Zombie Road IV: Road to Redemption

by David A. Simpson

  The path to the Hutterite Colony was pretty well established, the truckers had already made a few runs to pick up fresh produce from their greenhouses and trade them tools they needed. Jessie looked at the map, at the courier bag that had his list of stops and decided to take a different route. He knew this probably not the mayor’s idea at all. Probably his dad’s so he’d know where he was even when he was outside the walls. He was pretty sure there were a lot of other guys more qualified to be an emissary. Couldn’t blame the old man, he supposed if he ever had a kid, he’d worry about him, too. Not like that was going to happen anytime soon, not with a face like his. He turned off the main road and hit a secondary, falling back into old habits of searching for tell-tale signs of smoke from a chimney or a horde of zombies surrounding a house. Signs of survivors.

  Another thing he was doing this time out was tearing down fences. Tommy had rigged up a barrel clamp on a chain and all he had to do was grab a post with it and drive off. He could pull up a half mile before the wire dragging behind started bogging the car down. It was slow work, it would take years to even make a dent in all the fences crisscrossing the land, but they had to begin somewhere. The longest journey begins with a single step, as ol’ Confucius would say. If other people started doing it, too, maybe the penned in horses, cattle and hogs would survive and become numerous again. At least it gave them a fighting chance.

  It was only a hundred miles to the Colony, but by the time Jessie was rumbling up to their gated and barred bridge, it was nearing dark. He hadn’t found any survivors, but he’d freed a lot of cattle and mixed himself a bottle of Trucker Speed from a convenience store out in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t need it, not yet, but it was better to have it ready to go, just in case. Bob woke up from one of his endless naps when the car slowed and stopped.

  A big, burly-looking man came out to greet him once he’d slid past the gate and they’d secured it.

  “You must be Jessie,” he said and stuck out his hand, his eyes not glancing away at the raw scar like so many people did. “I’m Dozer. They said you were on the way.”

  Jessie hesitated, memories of the last man he’d shaken with still fresh in his mind. The man who’d grabbed his hand in a death grip then put a gun in his face. Jessie finally raised his own hand in a fist and they bumped. He didn’t care if this was supposed to be a friend. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes twice.

  The man didn’t seem to take offense and invited him to follow his truck down to the community center. He had arrived at the tail-end of dinner and after they washed up, they joined the rest of the community at the long, wooden tables.

  “Who gets the package?” Jessie asked, indicating the leather satchel he was carrying as he sat next to some of the bikers.

  “Him.” Dozer pointed to a man with an Abe Lincoln beard at the head of one of the tables. “Elder Waldner. But it can wait. Eating is more important.”

  Dozer had already started in on his plate that was piled high with meats and greens and Bob quickly found out who his favorite new friends were. The ones that slipped him bits of steak or lamb. The quietness that had settled over the hall dissipated as everyone went back to their conversations, and soon Jessie had to raise his voice to be heard over the din. Eating was a festive affair and if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine eating at a banquet hall of some Lord or Duke five hundred years ago. There was a massive stone fireplace blazing merrily and most of the residents were there for the community meal. They looked like Amish people to Jessie, the women all wore dresses and bonnets, and the men sported those funny beards. Dozer had quickly explained when they were washing up that everyone had assigned seats, the bikers and the children had their own tables. The kids because they wouldn’t be allowed to sit with the adults until they were fifteen, and the bikers because they hadn’t converted yet. Dozer was born into the community and owned property he’d inherited, but he’d left when he was sixteen and had only just returned when the zombie outbreak occurred. The Elders had let him and his men stay to provide security during the apocalypse and in return, the community would help them get his long-abandoned farm back up and producing again. It was a good tradeoff and a few of the bikers had already started courting some of the single women. They would be converting soon, Dozer had joked. Trading their choppers for tractors and their leathers for plain clothes in the Hutterite tradition.

  Even among the friendly, smiling faces, Jessie had chosen a chair with its back against the wall. No one could sneak up behind him. Everyone was relaxed and there was a lot of laughter in the hall, but his eyes kept darting, kept checking the exits and the windows.

  Dinner and dessert lasted for another hour, and from what he gathered, that was par for the course. He noticed a few of the bikers and locals slip away and be replaced by hungry men coming off guard duty. It seemed like a pretty organized outfit, but Jessie hadn’t noticed any heavy machine guns at the bridges. They were a little underpowered when it came to ordinance. He’d have to recommend some more guns for them, he could see they were good people and Lakota had plenty to spare. If a hundred of Casey’s Raiders or the mad Jihadis attacked, they wouldn’t be able to defend the Colony without them. There were twenty-four clans, or families, Dozer had told him. Most of them pretty big because they didn’t believe in birth control. The land they farmed had been Colony owned since the late eighteen hundreds and they had nearly six thousand acres surrounded by the bends of the Cimarron River. They were so far away from any towns or population centers the apocalypse had barely affected them. If the bikers hadn’t shown up with their crazy tales of the undead, the people of the valley would have never known the world had ended.

  When it was all winding down and the tables were being cleared, Jessie finally delivered the small packet to the gray-bearded old man. It was nothing, really. Just lists of items to be traded. It was almost a disappointment, the first letter delivered in the new world could have been just as easily transmitted over the ham radio or sent in the next convoy of trucks that came out. The Elder made a big deal out of it, though. Made Jessie seem more important than he really was and told everyone gathered he would be traveling to all of the far outposts where people had built barriers against the undead. The Elders gave him letters to carry to other settlements, listing what they had to trade, how much and when the various fruits, vegetables, livestock and grains would be available. Some of the ladies gave him letters to carry to other Hutterite Colonies. They didn’t know if anyone in them had survived, if they’d been overrun, and Jessie promised to check the ones he could.

  “They’ve set aside a room for you in the Community Building,” Dozer told him as the evening wound down and families headed back to their own homes. “The Express Riders room. Always available to you or any other riders that come. Or you can crash on the couch at my place. It’s a little messy, but it’s warm.”

  “I’m good,” Jessie said. “I want to take off.”

  Dozer cocked an eyebrow at him but Jessie didn’t elaborate and the big biker didn’t ask questions. He’d seen the way the kid carried himself, noticed that he sat with his back to the wall, was constantly vigilant, even among a hundred friendly faces. He’d heard the stories, knew the boy had been through a lot. Dozer figured the kid probably wouldn’t sleep a wink in the unfamiliar surroundings and had to give him kudos for being a straight shooter, not bending to social norms if he didn’t want to.

  Bob hopped in, belly full and happy from all the attention, but eager to get back out on the road. Jessie fired up the Merc and it quietly idled, the new mufflers silencing the big horse motor under the hood. Jessie wanted it quiet, sometimes stealth was needed and the cherry bombs that used to be on it were anything but stealthy. Wire Bender had installed loudspeakers wired into the radio if he wanted to draw attention to himself.

  One of the ladies came hurrying up with a basket filled with fresh bread, fruits, and homemade cheese as he got ready to leave.

  “One more thing,” Dozer added
as he passed it through the window, then stepped away from the door as Jessie slid the bars up to lock them in place. “If you come across a bunch of beautiful women somewhere, make sure you let them know there’s some handsome devils out here in Cimarron Valley.”

  Jessie laughed, bumped fists, and dropped it in gear.

  8

  Scarlet

  She stood tall, regal, and statuesque with all the trappings of a Goddess, her black hair waxed and glowing. It hung straight to her shoulders in dozens of small braids, except the single long mane that fell to the center of her back. Hair extensions had been weaved in and all of it dyed the deepest raven, darkening her natural blonde blacker than black. Her eyes were painted in the traditional Eye of Ra manner, the teardrop and curl covering half her pale cheeks. She wore the mask of Bastet, the cat face covering half of hers, the golden ears standing erect. A broad collar covered half her chest in shining, hammered gold, her arms were adorned with more golden bracelets and bands encircling her biceps. The flowing silks of the gauzy pants and open-fronted burnoose barely covered her nakedness, but that was the whole idea. Let them see beauty and perfection. The gracefulness and power of the Cat Goddess, as she stood side by side with her Jackal-headed father holding the Staff of Anubis.

  He had an announcement to make to his loyal subjects and they’d been building up to it for a week. Her father was obsessed with all things ancient Egypt and somehow, he’d managed to get hundreds of rabid followers in just a few months. It was hard for her to accept this new version of him. Her whole life she’d known him as a little dotty, a little too extreme in his beliefs, a little too zealous in his position as the Egyptologist for the Minnesota Public Museums, a little too demanding of his archeology students at the college, but still, he was dad. He was the guy who binge-watched the History channel and liked pineapple on his pizza. He was the devoted husband and father, if he wasn’t off digging around some ruin over in the Nile Valley. Now, she barely recognized him. He had changed so much, she believed he was falling into madness. The loss of her mom, the whole zombie uprising, and then teaming up with the weird scientist had sent him over the edge. She knew he wasn’t some messenger from the God of the Underworld, he was an opportunist. He was probably just a few shades short of being full blown crazy and the scientist was no better. In fact, he encouraged the madness, fed it ceaselessly, because it helped him get what he wanted.

  It was all worth it, she reminded herself. Sometimes it took a little insanity to rebuild an insane world. It took a special person, someone beyond the norm. The sacrifices they had to make, the loss of innocent lives, it was all for the greater good. The prisoners they had taken, had injected with good doctor Stevens’ experimental concoctions, had finally borne fruit. They had a vaccine of sorts. Not a cure, there was no curing death, but a blend of various elements extracted from newly turned zombies that made them think you were one of them. Made them ignore you unless you acted really human by jumping around, or running from them, or screaming.

  The ceremony was interminable. The jewelry she was wearing was heavy and uncomfortable. She kept her poise, moved fluidly, the golden feline mask hiding her identity. She acted like a Goddess. She pretended. Her father actually believed he was the divine messenger of Anubis. He wasn’t the same person he used to be. What started out as the chance for him to live out a fantasy had become his new reality. The people believed it, too. “Why shouldn’t they?” doctor Stevens had insisted when she expressed her embarrassment at the charade.

  Hadn’t Joseph Smith started a whole new religion by claiming an angel came down and showed him some golden plates?

  Hadn’t Mohammed started his movement by having visions while alone in a cave?

  Hadn’t David Koresh lead dozens of his Branch Davidian followers to a fiery death with a gun battle against the government?

  Mary Baker Eddy wrote her own bible and started the Christian Scientists cult.

  Hadn’t a science fiction writer created Scientology from some self-help books?

  Manson’s followers tried to start a race war by chopping up innocent people so Charlie would rule over all the surviving blacks after they killed all the white people.

  The Moonies held mass weddings where people who had never met before got married.

  Heaven’s Gate followers put quarters in their pockets, purple cloths over their faces, and committed suicide while wearing Nikes.

  Jim Jones gave a whole new meaning to drinking the Kool-Aid.

  Carlos Castaneda founded a movement based on the teachings of an ancient Indian Shaman and it was mostly fiction, all lies.

  There were millions of devil worshipers, earth worshipers, and even Johnny Cash worshipers worldwide. Why shouldn’t people flock to a new religion, especially after their world had ended, billions were dead, and the apocalypse was happening? The graves were open and the dead walked the earth. What was so hard to believe about a divine messenger who had the answers, the safety, the food, and the cure? Not to mention the low-grade LSD added to the ritual wine that would open their minds, their spirits, and their bodies to the pleasures Anubis wished them to enjoy.

  She rolled with it. She did her duties, hid her doubts and when required, played dress up. The things they did were for the betterment of everyone and if the religion had its dark side, the people that were sacrificed weren’t killed in vain. Dr. Stevens said each had a use and furthered his research. They were going to die anyway, why not let her father use them to strengthen the faith? Convince the fence-sitters to become zealots when they saw miracles with their own eyes.

  They were in the former auditorium, now the throne room, of the recently transformed Indian casino. It had started out with an Egyptian theme, decorated in the kitschy style of gambling establishments, but most of the ancient relics from the Museum of Antiquities had been brought here. Priceless artifacts and ancient stone statues were displayed next to fiberglass and plastic columns with brightly painted hieroglyphics.

  Her father had been planning this ceremony for weeks and they’d rushed to make the preparations and remodel the casino before the beginning of March. Before her Festival Day. Before the ancient Egyptian ritual that welcomed spring and fertility with the eating of the onions.

  Every evening after their work was done, his followers gathered to hear him speak. To teach them about the old ways that were now the new ways. For anyone with uncertainties, anyone with lingering doubts, he told them he would perform the miracles that would prove his deity. He read to them from ancient scrolls, translating the forgotten language, telling them of the prophecy that foretold the very times they were living. The rising of the dead, the coming of a new messiah and his disciples who would walk among his enemies unscathed. See them torn asunder all around him and he and his warrior priests would be immune.

  Today was the chewing of the onions, a ceremonial tradition thousands of years old. They honored Bastet as they ate them, sweet, red and roasted. They raised their stone cups, toasted her with the laced wine. If she were really honest with herself, she liked their worship. She knew they bowed and prayed to Bastet, not Scarlet Harrison, but today she was the Goddess of war and protection. The patron saint of sensuality and wine and cats. Today she was Bastet and it was hard not to let it go to her head. She knew it was science that would allow her to perform the miracles, but who was to say that wasn’t what the prophecy meant anyway?

  Her father's voice boomed through the sound system, a little echoey from beneath the Jackal mask, and the gathered believers became silent. They were in the balconies surrounding the main hall, looking down on the thirteen men and women standing on the floor, clothed in white robes, partaking in the onion ritual. Only a select few were chosen to be tested, although all were allowed to volunteer if they wished. All were given the choice of fine food and drink and the safety of the balcony, or to be on the floor when the undead were unleashed. Only the most devout, only the most faithful would be chosen by Anubis and his messengers to go on to greater glor
y. The weak-willed and the unworthy would be shredded and gutted, torn to bits by the hungry mob. Their hearts would be weighed and found wanting, rejected by the Lord of the Dead.

  Ricketts chewed his onion, going through the motions, lifting his cup and intoning the prayers. He and most of the others had been given the shots weeks ago. They knew they’d be safe. It was still unnerving, to be in the same room as the zombies. There was still a chance one of them would attack, the inoculation wasn’t one hundred percent fool proof. It was still a test of faith, although in science. He didn’t glance to his left or right, they all stared at the two Egyptian gods before them. Bastet and Anubis. It felt as real as it must have three thousand years ago. The lights were dim, fragrant smoke curled up from censers, red robed priests intoned wordless hymns from the balcony. A few of the people on the floor with him were intentional sacrifices. Prisoners who believed they would be leaving their cells and joining the ranks of the converted once they finished the ritual. Out of the dank underground sewers and into the luxury apartments of the new believers. All they had to do was go through a little ceremony before being welcomed into the faith.

  Think of it as a baptism of sorts.

  Just a little white lie to get them to cooperate.

  A little stretching of the truth.

  They had no idea what was in store for them.

  The others partaking in the onions were his most trusted guards who knew that their protection came from science and not from faith. The inner circle all had to go through the ceremony, though. It had to be public and as far as the public knew, it was the will of the gods who lived and who died. This was the big show, the final proof that had been promised. The chosen would be granted super human strength and walk freely among the dead so they could carry out the dark jackals wishes.