by Rich Baker
“Fuck you, Bill. It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? I remind you of the guys who used to give you swirlies in the bathroom because you were too big of a pussy to fight them,” DJ says. “You just can’t accept that sometimes the world is meant for rough men, not faeries.”
“You’ve always been a Neanderthal, DJ. You have something wrong with you, something that drives you to sabotage yourself. You could have been something. You could have left the farm, maybe even made it to the NFL. But you always fuck things up for yourself, and you always wind up back here, resenting every minute of it and making the rest of us miserable. Some of us like it here. Liked it, anyway. Some of us loved our family. But you had to be King Dick, fucked it all up, and got people killed. And now you’ve put that nut case Max Montero on the trail of people who just wanted to survive. They’ll be killed, DJ, for no reason other than placating your stupid fucking ego.”
He’s going to tell mom. She’s going to flip out, and we’re going out on our ass with the dead. DJ nods, letting The Voice know he’s heard it.
“You keep your mouth shut, Bill. None of the rest of them need to know I talked to the Montero’s, especially mom. You want to be the pacifist; you want harmony on the farm, then you need to forget this conversation happened. That’s the price for peace.”
DJ leaves the room. Bill stares at the yellow-red spot in the center of the bandage wrapping his leg. He’s always had a love-hate relationship with his brother, but under these circumstances, DJ is dangerous. He’s already gotten people killed, and Bill doesn’t want to add to that number.
He knows what he needs to do.
Three
The black F-350 rumbles up Highway 287 toward Longview. The front end of the truck had a snowplow on it, but Max and his guys have removed the plow blade and replaced it with a modified version of a cow-catcher. It’s proven to be very effective at both discarding zombies without having to slow down, and pushing cars out of the way when they encounter traffic jams.
The farmland on either side of the road has zombies scattered throughout the landscape. They’re a mix of genders and ages. Some are children, some young women, and young men. There are a few grandmothers and grandfathers, moving faster than their elderly bodies could move if they weren’t zombified. Max’s eyes follow a naked woman as they pass her. Jessie Rios looks sideways at Max and laughs.
“What’s funny?” Max asks.
“You. She was covered in blood and missing an arm, and you were still checking her form,” Jessie says, nodding his head back and to the right, toward the naked woman in the field.
“She was naked bro, and she had big tits. Am I not supposed to look?” Max says.
“Just wear a rubber, dude. You don’t want to get zombie cock,” Jessie says.
“Fuck that. Look but don’t touch, you know what I mean? Still, that was a ZILF if I ever saw one. Can you imagine…?” Max says, trailing off.
“No, but I bet you can. And have. You sick bastard,” Jessie says, half joking, half not.
Max chuckles and continues staring out the window. Every plot of land has a massive house set back from the road. Even though the farms have been here for generations in some cases, some of the houses are new. When the economy went south people with money came to a lot of these struggling farms, bought them out and put in massive houses where, in some cases, century-old farmhouses had stood. Most of them leased the land back to the farmers, letting them raise their crops or cattle, letting them keep the harvest, so they could get the tax benefits of owning a farm without having to do any of the actual farming.
“You know, it serves some of these people right,” Max says as they pass one of these new mansions, now a burned-out shell, smoke still rising from one corner of the building. “These people came in with their money and kicked people off their land, bulldozed their houses to put up McMansions, then have the old farmers working for them like they were slaves.”
“So, they deserved to get eaten because they have money?” Jessie asks. “You sound like the Ninety-nine Percent pussies protesting in New York, bitching about people having more than them when most of them have never worked hard in their lives.”
“No, it’s not that – it’s just that they hit them while they were down, paid the bare minimum for the land, threw the people out of their homes, man. It’s just ironic that now the shoe is on the other foot,” Max says.
“Whatever, man. They paid what the people would accept,” Jessie says. “And just think about all the shit we can loot from those places once these undead fuckers thin out. All you’d get from those old farm houses would have been old farmer farts, man.”
“True, that’s a fair point. Hey, try the radio again,” Max says.
Jessie turns on the satellite radio. A voice crackles from the speakers.
“…and that was the last confirmed location of Air Force One. The President’s last message urged people to remain calm and not react by blaming any particular group.”
The audio changes to a recording of President Obama broadcasting from Air Force One.
“While the damage to our infrastructure and population has been severe, it’s important to recognize that this is not just an American issue, not just a Christian or Western or whatever group you identify with’s issue. This is a global issue. Everyone has been equally affected. We must unite as a species in this struggle, and it’s only by working together that we can overcome the challenges we face.”
The audio cuts back to the DeeJay.
“Well, that’s about par for the course. The world is literally burning, and our leader is worried about offending someone. Well, folks, there ain’t gonna be anyone left to offend before long. Despite the undead employees of this radio station pounding at the studio door, it’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine. Better than fine actually; because I’m just shy of being done with this bottle of tequila, and when this song is over, I’m going to put this pistol with its lone bullet in my mouth and pull the trigger. If you can hear this, you’ve lasted longer than me, you poor bastards. Good luck to you!”
REMs ‘It’s the End of the World as We Know It’ starts playing.
“Turn it off,” Max says. “If he had to put something on a loop, he couldn’t have picked a shittier fucking song.”
“What would you have picked?” Jessie asks as he powers off the radio.
“Easy,” Max says. “Drowning Pool. ‘Bodies.’ You?”
“Everlast, bro. ‘Graves to Dig.’ ‘Bodies’ is a good one too, though,” Jessie says.
“Ooh – ‘Rescue Me’ by Buckcherry,” Max says. “Hey, when we get back we need to make a playlist for the apocalypse.”
The zombies have grown thicker now, and Jessie hits a few, the cow-catcher knocking them to either side of the big truck in a flurry of pinwheeling arms and legs, each thump jarring the vehicle. In the distance, they can see the big water tank that has “LONGVIEW” painted on the side, marking the south end of town.
“Lucky and Little Nicky are supposed to meet us at the water tank. You know how to get up there?” Max asks.
“Yeah. I took my share of chicks there in high school,” Jessie says, then, feeling Max staring at him he adds “That was before I met your sister, dude. Chill out.”
“I’m just fucking with you. Relax, bro. What’s eating you?” Max asks.
“I don’t like coming out like this. There’s too many zombies, and I don’t like the location. Not enough exits from the water tower,” Jessie says. “It just sets my nerves on edge, you know?”
“Well, Lucky and Nicky have been running around this town since everything went to shit. They ain’t dead yet, and neither of them is the brightest star in the sky if you know what I mean. So, I trust that they know what they’re doing,” Max says.
“I just don’t know why we couldn’t just do this over the CB.”
“Because it’s insecure! I don’t want the Puckett’s hearing that we’re coming after them and giving themselve
s time to prepare. They’re armed and dangerous – don’t forget that,” Max replies.
“Right now, everyone’s armed and dangerous, or they’re dead and dangerous. What are the odds that they’d be listening?” Jessie asks.
“That’s exactly how we hijacked that Wal-Mart truck, remember? What were the odds of us listening to that channel on the CB at that exact time, while the trucker was only a couple of miles from us, giving us the chance to hijack his shit? Those odds of all that coming together were pretty fucking slim too, right? And yet we got that semi-trailer full of food,” Max counters.
“True. I guess stranger things have happened,” Jessie says.
Jessie turns the truck to the right and exits the highway onto a dirt road. Bodies are scattered to the sides of the road, many battered and broken from contact with vehicles. The storm ditch on the right side of the road has dozens of the undead in it, most with broken spines and useless legs, unable to crawl up the steep sides. Every couple hundred yards a truck or car has been pushed off the road, some into the field on the left and some into the ditch. Everywhere are signs of vehicle collisions; broken glass, plastic, a hubcap here, a piece of a bumper there. And there are many, many pools of dried blood unaccompanied by a body.
A half dozen zombies shamble and lurch at them in the center of the road. These aren’t fresh, and their ill-used bodies won’t let them move faster. Jessie slows down and lets the cow-catcher do the work, sending four of them flying to the left and two to the right. One of the ones flying right hits the side of a Toyota 4-Runner in the ditch. An undead woman, held fast in the passenger seat by the seatbelt, sticks her arms out of the broken window, trying in vain to reach the truck as it rumbles past.
After a half mile, the truck crosses a bridge, and Jessie makes an immediate left, pointing the truck toward the water tank. He shifts the truck into low two as it climbs the steep hill. The water tank is surrounded by a nine-foot chain link fence, topped with barbed wire. The fence has always been there to dissuade graffiti artists, but the city added the barbed wire after 9/11. The tank itself is 200 feet in diameter and 30 feet tall. It holds 9 million gallons of water and a drainage trench, intended to divert water to a retention area, rather than the neighborhood to the north, in the event of a leak, surrounds the tank just outside the fence. The combination of the drainage trench and the nine-foot fence make it a tough task to scale it even before the barbed wire appeared. It didn’t stop the locals from getting in and climbing the tower to show off the view to girls, and of course, make out with them.
A staircase wraps around the side of the tank, winding its way to the top, though the first ten feet were also removed after 9/11 to keep people from accessing the tank and contaminating the water within it. A series of cell phone transmitters and broadband antenna encircle the rim of the tank. The top of the tank is the city of Longview’s high point, and visibility is miles in all directions. To the north and west, a sea of rooftops, to the south and east, open farmland with the occasional farmhouse.
The access road slopes on either side of parallel guardrails, steep enough so that zombies have a hard time climbing onto the roadway. Hundreds of them are in the drainage ditch that feeds the retention ponds on either side of the road. Behind the gate, they see Lucky and Little Nicky, each holding an AK-47. While Nicky opens the gate, Lucky shoots a few zombies who have made it onto the roadway behind the truck. The big Ford rolls through the entry, and Nicky shuts the gate behind them. Jessie stops the truck for a moment, Max hops out, and Jessie executes a three-point Y-turn and points the nose of the truck toward the gate.
Nicky walks up to the big truck and says something to Jessie, and the two of them head to the Dodge pickup that Nicky and Lucky drove to the meetup. The Dodge has a snowplow blade on it, the doors on each side emblazoned with ‘White Knight Snow Removal” – another of Frankie Four-Fingers’ chess themed businesses.
Max walks over to Lucky.
“Hey Luck. How are things in town?” he asks.
“Fucking crazy, man. We got the truck loaded with a ton of shit for you guys. A bunch of food, some guns and ammo, some other stuff, electronics and shit, you know? If society ever comes back, it’s this stuff that will be valuable. Nicky’s getting Jessie to help load the truck now if that’s ok,” Lucky says.
“Yeah, fine,” Max says, taking a glance at the activity around the trucks. “Why didn’t you just have us drive to the Pawn King?” Max asks.
“Well, Frankie doesn’t know about this stuff. He’s all territorial, you know – like he has to be all tough or we won’t take him seriously because he’s a cripple. To be honest, I’m more scared of his daughter than him. Anyway, his place is secure, man, and we need a base of operations. I don’t need him kicking us out, you know? That could get messy. And secondly, this is about the only place that we can get out of the trucks and talk and move cargo, you know? Everywhere else is swarming with these fuckers.” To punctuate his point, Lucky raises his rifle and shoots three more zombies on the road.
“Aren’t you worried about the noise from that thing bringing more?” Max asks.
“You know what? It doesn’t matter. These things are going to spot you no matter how quiet you are.”
“Yeah, but why ring the bell for all of them in a two-mile radius?”
“Once the herd starts moving they’re all going to come anyway. At least with these, you don’t have to be as accurate to stop them. You can hit the spine and paralyze them, hit a leg and break the bone. They can’t catch you if they can’t walk or run.”
Max shrugs. He doesn’t know if he agrees with Lucky, but he’s not the one running all over the city trying to score as much loot as possible, so he’s not going to debate with him.
“Look,” Lucky continues, “I know you’re all about stealth and whatnot, so I’ve put a couple thousand rounds of subsonic .22 ammo in there. Frankie has a ton of it, and I told him it was payment to you for our services, you know, like a tribute. I couldn’t sneak it out without him knowing, so I had to come up with something. Anyway, he didn’t like it, but he said he understands that our services would come with a price. He just doesn’t know about the food and other gear.”
“Does he have more of that ammo?”
“Dude, tons of it. He has hand grenades too, and some other stuff. It’s all in the basement, and you have to go past his office to get to it, so there’s no sneaking in. I only spotted the ammo because I was taking gas down there for his generators.”
“What other stuff does he have?”
“I don’t know, but he has a hidden compartment under the floorboards in his office. I saw him closing it and pulling his desk over it one night. He almost threw us out, said I was spying on him.”
“Listen, if he gives you too much trouble, you let me know. I’ll come into town and pay him a visit.”
“Don’t worry; we can handle him. He won’t eat if not for us. It’s one of those – what do you call them? Biometric relationships.”
Max laughs. “You mean symbiotic relationship.”
“Whatever. You know what I meant.”
“True, true,” Max says, then gets to the real reason he wanted to meet. “Listen, Lucky; we got another job for you guys.”
“Sure Max, what is it?”
“You know Hector? Addie’s guy?” Max asks.
“Martinez? Yeah, sure, I know him. Works for the Nelson Farms, plays pool. I beat him in a tournament out at the Vaquero Enojado.”
El Vaquero Enojado, The Angry Cowboy, is a bar near the interstate, and Max purposely hasn’t thought about it in a long time. The mention of the name sends him into a haze for a moment.
The Angry Cowboy caters to Northern Colorado’s large Spanish-speaking Hispanic population, mostly comprised of agricultural migrant workers, people working at the many dairy farms, and at meat processing plants in Longview and Greeley. They host dances, pool and poker tournaments, and rodeos featuring their mechanical bull. Like any successful bar, a seedy el
ement flocks to it, and that’s where Lucky, Max, and rest of their gang come in. They sold drugs, stolen electronics, brokered deals for coyotes to bring family members across the border. If there was a way to make money off the clientele, they did so.
This was the same bar where one of the cops who testified against Max’s sister used to hang out. He didn’t want to go to the bars in Longview where he was most likely to be recognized, but he wasn’t invisible at The Angry Cowboy, either. Several months after Elina Montero’s trial and subsequent suicide, the cop was found stabbed to death in one of the bathroom stalls on a Friday night. Max and his brothers, especially Wilmer, were automatic suspects, but they were at another bar the entire night, along with several of their main cohorts. There were more than twenty witnesses who vouched for them. The killer was never caught.
The Angry Cowboy was also the same bar where Max’s sister met and fell in love with Hector Martinez. It’s this thought that brings him out of his reverie. He realizes that Lucky is waiting for him to respond.
“Hector was murdered. The Nelson’s got ahold of us and told us he was shot and killed by some bitches who took a shortcut across their land the night the world ended.”
“That sucks, man. I liked that dude. What do you need us to do?”
“DJ Nelson said the group was headed to Longview, and they were with someone named Puckett. Odds are they’re zombie food by now, but we need you to track down any Puckett’s in town and see if there’s any activity. Report back to us if you find them, but do NOT do anything else. If we find them, I want Addie to have the chance to pull the trigger.”
“DJ Nelson is a psycho, man. He’s one of like, five white guys I know that ain’t scared of nothing or no one. He’s been out at the Vaquero a few times when I’ve been there, and he’s always starting shit with people. You sure he didn’t start this shit and get Hector killed?”
“He’s Addie’s husband, bro. I don’t care who started it; someone has to pay!”
