by M. D. Massey
Unfortunately, sunlight didn’t make them burst into flames like the ones on television and in the movies. However, all of the undead occult species were averse to sunlight, making it more or less safe for decent folk to work and live their lives during the day. After nightfall, though, you wouldn’t find many people out in the open like I’d been the night previous. Instead, people holed up in fortified homes and makeshift bunkers, even in densely populated settlements and safe zones. You were never completely “safe” these days; safety was always just a relative term.
Once the grisly deed was done, I mounted my mule and pointed her toward the settlement to collect whatever pay in barter they could offer. On the ride back, I wondered again at what the nos’ had said to me the night previous, before I sent it to the Second Death. Talkers often spoke in half-truths and fabrications, using their powers of speech to mentally torture and toy with their prey before feeding. However, something about what the creature had said didn’t quite sit right with me, and I knew I wouldn’t rest easy until I took a scouting trip east and north to see for myself what was brewing, if anything.
As I pulled into the settlement I could see the local residents moving about their daily lives, which amounted to either fending off monsters, scratching out a meager existence, or fighting for some sense of normalcy. This settlement had once been a small unnamed burg in the middle of nowhere, a pimple on the asshole of the Hill Country. It’d consisted of a bar, a combination post office and volunteer fire department, a small gas-station convenience store, and a scattering of homes dotting about a quarter mile of caliche. About fifty souls or so lived hereabouts, protected behind a makeshift fence-wall made from chain link, barbed wire, and the occasional shipping container salvaged from a big rig. I rode up to the building that served as the HQ for the local government, such as it was, hitching Donkey to a fence where she could graze while I took care of my business.
The town constable, Donnie Sims, met me at the front step. Thumbs tucked into his gun belt beneath a prodigious gut, he spat from the side of his mouth at my feet and spoke. “Any luck?”
“Nos’, sneaky bastard too. Here.” I tossed him a baggie with two bloody incisors, gum tissue still attached. Donnie looked like he was juggling a hornet’s nest as he fumbled with his fat fingers to catch the bag. Folks around here knew and trusted me, but I still kept up the formalities of proof before payment. “No worries; there’s not enough blood on those to infect you.”
“Yeah, well… never can be too careful. Good work, Scratch, good work. People can sleep feeling safe now around here, and that’s something. We really appreciate you.” He tossed me an old poker chip from the prewar era. “Here’s a chit that you can take to the storehouse; Janie’s working today and she’ll fix you up with some supplies to take home with you.”
“I was hoping for some of those Fredericksburg peaches I heard you got in.”
Donnie chuckled and returned my smile. “Just don’t take ‘em all. I got my heart set on some peach cobbler if the wife and I can scrounge up enough flour and sugar soon.”
“I’ll leave plenty behind for you. Promise.”
“Sure enough, Scratch, sure enough. You headed right home after this?”
“Not just yet; I wanted to see if there were any caravan hands around I could talk to before I leave. Something the nos’ said has me curious about what they’ve seen out east.”
“Sam Tucker has been hanging out at the Scalded Dog. You might hit him up for some scuttlebutt. Kara was asking after you anyways, so you may as well stop in there and see what she’s overheard, too.”
“Thanks for the tip, Donnie. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Hopefully not too soon, but don’t be a stranger, either.”
Life wasn’t always this way, and I can still remember what it was like before the Great War. But then some asshat got voted into office who thought it’d be a good idea to let countries like North Korea and Iran develop nuclear arsenals. Now there’s a novel idea, give a psychopath the means to start World War III. Brilliant.
So, it started with North Korea dropping the bomb on Seoul. Then, emboldened by the lack of an immediate counteraction by the US, Iran began posturing towards a similar action against Israel, which our friends in yarmulke weren’t having. They bombed Iran back into the Stone Age, following that age-old Israeli tradition of “do unto others before they do unto you,” which subsequently pulled Russia into the war. Soon after, America bombed North Korea into oblivion as a warning shot over the bow for Russia and China, which backfired and resulted in our losing Washington, New York, and a lot of the Eastern seaboard.
Before the smoke cleared, we were all screwed. It was amazing how much the world’s economy relied on computers and the Internet, but no one seemed to think about that when they were pushing buttons and sending ICBMs helter-skelter. Immediately, infrastructures collapsed worldwide, due to the lack of communication networks necessary for continuity of supply chains.
Lots of people died in the bombings, more in the nuclear fallout that followed… but tens of millions died of starvation and the ensuing violence. Ever think about the fact that there haven’t been any regional warehouses stocking foods and dry goods in the States since the advent of the digital age? Ever wonder where those groceries that used to hit store shelves just in time each week came from?
Ever wonder how long it would take for your local grocery or superstore to run out of food when the trucks stopped rolling? Yeah, neither did anyone else, and the majority of Americans found the answers to those questions the hard way after the bombs dropped. Tens of millions of people died from nothing more than a disease called “learned helplessness.”
Thankfully, I was always a little paranoid; a few tours fighting someone else’s wars will do that to you. After I got hit with shrapnel and lost part of my vision in one eye, I got discharged on a medical. Soon after that I got a place out in the sticks, where no would bother me and where I could work out my inner war in the peace and quiet of nature. I had a lot of food, weapons, and ammo stockpiled. Like I said, I was always a little paranoid.
Turns out it came in handy when the SHTF. At first, it was just a matter of watching weather patterns to avoid potential fallout and hunting to supplement my meals with wild game so I could make my stored food last until things got better.
Then, those things got set loose in the world. And quite literally all hell broke loose with them.
As I was headed over to Kara’s, I caught a commotion coming from behind one of the settlement houses. I could hear a man yelling, a kid crying, and a woman’s voice pleading with the man to leave. Now, Donnie Sims was an alright fella to have in a firefight, if that’s what you needed, but unfortunately he was a piss-poor lawman. He tended to take “minding your own business” to its furthest extent, which meant things happened on his watch that I couldn’t abide.
Most women these days were tough, and you had to be to survive. But lots of women got widowed and left raising kids on their own, which was something I wouldn’t wish on anyone in this world. Combine that with the fact that a lot of able-bodied men got killed in the War or fighting Them after, and the result was some women ended up taking in any man who might help protect and provide for them and their kids.
But sometimes, the solution ended up being worse than the problem. Hard men roamed these lands, and most weren’t exactly what you’d call savory types. Lots of them were drunks, almost all of them were violent, and quite a few of them had developed some very uncivilized ideas on how to treat a lady. Having a constable that preferred to leave folks to their own designs didn’t help.
The woman sounded desperate, so I led Donkey around the corner between two houses and tied her off on a low tree branch. Then, I checked my Glocks to make sure I had a round in each chamber, and also loosened them in their holsters. Chances were good that I wouldn’t need to resort to shooting anyone, which was fine by me since that was generally frowned upon in the settlements. However, it didn’t hurt t
o be prepared.
As I snuck back around the house and took in the scene, I saw a group of three caravaneers standing in a semicircle around a lone woman and a young girl of maybe five or six. I sized up the threat first; the one in the middle looked like he might be competent, as he had that military or law enforcement look about him and he was in decent shape. The other two looked to be amateurs though, out of shape and unprepared. All three were armed.
Then I looked over to the victims. The kid was crying, and the woman was shielding her from the men. Her dress was torn, and there was a large red mark on her face. I could also see some blood trickling down her chin.
That decided it for me; the constable could kiss my ass. Nothing got me hotter than to see my own kind taking advantage of those weaker, when they should be protecting them from the undead instead. I drew both guns and stepped out from behind the house silently, waiting to see what happened when they realized they weren’t alone.
The larger of the three stood in front of the woman, and I could see him raise his hand at her again as she flinched away. “I don’t give a shit what you thought—me and the boys want what’s coming to us. We paid you for a meal and a place to sleep, and we’ve decided that we’d like some company while we’re here.” He gestured to his left and right without taking his eyes from the woman. “Right, boys?”
Lackey number one nodded while lackey number two replied with the sick enthusiasm only a true sociopath could muster. “That’s right, Jimmy!” That one reached over to the woman and grabbed her hair to yank her head around roughly as he leered at her. “We gonna be real nice to you—make it last.” He licked his lips in a way that reminded me of a wolf from a Saturday-morning cartoon I’d seen as a kid.
Jimmy, who I now assumed was the leader, began loosening his belt with a grin that said he was enjoying tormenting this poor woman as much as he was going to enjoy raping her, and his two companions stepped forward to grab her as he began his preparations. Since it seemed they were all too intent on their sick festivities, I cleared my throat loudly to get their attention. At that, one of the lackeys noticed me and tapped the leader on the arm, gesturing with a nod in my direction.
He turned and looked at me, angling his body so I couldn’t see his right side. The other lackey who hadn’t noticed me was startled by my appearance, and dropped his hand towards the Smith and Wesson service revolver tucked in his waistband. I’d seen a P226 holstered on the leader’s right hip before I’d revealed myself, and the lackey who first noticed me had a sawed-off break-over 20-gauge resting on his left shoulder.
I made eye contact with the lackey number one and shook my head “no.” He stopped his hand just before reaching the pistol, but I could see the tension in his eyes. He wanted to draw on me. Stupid. Numbers and alcohol will make even a craven man act boldly.
I decided to try to defuse this if I could. I had no doubt I could take them, bunched up as they were and with me getting the drop on them. However, I was worried the woman and child might get caught in the crossfire. So, I cleared my throat and spoke up.
“You know, I was just asking after some caravaneers—glad I ran into you fellas. Need some intel on how the Corridor is looking these days.”
The leader, who incidentally looked like a white Pancho Villa, hat and all, spat in my direction. He reminded me a bit of a young Gary Busey, around his Lethal Weapon days; he sure was an ugly sumbitch. “Piss off, cowboy, we’re busy.”
Then and there I decided to call him Pancho Vanilla. If he lived through this, that’s the sort of name that would stick with a fella for life. Don’t get much meaner than that. I nodded and gestured at the woman bleeding in front of them.
“I can see that, sure enough. Fact was, I was hoping I could persuade you to leave off the woman, in exchange for taking up something that was more profitable.”
The one who’d first noticed me spoke up. “She ain’t yers. We know cuz’ we asked if’n she had a man. Said no. Finders keepers.”
I sucked air between my teeth. This was going south for sure. I noticed the third one’s eyes going tight, and could see his hands starting to clench. He was going to draw shortly. Better that I ended this my way.
A good way to tie a man’s brain up and make him hesitate is to ask a question, so I did. “How much would it take to convince you gents to leave this woman be?” I let that register for about half a second, and then I shot the third one in the left eye. Moving off the X, I immediately began firing on the other two, hitting the other lackey in the upper chest as I sidestepped quickly to draw their fire away from the innocents.
The one I hit in the chest dropped, but he wasn’t out completely. I could see him fumbling to bring the scattergun around. Pancho Vanilla was coming up with the Sig to put a bead on me; he’d drawn without me seeing it. Slick. I’d need to put him down next.
By the time I noticed the leader bringing his gun around, Skinny Dude had brought the barrel of his sawed-off to bear on me. I took a dive roll, feeling a tug and burn on my left ankle. I was sure I’d caught some shot in that side, and hoped it wasn’t too serious. I returned the favor by coming up to a knee and dropping him with a Mozambique using my strong gun hand.
As I came to my feet to close the gap and make sure the two lackeys were down, I noticed that the leader was nowhere to be seen. Looking around frantically for him, I heard a commotion behind the nearest house, followed by hoofbeats moving rapidly away from my position.
The woman and child were cowering behind a tree, but appeared to be fine. I ran to the corner of the house and sliced the pie as I came around, being careful not to flag my approach with my weapon. There would have been three horses, and he could have sent one off with a slap to fool me into thinking he was gone. I didn’t see anything, so I continued around the house, hugging the wall as I went. I dropped and took a quick peek around the corner only to see him hauling ass off in the distance, sombrero and Mexican poncho flailing in the wind, and two horses left behind.
I holstered my side arms and went back around the house, drawing my golok as I went. Coming up on the two bodies, I turned each over and severed their spinal columns with two clean strokes of the blade. Gory, to be sure, but in my line of work you learn to be thorough. Two more strokes and their heads were severed completely.
I left the shotgun and the service revolver loaded on the front porch of the house, but stripped the men of their ammunition. Along with their guns, I left the horses for the woman to do with as she pleased. She’d taken the child inside the house while I was cutting the heads off the corpses, not an unexpected reaction considering the situation. I moved over to the horses and rifled their saddlebags, finding more ammo, including some silver shot.
You’d think the shots would’ve drawn some attention, but unless someone raised the alarm, Donnie’d assume it was just some fool wasting rounds on Zs. So I took what I could carry and tied the bodies to my mule, then dragged them out a ways and buried them. I should’ve just left them for the constable to deal with, but I didn’t want to traumatize the girl any more than she already was by leaving them there. Even so, I really wished it was Donnie Sims and not me dealing with this, and for some reason I was sure this wouldn’t be the last I heard from Pancho Vanilla.
THREE
EARTH
MOST SETTLEMENTS OPERATED a storehouse where people could go and barter goods for the benefit of the community. Lucky for me, this settlement also had what passed for a doctor, a midwife who had a great deal of experience treating trauma and gunshot wounds during the Great War. She was also good with herbs and whatnot, which made her a triple threat. I stopped in to see her on the way to the Scalded Dog, and had her dig out the shot that was buried in my leg.
Surgery was a scary thing in these times, what with there being little to no modern medicines available. Still, the village midwife knew her stuff, and I needed to get the shot out before I ended up with an infection. Thankfully I had only been hit with a few pellets, and they
were fairly close to the surface. I was in and out within an hour, my wounds dressed with an herbal poultice to prevent infection. She gave me instructions to come back and have the wounds cleaned and dressed every day for the next few days. We’d see about that. I had a stockpile of fluoroquinolone, a potent antibiotic that was stable for years after expiration, so I’d just keep an eye on the wounds and start on the meds if it looked like it was getting infected.
Right now, though, I still had that chit burning a hole in my pocket and I fully intended to claim my canned peaches. There were a few other things I was hoping to find as well: some strong cordage, something to read, and hopefully a bottle or two of clear grain alcohol, which was good for any number of uses. Some folks in the settlements had their own stills, but I preferred alcohol that was prewar era. It was getting harder to come by each year, but occasionally I’d find a place that had some on hand.
Despite society at large regressing to a somewhat agrarian economy, scavenging was still popular and prewar goods were in high demand. If you had the balls and the skills, one or two scavenging forays a year into the larger cities and some deft trading could keep an enterprising person in eggs, meat, and canned fruits and vegetables year-round. That’s if you were lucky. My experience was that no one’s luck held out forever.
Sam Tucker, however, had been the exception to the rule. As long as I’d been hunting these parts, Sam had been taking scavenging trips to cities up and down the old IH-35 corridor, and he would know if anything had changed recently out that way. If he’d been hanging out at the Dog lately, chances were good that he’d scored big within the last month, meaning he might have more recent news for me.
I’d hit him up for whatever intel he had, but first I’d better check in on Kara. She was barkeep and owner of the Scalded Dog, ever since her old man passed on and left it to her. And by old man, I mean her common-law husband, or whatever you’d call it in a greatly lawless postapocalyptic society. Kara’s late ex was a biker before the creeps came, and had run the Dog as a popular biker hangout back in the day.
