Zombie Tales Box Set [Books 1-5]

by Macaulay C. Hunter

  There were no more scratches from the freeway. Instead, a land mine exploded. Soil and stones rained down, stinging along Xan’s back and head, dimpling and puncturing his arms. He lifted out of the old crater. Two more zombies were almost to him, their faces contorted from the flying dirt. He shot one and butted the other in the stomach. It was too close to shoot, so Xan clubbed it again and again, forcing it away every time it came back, until he had the time to get the barrel facing where it needed to go and could pull the trigger.

  People were shouting to him from the settlement. He could only hear their raised voices, not the words, and then even the voices were lost as a zombie stepped upon another land mine. The impact threw Xan onto his belly and Newgreen disappeared into a cloud of flying dirt.

  He still had his legs. He heaved himself up to his knees, and then he stood. The air cleared, faces coming through it with the lips already parted for their first bite.

  Xan shot the rifle until it was out of ammunition, which didn’t take long. A hand latched onto the backpack and he instantly shrugged his shoulders, letting the zombie slide it off. There went the revolver.

  He darted forward, jumping over bodies and an X. Then he darted between two more X’s, his eyes on a jagged line where the markings stopped. They couldn’t be planted right next to the moat, where the explosions would damage it. People were still shouting, not him, not the zombies, and the zombies were all that concerned him.

  Step. Leap. Dart ahead. Swerve. Swivel to shoot the handgun. The zombies were going faster than he was because they didn’t know what was beneath them. The world was blasting apart all around him. The blue sky above had turned brown and gray as his blood leaked bright red down his arms and legs. He coughed in the dust and pressed on. Thirty feet until the land mines ended and then it was another thirty or so to the moat . . .

  He ran and jumped the last, broken line of X’s to the grass. Two of the guards were responsible for the screaming. One was dropping an inflatable raft over the side of the wall and into the water. Then he climbed down onto it and pushed away from the wall. The second guard unwrapped a line attached to the raft as the first one paddled over the moat.

  Someone caught Xan’s shirt. Carrying the zombie along, he stuck the gun in his armpit and fired. It took two more shots to make the creature let go.

  Fifteen feet.

  Ten feet.

  Five feet.

  He jumped.

  The raft almost squirted out from underneath him when he struck it. The guard at the wall jerked the line to haul them in, Xan’s leg in the water and his fists locked around a handle. The air shook from the boom of a land mine.

  He looked back. Zombies were milling around on the shore, crawling, walking, staring at the raft and the water, and trespassing no further. The guard drew them on until the raft bumped against the wall.

  Then hands reached out to Xan to pull him up, and he was home.

  Chapter Ten

  He spent the rest of the day maneuvering through bureaucracy. It was like five levels of incompetent Frank Tolls, everyone passing the buck of Alexander Spencer until he was before the regulations committee, and then in a private conference with its head. She had a very careful smile.

  No, he should not have been out past curfew. No, the bait men should not have included him among those cleared for the bait truck. But you see, Mr. Spencer, we have a problem. The problem is what you know.

  The people of Newgreen fully understood and accepted that the dead were taken out into hell. The settlement’s limited space and resources could not provide coffins and cemeteries. It was an ugly thing that had to be done in these times. No one was going to lead a revolution over transforming the park on Third Street from a garden into burial grounds. The living needed the food, so the dead could not be within Newgreen. The bodies were driven over the moat to lure the zombies away and protect the convoy.

  Likewise, it was highly improbable that the population was ever going to raise a fuss over its rankest criminals being used in this way. No one cared what happened to a rapist or murderer. No one expected a prison to be built and guards to be trained, food and supplies diverted to wastes of human flesh for the length of their sentences, probation officers and support for afterwards. Civilization had changed since Olyvyr Gravine, as had the terms for cruel and unusual punishment. These people would die in the service of the communities that they had offended. It was possible that innocent people had been judged guilty on occasion by the regulations committee, but that was, frankly, the cost of doing business. Without a court system and lawyers, without the time for years of appeals, all of the settlements did what they could and hoped for the best.

  It became stickier territory with petty criminals like token thieves, political agitators, and the like. They got a fair shake, Xan should know. It was very important that he understand that fact. Newgreen tried. All of the settlements tried. People weren’t expelled for a first offense. It took a rash of incorrigible behavior before stronger measures were taken. Had Xan heard about the problems in Big Sugar? Not so much? They were trying to keep the worst of it out of the news.

  Big Sugar was devolving into anarchy and gang warfare. Utter chaos. Every man was out for himself. They had always been plagued by a weak government, officials open to bribes, subject to nepotism, and the settlement had finally lost all control of its populace. Their petty criminals of yesterday had become their major criminals of today. One gang or another seized control every few months, and eventually lost it in bloody battles that killed many innocent people. A group of Power Rangers had gotten caught up in a conflict purely by accident, and three of them were slaughtered.

  Can you imagine that, Mr. Spencer? Power Rangers. Men and women who put their lives on the line for us every day. The settlements should be a refuge to them, a safe place to get a good meal, a hot bath, and a soft bed. They lived in hell, besieged by zombies as they tried to keep the settlements going, and what did those three poor souls receive in return? Stomachs full of lead.

  There was no excuse. The thirteen settlements benefitted from the sacrifices of Power Rangers and the Collection Agency most of all. If Big Sugar was going to continue in this fashion, the convoy was going to pass them by. They would have no choice but to protect themselves. Let Big Sugar’s reigning warlord of the season deal with the power and food problems on his or her own. Good luck.

  Newgreen was not going to have that problem. God almighty, never! The regulations committee would fight tooth and nail to keep this home of theirs civil, and especially its head. She had a daughter and she’d be damned to hell before her daughter had to pay off a street gang with tokens to leave her alone. Kids vanished in Big Sugar. Conscripted into the fighting, abducted for evil ends, and there was no recourse for the devastated parents. Gangs controlled law enforcement; gangs ran their shoddy court system. It was a terrible place to raise children, and she knew that Xan had a child of his own.

  We have to keep them safe, don’t we, Mr. Spencer?

  He nodded to her careful frown, the unspoken threat as loud in the room as a scream. We do. We do anything to keep them safe. Anything at all.

  Yes. The careful smile returned. She was glad that they agreed.

  It seemed small, thieving tokens for extra food. Stealing medicine from the hospital to get high or to sell. Those idiots who made that horrid, bathtub hooch, got themselves drunk night after night, and were too hung-over in the morning to do a good day’s work. One time, two times, and the regulations committee turned the other cheek. Everyone needed to take a load off now and then. She used to enjoy pinot noir a little too much herself! She loved to see a bottle of that sitting on a shelf of the Special aisle after the convoy came through, although she never shelled out her tokens for it. No, she wanted to stretch those out for protein. That growing girl she had at home! Maybe one day.

  Hard choices. The regulations committee had to make those every day. If Newgreen wasn’t going to go the way of Big Sugar, then they had to take
tough measures against people who thumbed their nose repeatedly at the law. Repeatedly. Not just one time, one screw-up, mistakes are human and we all make them. Before the contagion, society carried people like the ones she was talking about. After the contagion, there was only so much slack that could be cut.

  The hardest choices of all, in her opinion, were the sick. Those broke her heart. She had had a beloved older brother with paranoid schizophrenia. He fell apart in college, dropped out, went in and out of treatment, and finally became homeless. She didn’t even recognize him at the last family Christmas he attended. He killed himself in his thirties. There hadn’t been a lot of resources back then for people with major mental troubles, and now there were none. The Newgreen hospital did what it could, but sometimes, the problems exceeded their expertise. One man had assaulted a nurse, beat her to a pulp before he could be pulled off. It was terrible. It wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t in his right mind, and they couldn’t keep him sedated for the next forty years of his life.

  They were put on the bait truck, those people. She liked to think that some of them survived out there. They couldn’t pull their weight in the community, but they were relieved of that burden outside the moat. Free spirits.

  Xan just stared at her. Then she got to the point.

  We’re worried, Mr. Spencer. We’re worried that people will hear your story and misunderstand what we’re doing. That we’re filling up a bait truck with random people we’ve yanked out of Potato for not picking fast enough, or someone who slept in one day and missed her shift at Big Bags. They would be terrified. Angry. Justifiably shouting that what Newgreen needs is new management and less totalitarianism. We don’t want a community that lives in fear and suspicion and that’s not what’s happening! What happened to you was a terrible mistake. The next time Buddy Bencher and Zeke Swendon come through here, we’re going to summon them to regulations to review our policies. Trust me, Mr. Spencer, I am not taking what befell you lightly. That was inexcusable. If they can’t be trusted on the streets of Newgreen, then we need a new pair of bait men. I intend to have strong words with their boss.

  He hadn’t told her that Buddy was dead, and God only knew what had happened to Zeke. He nodded solemnly to her practiced sternness, the promised restitution of a policy review and strong words. She was worried that he was going to raise a stink and spearhead a revolt among the people when he really just wanted to find out if his son was alive or dead.

  Her voice was quiet. We lost everything, didn’t we?

  Yes.

  Everything. Our jobs, our families, the entire framework of our lives, all evaporated in an instant. This, around us, this shard is all that’s left. And we could lose it, too. A zombie riding a fallen log over the water . . . some new crazy genius with a vendetta . . . it doesn’t have to be a genius, does it? Just someone with a grudge who lowers the bridge. It keeps me awake at night. We’re so helpless, all of us. I don’t want what’s left of our world to shatter. I’m sure you don’t either. Humanity is going to limp forward and we’ll fight for that.

  She paused. You look worn out, Mr. Spencer.

  He nodded.

  It must have been a terrible experience.

  He nodded.

  But it’s over now.

  He nodded.

  She poured him a glass of water and pushed it across the table. He didn’t turn up his nose at the glass or throw the water in her face; he didn’t ignore it to spit vituperations about the regulations committee. He drank it, his acceptance of this small gift returning the careful smile to her lips.

  I’m sure you would like to go home. Take a shower, climb into bed. Forget this ever happened to you. That’s what I would want.

  The walls were listening. His voice came out low and measured. “There is only one part of it that I won’t be able to forget.”

  Her lips straightened but didn’t go down. Pleasantly, she said, “How can we help with that?”

  “She was fourteen. A cancer patient. It was a terminal case. There was nothing more the hospital could do for her. They tried. They tried so hard. The doctor assigned to her gave her everything. The girl just couldn’t be helped, and she had less than a month left to live.”

  Mild puzzlement was in her eyes. He went on. “She was placed in the bait truck. Alive. A nurse had given her drugs so that she would be in a coma or dead by the time the bait men-”

  -dumped her like a sack of garbage at the curb and hacked her up-

  “-set her down out there. But the drugs she was given were halted prematurely, perhaps by an administrator concerned about waste. We don’t have much, I know. We have to be so careful about food and water, clothes and medication. Everything. This isn’t a throwaway world anymore, is it?”

  She nodded.

  “No, it isn’t. Everyone has to appreciate the difference from before and after, and be wise about what he uses, when he uses, how much he uses something that has gone from commonplace to precious. But, in doing that, someone may have been overzealous. I’m not pointing fingers at anyone. I wasn’t there, and I can’t say who made that call. But someone took away the mercy granted to a dying girl, someone even stripped the socks from her feet, and someone authorized her for the bait truck. And there she was, out in hell, barely able to walk, let alone run, when the zombies came for her. I know this will speak to you, as a parent of a daughter. That girl could do nothing to save herself. I accept what happens to the dead bodies. It has to be done. I don’t care what happens to a rapist or a murderer. I think the punishment is too harsh for a habitual token thief, or college kids who hate the curfew, but it’s not my call. I don’t want the responsibility for that choice, the weight of it on my shoulders. It’s good . . .”

  He picked his words as carefully as she picked her expressions. “It’s good that Newgreen has people to make those decisions, and I appreciate how hard they are. But I can’t stop seeing that girl, that fourteen-year-old girl, physically weak but mentally sound, taking these tiny, desperate steps as she tried to get away. Those drugs should not have been stopped. A store of medicine should be set aside for instances like that. She could have been any of our children, and we would never allow our children to be taken out there to die that way. We would scream. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Does Newgreen have a policy of taking sick but living children out there in a bait truck?” Xan asked.

  Genuine distaste was in her eyes. “Of course not!”

  “Then this was just an individual’s cruel error in judgment. I’m sure the regulations committee will want to look into it. Quietly, of course. The children of this settlement shouldn’t have to fear that every time they get a cold or break their leg, they’re going to get thrown on a bait truck. That’s just mean, and untrue. But someone at the hospital needs to be reminded that this was a time for compassion. If the drugs don’t exist, a bullet to the head would have been kinder. A baseball bat, if there wasn’t a bullet. Anything. Anything but what she experienced. That would help me, the reassurance that if some misfortune comes to a child of mine, that he or she will be given mercy. I am grateful to be a resident of Newgreen. I want to always be grateful.”

  They took the measure of one another. And then both nodded.

  He was giving her what she wanted, and she was giving him what he wanted. They understood one another. They spoke of inconsequential things for a few minutes, how the tomatoes were doing, the annoyances of paperwork, how the food stores for winter were faring. Then they ran out of things to say. She pushed back her chair and offered her hand. “I was told that you were once a high school teacher.”

  “Junior high,” Xan corrected. “English.”

  “Newgreen wants to open a school next year. Four days a week, from nine to two, and we will need qualified teachers. The announcement will go out soon. Special housing will be set aside for the staff because the planned building for the schoolhouse is at the far west end of Newgreen. They’re very nice homes, small but sweet
, and they’ll be furnished.”

  “I would love to return to the classroom.” He held up his hands and gave her a carefully rueful face. “I do my best with the tomatoes, but these aren’t green thumbs.”

  “Wonderful. Be sure once it’s public that you pick up an application. My daughter will be thrilled to get back to school, and it’s English she misses most of all.”

  Yes, how well they understood one another. “I’ll be sure. I’ll have my girlfriend Colette pick up an application as well. She taught P.E. before.”

  “Lovely. My daughter won’t be so happy about that.”

  Laughter.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Spencer. Be well.”

  He walked out into the sunshine. Free. And broke into a run for the hospital. It was closer than his apartment, so that was where he would stop first to search for Colette and Lucca.

  He sprinted past gardens and Big Bags stores, kids playing catch on a sidewalk, men chasing after a loose chicken. His body hurt, demanding he slow down just as he demanded to speed up. He had to know.

  “Hey, man, where’s the fire?” someone called.

  He got there in ten minutes. Sweat was rolling down his face and he had a stitch in his side. Resting his hand against the outer wall, he leaned over and caught his breath. The door opened and a woman came out on crutches. She gave him a curious look and then swung away.

  His clothes were ripped and filthy and stinking. The guards had slapped disinfectant and bandages on his arms and leg bite, but otherwise, he was a mess. Smoothing back his hair, he entered the hospital. The admittance nurse was new, and thought he had come there to see a doctor. He gave his name and asked to go to intensive care.

  Not the morgue. He had to hope.

  “Lucca Daviau-Spencer?” Her finger was running down a list of names. “I’m sorry, Mr. Spencer, I don’t see his name . . . oh.”