Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 3): Last State

by Popovich, A. D.

  Onyx reluctantly trotted toward the Zhetto entrance of the tunnel. The first mandala appeared, spiraling a kaleidoscope of images before her closed eyes. Their pleas faded into the background.

  Take me away. It wasn’t working. She focused harder. Until her third eye pulsed. Throbbed. And then, her ethereal body floated over her physical body. The reins fell into her lap. She hugged Onyx tighter with her thighs and dug her boots deeper into the stirrups so she wouldn’t fall off. Dizziness overtook her. Paralysis.

  Mustering all her mental powers, she pushed back the listless state as if the lifeforce had been drained from her body. The squawking of blackbirds rendered her death. Their lava-red eyes bore through her.

  Snap out of it, she tried to verbalize.

  What? Her head hit the cave’s ceiling. A thousand sticks jabbed her body. Not a vision. All too real. She jolted back to her body. Onyx screamed and bucked.

  No! Their groans—

  “Onyx!” His sturdy back was no longer under her. Disoriented, she fought for cognizance.

  “Onyx?”

  She reached for the flashlight. But, her arms were entangled in a web of bones. She reasoned she was stuck in a state between out of body and sleep. Come back, she demanded her higher-self. A haunting awareness settled in. She was suspended in air with her back against the tunnel’s ceiling. Someone—something held her captive. And that’s when she saw the bony hands protruding from the tunnel’s ceiling. Thousands of them. Grabbing her. Scratching her. The creepers had dug through the bottom of Zoat to the tunnel. Impossible!

  She fought back, thrashing her arms and legs. There were too many of them. Suspended in the air, bodyless hands propelled her forward like a creepy conveyer belt, faster and faster. Farther and farther. As consciousness slipped away, she silently shouted, “Twila, Ella . . . I’m sorry.”

  Chapter 19

  Dean Wormer announced, “We are officially closed,” after serving the last customer in line. Although they hadn’t sold out of muffins. An antsy feeling had his nerves in a tizzy. He should double the patrols—he rubbed his chin in contemplation—maybe send a scouting team to recon the outskirts of Boom Town. His gut warned an ambush was just waiting to happen.

  “What are we supposed to do with these?” Luther came in from the kitchen with a heaping basket of fresh-baked muffins.

  “I’ll divvy ’em out to the fellas on duty,” Dean said, loading the duster with extra mags.

  “I’m getting a funky vibe, too.” Luther gulped. “Something’s about to go down.”

  “Yep. Think I’ll start my rounds early.” Dean needed an excuse to walk off his uneasiness. Luther handed him the basket of muffins before posting the CLOSED sign.

  Boom Town had grown significantly the past few weeks. He supposed word had finally reached the outlying areas that their trading post had been recently bolstered with more security. Immigrants once again flocked to their settlement to enjoy the hotels, eateries, stable, and handful of shops. Their main draw—it was the only place west of Texas that still had electricity, compliments of Last State. He liked to think there were other thriving settlements with electricity in the Lost States of America. Somewhere.

  Immigrants were welcome to stay provided they had the means to pay, whether it be with supplies, gold, or labor. The town had close to one hundred residents. As the town’s reluctant sheriff, Dean didn’t have many rules. “No trouble” was the one he insisted on. Most obliged.

  The times were a changing, less marauders, and fewer hordes. Had those dead-heads finally keeled off? How long could they shamble around the desert? Dean strode along the storefronts’ covered walkway, tipping his Stetson to the townspeople as he scoped things out. He usually stopped long enough to listen to them complain about this or that. Not today. He headed straight for the towers guarding the fort’s front entrance.

  The three men on watch were at the north tower, shooting the breeze. Dean stood in the front of a portal and reconned the western horizon, looking for something he couldn’t see—if that made any sense. Since the abandonment of the U.S. Government and the Rule of Law, he had learned to be wary of any underlying tensions gnawing at his core.

  He should probably check out the back where Boom Town’s narrow property easement butted up to Zoat. After careful deliberation, he had decided against informing his hired guards of the tunnel. If one of his men got a hankering for Last State’s lifestyle and happened to get caught, Enforcers would likely seal off the tunnel. Then what would Scarlett do?

  Besides, he didn’t have a beef with the smuggler traffic; Boom Town needed the supplies they provided. From what he’d seen, the majority of smuggler traffic came from the northwest, which meant they most likely used a different tunnel. No doubt there was a network of tunnels all over Zoat.

  Smugglers supplied alcohol, fresh produce and dairy products from the greenhouses and farms in the Texan northwestern panhandle, canned goods from whatever Last State was manufacturing, coveted items looted from abandoned homes and stores, and a cow every so often. Smugglers blew their wads at Boom Town, enjoying the plush Grand Hotel.

  The hotels along with the other businesses paid a percentage of their profits to the guards, including Dean’s measly salary. Krasinski handled the bookkeeping, no doubt lining his pockets with a little something extra. Nonetheless, it was a living. No one was getting rich except for maybe Krasinski.

  Every now and then, one of his deputies had to haul someone to the slammer until they slept off a humdinger of a hangover. Nothing unusual about that. They only had seven women in their community, all Class-Zs, not the marrying sort. They worked at the hotels or waitressed at Annie Oakley’s Saloon. Several freelanced at the Grand Hotel, which he turned a blind eye to. He didn’t waste much energy on the wheel of morality. “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” his granddaddy used to say. He understood it more than ever. After all, humanity was a heartbeat away from being wiped-clean from the face of the planet.

  Dean’s steps quickened up the unmanned tower’s stairs. Of course, he didn’t need to climb the towers; that’s what the hired guards were for, but exercise was vital. He had to stay in shape even if he was in his sixties. Fighting hordes and marauders took endurance. Something told him his horde fighting days weren’t over, despite the lack of recent activity.

  The one good thing about being the sheriff—he was always in the loop. He was the no-nonsense, levelheaded sort, knowing good ole fashion common sense and a slice of apple pie was the amicable way to settle a dispute, avoiding turf wars and flying bullets. The truth of the matter was, the star-shaped piece of tin he wore guaranteed he would wind up on the wrong end of a rifle—sooner or later.

  Dean reached for the two-way radio strapped to his belt. “Everyone, report in.”

  “Clear on the north side,” Turner, Briggs, and Lopez reported.

  “Fellas, return to your assigned posts,” Dean ordered coolly.

  “Be right there,” Turner shouted. Briggs followed.

  “Peters, where the hell are you?” Peters was in charge of the day shift.

  “Coming. I had to make a run for the crapper. Those spicy beans must have gone rancid overnight.” Peters whistled. “Boy howdy, they nearly did me in, boss.”

  “Not the breakfast of champions.” If Dean weren’t so uptight, he would have laughed at the sight of Peters gimping across Main Street in obvious discomfort.

  Peters joined him on the tower. “You’re early. What’s up?” Peters asked.

  “Here, have a muffin.” Dean offered the basket.

  “Phew, no thanks.” Peters rubbed his stomach, obviously still under the weather.

  “I’m getting the feeling something’s ’bout to go down,” Dean said, not worried how Peters might take it. He rubbed the cheap piece of tin pinned to his plaid shirt. Hell, they voted me into office. They’d just have to deal with his idiosyncrasies. Or, replace him. It suited him fine either way.

  “It hasn’t been this quiet since the Enforcers we
re here,” Peters said.

  “Yep, the men are getting lackadaisical,” Dean hinted. A dust devil to the west caught his eye. Dean followed the dust cloud to the source. Lord knows he couldn’t stomach another horde attack. “Yep, we’ve got company.” Once again, his hunch had been right.

  A lone pickup truck raced across the desert, directly for Boom Town. One vehicle shouldn’t be trouble unless it was a decoy to breach the fort’s entrance.

  “All hands on deck,” Dean blared into the radio. “Everyone, look sharp. Could be a decoy.” They had already lived through that scenario. A lone rider had sauntered in at dawn. The next thing he knew, the man had gone into an over-the-top epileptic seizure. Meanwhile, a regiment of men tried to take over the town. They’d had plenty of ammo to remedy the situation, albeit more of his men had died.

  These days they stopped all visitors outside the gate with armed guards positioned for killshots. The machine guns they had mounted to the towers were for show. They were running low on ammo again, enough for a ten-minute standoff at most.

  The driver flashed the headlights and honked non-stop. The pickup slowed down as it approached the fortified gate. It stopped.

  “Out of the vehicle!” Peters yelled into the bullhorn. “Keep your hands where we can see them.”

  “I only see one person,” Peters reported.

  “For cryin’ out loud, what kind of numskull would drive all the way out here, alone?” Dean muttered. People tended to travel in groups. Traveling alone in horde and marauder territory was downright idiotic.

  “A truck bomb?” Peters speculated.

  “I don’t know. Something’s up.” Dean befuddled over the railing in his gut. What good was it to have these instincts if he couldn’t rely on it?

  A small-framed man slowly stepped out of the pickup.

  “Got any weapons?” Peters shouted.

  “Ye-ah, what do you think?” he shouted back.

  “State your business,” Peters yelled.

  “Dude, isn’t this Boom Town?”

  “Say, give me those binoculars.” Dean peered through the Bushnells. “Well, I’ll be dern.” He reached for the bullhorn. “Justin, is that you?” He recognized the kid’s sarcasm a mile away.

  “Dean! I drove all night to get here,” Justin Chen shouted.

  “Open the gate,” Dean shouted over the radio. Um hmm, that’s what his gut had been telling him.

  Dean hurried down the stairs to meet Justin at the fort’s entrance. “Don’t tell me you got lost again. Last State’s that way.” Dean chortled. It reminded him of the day Justin had stumbled upon the personnel entrance to Checkpoint Charlie.

  “Ha ha. It’s so awesome to see you!” Justin gave him a long hug.

  “Everything’s good,” Dean announced to the growing crowd. “We’re family.” Well, they weren’t, but after everything Dean, Luther, and Justin had been through during their male-bonding trip from California to Nevada to New Mexico, they might as well be.

  Justin gave him a knowing raised-eyebrow look. The look Justin gave when something was wrong and he wanted Dean to figure it out by mindreading. Which meant it could be anything from “Dude, I need to take a leak” to “Dude, there’s a horde on your six.”

  “Guys, I’m in mucho trouble. Hide my truck,” Justin blurted. “Like now!”

  “What kind of trouble are you in now?” Dean shook his head.

  “Uh, well, uh, I sorta got mixed up with this gang of smugglers. I just escaped. They might be tracking me. I saw headlights in my rearview just before dawn. I drove here as fast as I could,” Justin said breathlessly.

  Dean pointed to Krasinski in the crowd. “Take the pickup ’round back.”

  “Hey, Krasinski, what’s up?” Justin nodded and tossed him the keys.

  “All righty, folks, the show’s over. We’re expectin’ company.” Dean pulled out his radio. “High Alert! Everyone’s on duty. Peters, you’re in charge.”

  “Yes, sir,” Peters said.

  Justin glanced at every single face in the crowd. “Dean, where’s Ella and Scarlett?”

  “We’ll talk inside,” Dean said.

  They hurried to the bakery.

  “Dude, are you like the official sheriff?” Justin pointed to the badge.

  “No comment,” Dean said gruffly, smiling.

  “This place looks different. Lots of bullet holes,” Justin commented.

  “Yep.” Dean opened the door to the bakery. “Say, Luther, we have a special guest.”

  Luther strutted into the sitting area, wearing a white apron and puffy chef’s hat.

  “Dude, nice hat!” They fist-bumped. “So, where’s Ella?” There was no hiding the desperation in the young man’s eyes.

  “Now, before you get all riled up, I’ve got some news—” Dean started.

  “Is Ella okay?” Justin’s voice went up about ten octaves.

  “I’m sure she is. Scarlett was here about five days ago. She picked up the tea,” Dean said.

  “Tea?” Justin grimaced.

  “The special Voodoo tea that saved her and the baby according to Scarlett,” Luther said.

  “You mean, Father Jacob’s tea. How’d you get it in the middle of freakin’ nowhere?”

  “Hell, if I know,” Luther retorted.

  “So, where is Ella?” Justin repeated slowly, glancing from Dean to Luther.

  “She’s still in Last State. Scarlett left you a map to their off-grid cabin in the Texan panhandle.” Dean pulled out the new handcrafted wallet he had bartered from the handcrafted leather goods shop, which recently opened. Its new-leather aroma reminded him of growing up on his granddaddy’s ranch. He set the map on the table.

  Justin plopped down into a chair, desperation taking over. “I don’t get it. She’s supposed to be here.”

  “Ella’s having complications. She can’t travel for a while,” Dean said calmly before Justin blew a fuse.

  Justin snatched the map. He stared at it for a full minute. Dean held his tongue, not wanting to set off the poor kid.

  “I memorized it.” Justin handed the map back to Dean. “I know. Weird.”

  “You sure?” Dean asked hesitantly. The kid never ceased to amaze him.

  “I can’t have the map on me. What if they catch me? They’d find Ella,” Justin explained impatiently.

  Dean’s radio squawked, demanding attention. “Can’t they get along five bloomin’ minutes without me?”

  “Company. Five vehicles closing in on our front door,” Peters crackled over the radio.

  Justin rolled his eyes. “That’s them.”

  Dean turned to Justin. “Say, what kind of trouble are you in?”

  “I guess I didn’t have such a head start.” Justin sulked. “Just give them back their truck. It’s probably all they want.”

  “Probably?” Dean grunted and jumped to his feet. “What type of firepower do they have?”

  “Uzis. Your machine guns will probably scare them off. They’re bad-ass smugglers. Not killers so much,” Justin said. “No problem for the Enforcers.”

  “There’s a thing?” Luther said.

  “A thing?” Justin smirked.

  “The Enforcers split. They shut down Checkpoint Charlie. We’re on our own,” Luther said and turned to Dean. “Where d’ya want me?”

  “Why don’t you keep Justin safe and sound inside while I find out what’s going on. Keep your ear on the radio. I’ll let you know if we need you?” Dean said. He pulled on the duster despite the warm March morning; it gave him an intimidating appearance. He slung an M4 over his shoulder. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Dean grumbled before sprinting to the gate tower’s portal.

  “Watch yourself,” Luther yelled behind him.

  Unfortunately, they were fresh-out of dynamite. Two men approached the gate on foot, waving a white flag. The men manning the mounted machine guns presented an ominous presence, swiveling the guns in their direction. Too bad it was just for show. If needed, they’d fire off a fe
w teaser rounds to bluff them off. Peters met the men at the gate.

  Peters announced over the radio, “Their leader, Mad Dog, wants to meet with the man in charge.”

  What the hell kind of name is Mad Dog? “Send him through,” Dean said, anxious to see what this was all about. Justin sure had a way of finding trouble. He thought back to the first day he had laid eyes on the kid stranded on the crumpling roof of an RV and shooting into a mob of dead-heads. What a day that had been. He chuckled to himself.

  “Mad Dog refuses to relinquish his weapons,” Peters said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t either, come to think of it. Send the head honcho in. Look sharp, fellas. If they make a wrong move—blast the bastards,” he yelled loud enough for the visitors to hear.

  Dean stood by the front gate as four of his men opened the ten-foot fortress gate left by the Enforcers. He counted the seconds, hoping it wasn’t an ambush. Hell, they had to let people in; it was a trading post after all. They couldn’t refuse every thug, or they would run out of supplies, and the town would wither away like the bygone ghost towns of the Wild West.

  A lean muscular man with a shaved head strutted through the gates, escorted by four of Boom Town’s finest.

  “Welcome to Boom Town. I’m the sheriff of this here town.” Dean whipped open his duster, flashing his badge. “Kindly state your business.” Dean recognized the man. Mad Dog had frequented the saloon when the Enforcers had been there.

  Mad Dog hunched over, cackling like a rabid hyena. “Don’t tell me you’re in charge. The jokes on you, Marshal fuckin’ Dillon. I should off you now and put you out of your misery.” Mad Dog spat on Dean’s boot.

  In one second flat, there were twenty plus guns aimed at Mad Dog’s head.

  Dean wanted to educate the man about the difference between a sheriff and a marshal. Best not. “If you shoot me, I’ve got a slew of sheriffs just itchin’ to take my place,” Dean stabbed back, matching Mad Dog’s swagger.