québec. He’s about forty, smokes a lot and swears in French even more. We make him smoke outside. He cradles his shotgun around wherever he goes.

  Donald Ross: A chubby guy in his early thirties. I don’t know anything about him other than he sleeps a lot and talks less. His weapon of choice is a baseball bat with nails in it.

  Last but not least is my “friend” who picked me up with her quad a few days ago.

  Eve Morgan: 24 years old, pretty girl but more of a tomboy type. Not very polished and blunt. She’s from here but doesn’t talk about the past.

  Supper was a cup of instant coffee and a pull of beef jerky Rollie gave me. I crawled under a mountain of blankets happy to be here.

  March 7

  In Sioux society, law enforcement is performed by members of their own warrior societies. The Kit Foxes, Badgers and Crow Owners acting as an internal force keeping peace in the camp between all the nations. A week ago they moved the Blackfoot away from the Cree, the Kiowa and the Crow on opposite sides from the Cheyenne.

  It’s ancient feud kind of stuff. We’re on a different clock then most of western society. We remember the past for generations. Here at the All Nations it’s mostly peaceful. With so many warriors strutting around a few fistfights are to be expected.

  Other than the security run by the Sioux and the Twice Shys, having to be bitten to belong, the rest of the force is open to all nations. The Shield Guard rides in circles closer to the main encampment, they use horses, quads and even though it’s a poor year for snow, skidoos. If the undead get this close, speed not stealth is key. The Home Guard mans the barricades and closest perimeter. These guards are grouped into nations and rotate as well. All nations send warriors to help, male, female, fat, skinny, old and far too young. Anyone is welcome. I’ve heard that the closest undead was cut down by the Shield Guard more than a mile from the barricades.

  We, The Twice Shys, are organized into three different platoons (five sections per platoon) who take turns on perimeter patrol. While one is on patrol, another platoon is doing training, with the third relaxing off duty. Even with time off we help around camp.

  Just as I was falling asleep someone kicked my foot.

  “What did you want to talk to the chiefs about?” Eve said looking down at me.

  “I hid my truck and walked here. Didn’t know what you were all about or if I could trust you.”

  “I’m touched. Who said you can trust me?” She said with her arms resting behind her head, “That was my kitchen duty you did the other day.”

  “Eve, you are one crafty bitch.”

  “Are we bonding?”

  “That truck is full of guns salvaged from an abandoned US army convoy,” That got everyone’s attention. She sat up.

  “Machineguns?” Rollie called out from somewhere under a mountain of blankets.

  “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” Donald mumbled.

  “I’m saying it now. Guns. Big ones and lots of them.”

  “He’s in our squad. We get first pick. Jake welcome aboard,” Eve said as she gave her hand to help me up.

  March 8

  How to win friends and popularity in a zombie apocalypse. It’s pretty easy.

  Step one: have a truck full of stolen military grade automatic weapons. Anything will do. Rocket launchers are a real crowd pleaser. AA-12 fully automatic shotguns with twenty round drums for the hardcore. Really anything that fires a lot and fast will suffice.

  Step two: have a humble smile, or a stoic nod. A mixture of benevolence and modesty is key. Bask in the glow but don’t act like you are enjoying it. Be humble.

  Our squad rushed out to recover the truck. I hid the truck well enough that in the dark I thought we were in the wrong spot. Eve found it and started pulling off the spruce branches I used to hide it. Their jaws dropped at what I had. When it was displayed on the ground in neat rows it was an impressive and scary haul.

  They got first pick but there was enough for a few other squads of Twice Shys and other warriors to upgrade. Eve picked out a nice shotgun, the AA 12 fully automatic shogun.

  “The twenty round drum mag is sexy,” she said admiring it, “And this brown digital camo really goes with my ensemble.”

  “What the hell does that mean,” Rollie scoffed.

  “It means what I like to wear when we’re kicking ass.”

  Rollie picked an M-16.

  I can’t walk through the camp without someone patting my back or offering me food.

  The All Nations were armed before I came, but I brought some state of the art and very powerful weapons. I was allowed to keep one-third of what I brought to the All Nations (everyone is entitled to one-third of what they bring) but I don’t need that many guns so I kept the M-16 I originally brought to camp, a shotgun, the space laser gun and some grenades. I stored them in our squads tee pee along with my few meager belongings. I still have that statue from the shrine in Mexico. It’s the only thing I have from before all this started.

  With the directions I gave the council, a salvage team lead by the of Dreadfuls M.C. and a couple pickups pulling horse trailers left this morning to find the convoy. I wanted to go but my training here is starting.

  March 9

  My platoon is off duty for the next few days but with a new member (me), we are going out on patrol. Really? Haven’t been out there for long enough? They weren’t too pissed at having to head out because we were just extra, riding out for the day to meet up with the patrol on duty and give them a couple new weapons. Besides they have a shit load of new weapons they are itching to test out. But first I need a riding lesson. Eve walked me to the stables where I line up with the other newbies.

  “Damn half breeds or even less, if you can believe that shit? Get in to the warriors society. One sixteenth Cherokee on your mom’s side? That’s as wrong as white people who wear dreadlocks. Bullshit. (spits)

  Twice Shy? Shit, bunch of fuck ups that let themselves get bit if you ask me. What do they get? Rewarded with glory. (spits) Elite warriors? My ass. Soft as cookie Ronh. (spits as he scans the group) Some of you the same shade of skin too. And they expect me to train you city Indians and half-breeds how to ride. (spits) Saddle up shit heads. Let a real Indian show you how it’s done.”

  That’s Mitch Goes Ahead, proud member of the Crow Nation, Omak suicide race winner the last two years and a shitty motivational speaker. A real asshole but the way he rides I wouldn’t be surprised if he was born in the saddle. The horse and rider moved as one. They seem to share the same thoughts. The same goals. He wears a Vietnam-era boonie hat but he can’t be over twenty-four years old, baby faced with hard root beer coloured eyes. Sage and woodland camouflaged AR-15 slung on his back, messenger bag full of equal parts granola bars and grenades at his hip, pistols strapped on each his leg, war hammer for close combat, dressed in black and always ready for trouble. Correction, he looks for trouble. Strutting around like a rooster, his chin tilted slight up as he swaggers around. He is trouble. Little guys with a chip on their shoulder usual are.

  From our squad, it’s just Rollie, and I getting a lesson. My experience with horses are limited, I’ve been to the racetrack a few times, rode on a trail in the Rockies once, and once at the fair when I was young on a pony that went in circles. Now I’m expected to ride one through undead infested areas? I don’t like that idea. I don’t like the idea of going out there at all. I thought I made it to a safe place and now I’m one of the elite warriors? No thanks. Peeling potatoes isn’t glamourous but it’s not life threatening either.

  Most of the horses were rescued
from farms in the area, some like the wild mustangs from the Black Hills Wild Horse Sanctuary are still too wild to ride. They are being broken by skilled horsemen as fast as they can to help meet the need for mounts. My donation of fire arms has got me a fine horse, or so people tell me. A three year old dapple grey thoroughbred rescued from some race track in Minnesota. All the Twice Shys get the best horses as we ride the most, patrol the furthest and largest areas.

  Tucked in the saddle was a racing form from one of her races, no wins but a place and a couple shows. Round The Sky was hitting her stride when this whole thing happened. She doesn’t look too impressed with me. My horse is a dick. It bit me right off the bat. Those ugly teeth nipping at me as I tried to let it smell me, just like you do with a dog so it gets your sent. Most of us have no experience with horses and are not good riders. There are a few Crow that are good riders, very good. Mitch leads them and a group of young men, mostly in their twenties. Groups of young Cree and Assiniboine, outcasts but daring fighters, came together to the All Nations travelling together for safety picking up members along the way. They called themselves the Young Dogs, many just a few weeks earlier were members of various native street gangs from the city or the Rez. Mitch Goes Ahead took their lead, the young dogs eager to learn how to ride, and hungry for action.

  In my experience, prick or not if someone has something to teach you, you’d best listen up.

  Rollie isn’t offended by Mitch’s Nazi-like ranting of blood purity, he knows it’s bullshit. That no Native is pure of blood, being mixed by the various waves of Europeans flocking to the Americas. It’s not the amount of blood in you, but how you choose to live. What does offend him is that it’s the same speech every day.