Tomahawks & Zombies

by Joe Beausoleil

  “He could at least mix it up a bit,” Rollie said as he put his foot in a stirrup, grunting as he swung himself up. He is none too graceful, but better than I am.

  “At least your horse isn’t a dick,” I manage to say as Round the Sky shies away, forcing me to hop on one foot, the other stuck in the stirrup.

  Mitch shook his head, watching me from literally his high horse. His arms crossed seeing this beautiful horse with someone who can’t possibly appreciate it.

  When I finally struggle into the saddle, Rollie gave me a sideways grin, “Look on the bright side, at least you’re facing the right way.”

  For the sake of the newbies, we get lessons on the basics; how to hold the reins, how to steer with your legs, sliding a foot back to apply pressure to the mount’s side, how to get off and on and even how to take a fall. Clumsily we form a line, ride single file, and weave between barrels at a walking pace. I’m already sore but learning or not the areas need patrolling. A mixture of Twice Shys, our Crow trainers, and a few new home guards that need experience riding follow Mitch as he leads us out. Soon groups break off to whatever sections they have been assigned to. Under Mitch’s watchful eye he points out my every mistake; arms too slack, back slouched too far forward, arms held out like a dandy, and body leaning back too far, left right, back, or forward.

  A half hour into the ride, my hips are sore as the rest of my Twice Shys join us. An hour in and it’s my ass and hips that are hurting. I was constantly shifting my weight or standing up in the saddle to relieve the pain. Two hours of riding and I wish I were back in the kitchen peeling damned potatoes. I’m causing our group to ride too slowly and soon most leave to meet up with the patrol with the new guns. It’s just Mitch, Rollie, Eve and myself.

  Tonight, we camp out on the furthermost perimeter of the All Nations. We are the first line of defense against the undead. Out on the edge, we depend on the silence and speed that horses provide, which is a joke cuz of how much I’m slowing us down. We stopped where the tree line met a fallow field. A lone zombie stood in place in the middle, its eyes tracking a magpie flying overhead. Our mounts huddled together so Mitch could whisper to us.

  Eve pulled out her rifle and raised it. Mitch put his hand on the barrel lowering it. “There’s no sport in shooting it. Any fool can do that.” He cleared his throat and spat, “Even Jake could probably hit it from here.”

  “We’re going to count coup,” Mitch said with a grin, “Old school style. It’s a good test of a riders skill,” he looked me in the eye, “or lack thereof.”

  With that Mitch, that macho son of a bitch, gave a blood-chilling war cry as he spurred his big sorrel horse forward. From still and obedient to off like a flash, its hindquarter muscles rippled with power. Hearing the cry, the undead turned and staggered towards the charging horse and rider. With Mitch and the horse moving as one as, the distance was quickly closed, he reached for his war club, holding it high above his head. The undead stumbled in the snow quickly regained its footing reaching arms out towards Mitch. The grace of horse and rider contrasted by the uncoordinated lumbering movements of the undead, each focused on the other. The war hammer swung, tapping the undead with such force the creature was spun around. Horse and rider stopped and turned fifty meters away. It was like they were there all along. The undead confused as to who made a more tempting target. It glared at us then towards Mitch. He took a few unsure steps our way, changed what mind it had left and staggered a few steps towards Mitch.

  Eve cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled out.

  “Hey ugly! Yeah you. Come here!”

  That was all the encouragement it needed. Its eyes locked on to us. We should be riding away from this thing not goading it.

  “See you on the other side,” Rollie smiled as he urged his horse forward. He bounced roughly cantering towards the undead. His hat fell off which was strange because he road much slower than Mitch.

  They approached each other in slow motion. Rollie pulled out his machete, and took an awkward swing, cleaving off a piece of shoulder. It flew high in the air, disappearing as it sunk into the snow when it landed.

  When Rollie made it to Mitch I could see them talking. Mitch pointing back to the field. Rollie’s shoulders sagged as he turned his horse around.

  Rollie blew past the undead jumping off before he came to a stop at the spot where his hat lay in the snow. The undead closed in as Rollie knelt down to retrieve his hat.

  I was about to charge out to help, but across the field Mitch held his hand up for us to stop. Eve and I stood by helplessly. Round the Sky gave a nervous snort, clawing at the ground with its front hoof.

  The undead reached out for Rollie, who scampered under his horse. The horse shied away and tried to bolt. Rollie managed to hold onto the reigns keeping the frenzied undead zombie on the other side of the horse. With his hat in one hand and the reigns in the other, Rollie ran pulling the horse behind him giving himself the distance he needed to jump. The undead howled in frustration.

  I didn’t want the pressure of going last. Best to get it over with. I pulled my hat down tight, took a deep breath and with a great whoop of a war cry spurred my horse. Round The Sky had other ideas. She stubbornly stood there. I spurred her in the flanks with more conviction as I gave another yell. Still my horse did not budge.

  I felt Eve’s eyes on me.

  “You could help. It’s embarrassing.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. I shook the reigns. “Giddy up?”

  Nothing.

  “Remember you asked for it.”

  Eve leaned over and smacked Round The Sky on the rump with the flat of her machete. That was enough to set my horse off. The sudden momentum snapped me backwards; I barely managed to grab the saddle horn to stay on.

  The wind stung my cheeks and froze tears in the corner of my eyes as I rode towards the battered undead. Round The Sky’s hooves beat a thunderous rhythm on the earth. I pulled out my tomahawk losing my balance for a second - which would have sent me tumbling into the snow at the foot of the zombie. I hesitated as I raised my weapon, not sure about the timing. My swing was rewarded with a hollow thump. I hit the zombie squarely in the chest. The force of the blow taking him off his feet throwing him backward. He landed hard on his back. The vibration of the blow sent a lightning bolt of pain up my arm. The tomahawk somehow stayed in my hand. I wasn’t going to let go. No way did I want to ride back to retrieve a fallen weapon.

  I filed in beside Mitch and Rollie. Mitch gave me an approving nod. Three abreast we watched Eve and the beaten and bruised zombie facing each other. She was already charging.

  Eve steered her steed right over the zombie. No finesse. Its arms and legs splaying out at awkward angles as it lay face down in the snow.

  “That’s how I count coup.” She said with a grin as she approached our group. I leaned over to give her a fist bump. Behind her the zombie was just managing to sit up. It looked rough before it was unfortunate enough to meet us, now it looked like hamburger.

  In a fluid motion Mitch raised his rifle and fired. A black green mist blew out of the zombies head.

  ”That concludes today’s lesson.”

  With our training done for the day and the sun setting we made camp out of the wind. We constructed a lean to out of pine tree branches. I sat by a low fire writing the day’s events as Mitch walked up.

  “Heard you’re the one who made it all the way from Mexico.”

  Looking up from my journal I nodded.

  “Yeah right. Any proof of this story cuz my bullshit detector is going off. I had a hell of a time coming here from Butte,” He turned clearing his throat and spitting, “Mexico is a hell of a lot further than Montana. May as well be the moon.”

  Proof? I don’t owe him any proof but he jarred my memory. I dug in my front pocket pulling out my Santa Muerte statue I bought so long ago, days before the world was flipped upside down. I tossed the statue into his lap.

  He looks at it like it’s from Mars.


  “Careful. It’s sort of a good luck charm.”

  He tossed it back.

  “What do you write in that book?”

  I told him I write what I see, what I experience, if I’m lucky stories about the people I meet. Might be important one day, for people to know what happened.

  I asked if he would he to share his story…

  Mitch looked at something in the distance as he spoke. “An elder had a vision. He chose the best warriors to come here to represent the Crow Nation. He told me to ride down here from Butte. That’s what I did. Me and twelve friends. We left our loved ones even as the first of the undead were spotted on the Rez. I’m the only one to make it. Others would come later but from my group only I rode into the All Nations. Do I want to share my experiences? Share my feelings? How they died in ones and twos until I was alone? Do I want to share that? Not with some city Indian that’s for sure. I honour their memory every day but I don’t need to share their story. ”

  He got up and walked away. Guess that’s a “no” for an interview.

  “Where’s he going?” I asked no one unparticular.

  “Mitch? He’s much too good to stay with us. He made his own shelter,” Rollie answered poking his head between pine branches covering the entrance to the shelter.

  Tossing down some wood she gathered Eve added, “Too good? Jealous is more like it.”

  That’s where his disdain for the Twice Shy’s warrior society stems from. He thinks he is the best but not having been bitten he can’t join our ranks.

  Rollie went on, “When you die you shit yourself, now that’s embarrassing. Then to comeback with a loaf in your pants stinking up the place there is no positive to it. You aren’t reborn with super powers, just a stigma.”

  There is nothing like body heat to keep you warm on a cold night. It’s better if it’s a good looking girl. That night in our tiny shelter I felt Eve’s body heat. She rolled over. Face next to mine. Her eyes locked onto mine when I look up from writing. I put my book down. Her lips parted. I swallowed nervously. I’m drawn closer to her. Eve so close I can feel her breath on my ear.

  She whispered, “Put that fuckin’ book away.”

  March 10

  Camp life:

  It felt good to be back in camp. The normalness of being around people. Safety in numbers and all that. I’m still a couple days away from my shower allowance. Three minutes once a week is not enough. It’s better than what I’ve gotten used to. Most of us smell pretty ripe. I heard there is a poker game somewhere where you can win shower tickets… I suppose you can lose them too.

  Walking through camp I could see that the old ways were coming back. Maybe a better way to put it is the old ways are coming back with a twist. We are riding horses, forming war parties, living in a camp but there are modern twists. There is hot water from geothermal heat, wind turbines and solar panels provide some heat and light. I pass a Mohawk sitting on a plastic milk crate listening to an iPod while his friend used a large hunting knife to shave his friend’s hair, leaving a narrow strip down the middle. His bristly Mohawk sticks up like a porcupine quills. A half dozen Maori, members of a rugby team vacationing in New York when the outbreak started, were tattooing intricate patterns of swirling lines and circles onto their face. The tattoos tell their rank, their story, the ancestor of their tribes, and now their experience in battle. None of the Maori know if they are immune once they get bitten. So far any unlucky enough to get bitten have turned. I walked on as stray camp dogs followed in hopes of food, giving up after a few minutes to trying their luck somewhere else.

  Making my way back to my tent, Eve had a fire burning outside, a black cast iron pot dangled above the flames on a tripod made of salvaged metal. I gladly accepted the offered cup of tea. I don’t want to give a romantic impression of “playing Indian”, as some of us jokingly call it. There is a reason most people don’t go camping in winter. We haven’t even had a real winter but it’s miserably cold. There is a reason people don’t camp with ten strangers too. I’m not used to their breathing, snoring, farting, and clearing their throats, moving around in the middle of the night sounds. Some people may find sleeping in a tee pee an exotic adventure, then again there are groups of Germans who dance around the Black Forest wearing buckskins pretending to be Indians, or they used to anyways. Who knows what’s happening there now?

  Then again, I don’t know what’s happening back home or anywhere really. I knew a Blackfoot girl from University that would work summers in some Swedish Wild West theme park, working in the “authentic Indian village” with “authentic Indians” doing authentic Indian things. She got paid all summer to make campfires, scrape hides and do bead work. It’s interesting that the white people who are interested in Native culture were three thousand miles away. The ones here though, not so interested.

  March 11

  We head back on patrol tomorrow.

  The tee pee was empty except for Rollie and myself. We got to talking. Just chit chat over tea at first. Trading rumors we heard throughout the camp.

  I managed to get some of his story down.

  “I work, well I should say I worked for UPS. I was half way done my shift when I saw the first signs that something wasn’t right. Portage and Main was chaos. It was a mad house. Right there in downtown Winnipeg, there were bodies in the streets, people attacking each other, traffic accidents and a hundred other things happening at the same time. I got the hell out of there before the news broke, high tailing it home, calling my wife on the way. She was a letter carrier with Canada Post. She was delivering mail just a few blocks away. I made my way to her, cutting off cars and making my way cautiously through a red light. Rounding a corner I saw her running in the middle of the street, a handful of people trailing behind her. Seeing me gave her the extra boost she needed. Tossing her mail bags, letters floated behind her, she sprinted towards me as I floored the van to close the distance. I slowed down just enough that she could jump in the open door and plowed through the crowd that was after her. When she got her breath back, she hugged me.

  Heading for home she bandaged her forearm, some kid bit her when she was delivering mail to his house. Back then we didn’t know what being bitten meant. Back then we didn’t know anything. We got home, turned on the T.V while we packed, pausing to watch the news updates. She quickly got a fever as I loaded the UPS van. We were going to go north where we have a cabin. When I went into get her she had changed. I managed to get away, but not before she bit me too. I left, locking the door behind me. On our driveway I sat in the driver’s seat for minutes. My trance was only broken when the lights and sirens of a couple police cruisers went past.

  I left the city, heading south. I had the sweats and every horrible thing that happens when someone gets bit. A couple days later, I met up with a few people heading here. I had room for them. With nowhere else to go, I tagged along.”

  Walking around camp, I came across a group of teens who were returning to camp. They were scrounging for food out in the dangerous out there. They had caught a few rabbits and looked proud with their find. More and more people are leaving the camp to look for food. Rations have been cut; there are more mouths than food. These kids who brave leaving the camp are called the Mosquitoes, as they would swarm around camp exploring and sometimes pinching unguarded possessions that didn’t belong to them. I made sure my few belongings were kept under my bunk in the teepee.

  March 12

  The badlands to the north act as a natural barrier, we patrol the national park but not with as many resources or manpower. The U.S. government took those badlands in World War II for a bombing range. Afterwards, instead of giving it back, it was made into a national park. Because of this zombie pestilence, it’s back in tribal hands now. The great Sioux reservation was once nearly half the state. They are taking it back. Who is going to stop us?

  Riding in single file along the ridgeline, I looked down at the ravines and gullies, and jutting hoodoos, looking for any movement hidde
n in the shadows and folds of the world.

  “Don’t worry. It’s rare to find anything out there,” Eve said, “They usually let the local kids to patrol this part. They did find one before. They watched for hours as it tried to get out of a canyon.”

  It was a beautiful view, but a boring patrol. We rode for hours until I noticed something just off the trail a few meters down a steep cliff. Something glistening and dark was poking through the snow. I slid off Round the Sky and made my way down. The patrol stopped and watched me. They all needed a break, so no one complained.

  I crouched down brushing the snow off the black object. It was sharp and curved. A Tooth.

  Rollie had made his way down to me. He saw what I was uncovering, crouched down next to me to help.

  “Holy shit.”

  “The Blackfoot call them the grandfather of the buffalo,” I said as I brushed the snow off the huge skull. A dinosaur buried in the earth, tilted at such a way that its jaw and an eye were exposed. The sharp teeth and skull of a meat eater.

  “That’s a Canadian Heritage commercial,” Rollie said laughing as he helped uncover the skull. The floral motif beaded into his buckskin gloves brought life and colour to the desolate snow. He saw me looking.

  “My wife made them,” he changed the subject, “They don’t call them buffalo anymore.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Scientists. They say Bison is more accurate.”

  “And here we are on an Indian reservation with all that butter chicken across the ocean.”

  “I still call them buffalo,” Eve called out as she joined us.

  The skull was two-thirds covered in the frozen earth. I took my glove off tracing a black sharp tooth. It will probably never be found again, our little group the only ones to witness its power.

  Returning to camp after our patrol, we led our mounts into the stables. There was a rush of activity as another group of Twice Shys along with Mitch and his Young Dogs were throwing their saddles on. It took Eve blocking the path of a young warrior for someone to tell us what was going on.