Zombie Road IV: Road to Redemption

by David A. Simpson

  He pulled his bandanna up over the bottom part of his face, warding off the chill, and went up to the front door. Locked. He walked around back instead of kicking it in, he’d got into the habit of not smashing things unless he had to. It made unnecessary noise and hurried the rot and decay of places if you left them open to the elements. You never knew when or where you might need a safe haven. The yard wasn’t fenced, but there was a kennel beyond the swing set, its gate standing open. The back door was locked, too, and they must have had a big dog, the pet flap was huge. Jessie hollered through it and when nothing answered, he wriggled his way in, then flipped the locks open. He stood and listened, sniffed the air. There was an old moldy smell and it stank like a cat box, but it didn’t have the odor of the undead. It didn’t have that rank zombie smell. He made his way to the kitchen and started opening cupboards, looking for the good stuff. They had kids, so they had to have something sugary to eat. If not pop-tarts, maybe some Ding Dongs or something.

  Jessie caught movement in the corner of his eye and swung, dropping the jar of peanut butter and bringing both Glocks up instantly. His heart was trip-hammering as he darted his eyes across the breakfast bar and into the gloomy living room. The curtains were drawn, but he knew he saw something. Something stealthy, like a rat. But bigger. Much bigger. He heard the quietest whisper of movement, then saw a pair of big golden eyes staring at him from the back of a couch. Something huge was flicking its tail back and forth, its eyes boring into his. It looked like a small mountain lion, but the coloring was wrong. It was long haired and gray, not a sleek tawny brown. It was a cat. A big ass cat, to be sure but still, just a cat.

  “Hey kitty,” Jessie said, and holstered his guns. “You been catching all those rabbits Bob is chasing around? Bet you’d like some cat chow for a change.”

  He started going through the bottom cupboards then, looking for a bag of Purina or whatever it was they fed a cat of that size. He’d never seen one so big in real life, but he’d seen pictures of Maine Coon cats online. That thing had to be one of them, it looked like it weighed a good fifteen or twenty pounds. That explained the oversized doggie door, he thought, rummaging through the cabinets. He found what he was looking for in the narrow broom closet and pulled out a brand new, unopened, forty-pound bag of Meow Mix.

  “Here you go kitty, look what I found. Today’s your lucky…”

  He stopped mid-sentence when he turned to pour it out on the floor and saw more cats were staring at him. They were slinking up the basement stairs and forming a semi-circle, all sitting with their tails curled, just watching him. He started to slowly tear the bag open as he looked at them. It was a little eerie, so many giant, silent cats. He stopped counting at fourteen, and more were coming. Stacking up in rows. Sitting and staring at him, some licking a paw, some motionless. Some little ones were joining in and they hissed at him, probably had never seen a human before. At least not a live one. Jessie plucked at the string to get the bag open and finally got it to pull free. He hadn’t found any snack food for himself, but he thought he’d just let it go. He’d come across a gas station soon and these cats were creeping him out. One of the bigger ones came over and started rubbing against his leg, as cats do. Jessie was pouring the kibble out on the kitchen floor, trying not to stumble from the weight of the heavy cat pushing against his legs and purring loudly. He finished dumping out the bag and reached down to stroke the purring cat. Its purr became a hiss and half-inch long, needle sharp fangs sank deep into his hand. Jessie jerked back instantly, ripping a chunk of flesh from the fat part of his thumb and the cat sprang for him. Thirty other cats did the same, spitting and hissing, going for blood and tasty, fresh human flesh. He threw his hands up to protect his face and ran for the door, kicking cats and stumbling, nearly falling to his knees. He slammed against the door, crushing cats with his shoulder as they hung off of him, sinking claws into leather. They were a pack of squalling and snarling wild animals, their blood frenzy high as they made their kill. They ignored the food on the floor. They were interested in warm, fresh meat, not dried out bits of chicken byproduct and bone meal. Jessie grabbed at them and slung them, but he was covered in cats, all of them trying to reach the blood coursing through his veins. He stumbled on the stairs when a fifteen-pound fur ball darted between his feet and he fell down the three steps to the ground. They were on him, scratching and clawing at his hair, raking furrows in his scalp, and opening up a fresh slash across his forehead. The bandanna around his neck was the only thing preventing them from ripping into his jugular. Jessie roared in anger now and started rolling on the ground, trying to crush them. He drove elbows into writhing bodies and pulled them from his head to smash against the sidewalk. The snarling, screaming banshee shrieks of the cats were only silenced when they sank teeth into his flesh and tried to rip chunks free. He felt it when Bob slammed into him, breaking backs with his snapping jaws. He grabbed them and bit down hard, ragging them side to side before slinging them off and going after another. He was growling deep in his throat, but within seconds he was no longer trying to pull the cats off his master, he was fighting for his own life as they started tearing into him. These cats didn’t run from him like every other one he’d ever had the pleasure to chase. These fought back. These attacked him like he was the prey. Bob snarled and growled and barked and bit. Jessie punched and kicked and snapped necks with bloody hands, both of them taking damage, but dishing it out with interest. It was over in minutes as the Shepherd chased the last cat fighting to the top of the utility shed. It sat on the roof hissing at the barking dog, its muzzle wet and red with blood. Jessie pulled out his gun and shot it, sending it tumbling off the other side. There were seven or eight dead cats around him, the rest had run back inside and were hissing from the doorway. They still had some fight in them, but they scattered inside when Jessie aimed and shot in their direction.

  “Sumbitch. I was trying to be nice to them,” Jessie told Bob as he wiped blood from his eyes. He was lucky, he supposed. If it had been summer and he wasn’t wearing leather, they might have gotten the best of him. They might be having a tasty little snack right now. One of the cats at his feet was hobbling away and Bob went after it. Jessie didn’t try to stop him as he bit down and started shaking it, breaking bones and crushing organs. Its squall of pain didn’t last long. He was breathing hard and missing small pieces of his hands where they’d torn chunks free. He must have had a dozen deep furrows in his head from their claws, but at least they didn’t get his face or his eyes. Maybe he needed to find a museum and get a suit of armor, he thought as he whistled for Bob and made his way back to the car. He grabbed one of the cans of gas and walked around the house, splashing it on the walls. He blocked the pet door with the barbecue grill and splashed extra fuel on it. When he finished, he tossed a match on the trail he’d poured down the driveway, then sat on the hood of the Merc and watched it burn. He daubed his numerous cuts and scratches with hydrogen peroxide, doctored the scrapes on Bob’s snout, and waited for the cats to die. The next person that happened along might not be as lucky as he was. They might not have protective clothing or a dog to save them. When he heard the feral killers start to squall, he tried to smile and told himself it was a job well done. He wasn’t really feeling it though.

  13

  Jessie

  The outpost on his list was only a few miles ahead, just across the Colorado border, and he was already seeing the indicators of survivors. For miles he had seen hand-painted signs with arrows at some of the crossroads, declaring the existence of the town and that they were open for business. Safe Haven, Traders Welcome, and Court Days 1st weekend every month, they said. Jessie wasn’t sure what to expect, he knew they had electricity because they’d been in contact with Wire Bender on the Ham, the map showed them on the banks of a river but it was barely a dot, just a wide spot on a county road a hundred and fifty miles from Denver. When he approached the gate, he was met by a man wearing a badge and two holstered guns.

  “Howdy, s
tranger,” the man said when Jessie rolled down his window. “Welcome to Tombstone.”

  At Jessie’s raised eyebrows, the deputy grinned. “Yeah, I know, but that’s what we voted to call it and now we’re stuck with it, we’ve already got signs painted. You visiting for business or pleasure?”

  “Official delivery, I’ve got mail from Lakota for your mayor,” Jessie said. “But after that, this is my first time here, so I’m not sure what your pleasure options are. I might hang out for a day or two, looks like the place is pretty secure.”

  “It is. We’ve never had our walls breached,” he said proudly and waved the gate open. “Pull on in and park next to that caboose and I’ll give you a rundown of the rules here in Tombstone.”

  Jessie idled through the opening when one of the tractors pulled a rail car out of the way, its well-oiled wheels moving easily on the section of tracks laid out for it. The community was walled, like every town still surviving, but these enterprising people had used their tractors to pull rail cars from a train into a huge circle. There were hundreds of them dragged into place, their couplers removed, then pulled in tight to each other. Blocks, rocks, and dirt had been laid up between the wheels so no crawlers could sneak their way in. It was effective, and although the wall was only fifteen feet high, it was probably more than enough to keep out the undead. This was desolate country, the nearest town of any size was miles away.

  When Jessie got out and stretched, the deputy asked him if he’d been in contact with any of the undead, then told him to take off his leather and roll up his sleeves. He checked him over quickly but thoroughly, ensuring there were no fresh bandages or cuts. The scratches on his face and hands were days old, already scabbing over and raised a few eyebrows when he told them about the feral cats.

  “We used to just take you at your word if you said you hadn’t been bitten, but we had a trader turn zom on us. He only had a little cut on his arm, said he caught it on a piece of barbed wire. He was lying and it cost us four good men when he turned.” He kept looking at Jessie's scar, then quickly averting his eyes.

  When the exam was over, Jessie let Bob out of the car and grabbed the satchel. “Which way to the mayor and what have you got for pleasure? I could use a long soak in a jacuzzi.”

  The deputy snorted laughter. “Not enough electric to waste on things like that, we only have a few generators and some solar panels. We live simple here. I imagine you could get Lora Lee to give you a massage in a bathtub, though. That is if you have the coin or something worth trading.” He added a knowing wink.

  The deputy led them toward the town center and the only three-story building a few blocks away. Jessie couldn’t get over how much it felt like he’d stepped back a few hundred years to the cowboy and trapper days. He was in an old Colorado railroad town that time had nearly forgotten. The clothes were different, there weren’t any women in hoop skirts, but most of the people wore guns and hats. There were horses tethered to hitching posts, right alongside ATVs. Everyone seemed to be wearing leather of some kind as protection, and he saw a lot of kerosene lanterns when he looked through windows. If he squinted his eyes to blur out the modern signs and the occasional car, he could easily imagine the Gold Digger bar and grill as an old west saloon. The bed and breakfast hotel as a bordello. The Dollar Store as a dry goods and mercantile supply.

  “Here ya go, son,” the deputy said as they arrived at the courthouse. “You’ll find the mayor in there. I’ve got to get back to my post.” He touched his fingers to the brim of his cowboy hat in a little salute and headed back to the gate.

  It was impressive, what they’d achieved in the past six months since the world went crazy. They didn’t have all the comforts of Lakota, but they hadn’t had the last of America's government and all of their knowledge directing them to the absolute best place to be. These people had built everything on their own, having no contact with the outside world until just recently. They’d been listening to the radio, to Bastille’s programs about defenses and medical treatments, home remedies and proven battle tactics against the undead, for months. A trader had finally brought in a Ham radio and antenna so they could contact them. The winter was over, spring was in the air, and more and more communities were being discovered. More survivors coming out of hiding and realizing there are others, tens of thousands of others, who had made it through the long, dark winter.

  “Stay here, boy,” Jessie said as he approached the courthouse doors. The town was walled so he wasn’t worried about Bob wandering off and getting lost since he probably didn’t know what ‘stay’ meant and even if he did, would probably just ignore the command.

  The mayor was pleased to see him when a woman showed him into the office. He stood, walked around his desk to shake his hand. Jessie avoided it, pretending like he thought the mayor was reaching for the satchel and handing it to him. He kept his hand free from anyone trying to grab it. That was one mistake he’d never make again and he told the part of his brain that was berating him for insulting the mayor to shut up. The wolf was prowling, looking for danger. He didn’t care who he offended. The mayor brushed it off, thinking the kid was just a little ill-mannered, but everything was fine. He was genuinely glad for the lists of goods and services offered by Lakota, the official proclamations of his status as Mayor by the president, and all the other paperwork in the case.

  They passed the time, Jessie answering all of his questions about the new government and Lakota and their plans for eradicating the undead scourge. Cobb had been sending out train crews to run the tracks, pulling in vast hordes of the undead and then taking them out west to bake in the deserts of Texas and New Mexico. They theorized that once they had followed the trains for hundreds, even a thousand miles, they would be so broken down they wouldn’t pose much of a threat anymore. If the trains could pull them into the wastelands by summer, the harsh elements should hasten their demise.

  Jessie asked questions about Tombstone, too. About their skilled labor and what kind of problems they were having. The town had been made up of hardened farmers and two-fisted ranchers at first, but more and more people came in over the winter. People fleeing the cities, people who ran out of supplies and people just drifting, looking for a place to settle.

  “Your town looks prosperous. You’ve done a commendable job, Mr. Tackett,” Jessie said, sipping on the proffered neat whiskey. They didn’t have the electricity to waste on making ice.

  The mayor nodded, taking the compliment in stride.

  “You seem awfully young to be an emissary,” he said, “but I guess in these new times, things are different. Hell, last year I was cowboying. I’m a third-generation rancher, was running six hundred head of cattle. Now, I’m trying to keep my friends and family alive. It was touch and go for a little while, but I built this town without any help from any government.”

  His eyes narrowed a little and his voice took on a hard edge, “And I’m not going to let them tell me how to run it.”

  He stared Jessie right in the eyes, letting his words sink in.

  “Now, we don’t mind trading and barter,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his point made. “Maybe even sending a few men to help if you’re putting together an army to kill zombies, but we’re not going to be told what to do in our everyday affairs. This isn’t the world it was six months ago. We do things our way.”

  “If you’re concerned about some G-men coming in to shut down your whiskey stills, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Jessie said.

  The mayor looked a little surprised and Jessie continued, “I smelled the distillery when I came in. We’ve got guys in Lakota that already have craft breweries set up and Pack Rat has a moonshine still in his backyard. The president is from the Appalachians and rumor has it he was a whiskey runner when he was a kid. Our two doctors grow pot in the community greenhouse. Nobody cares about that stuff anymore, Mr. Tackett. I know the president pretty well and I can tell you unequivocally that he’s one of the biggest scofflaws you’ll ever meet. He isn’t a
politician, they’re all dead. I don’t know who the next president is going to be, but they’re planning on having an election in November. We just want to know if you’re still part of the States, or if you plan on going it on your own.”

  This boy kept throwing Tackett off. Every time he thought he had a bead on him, knew what he was about, the kid surprised him. He didn’t look much older than sixteen or seventeen, but the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, and the way he could match him glass for glass of Yukon Jack made him seem much, much older. Mature beyond his years. He had planned on getting the kid drunk so he could question him about Lakota and what their real plans were, if they had some grand designs about micromanaging everyone. He was the one getting snockered, though. He’d chosen the honey-tinged whiskey because it wasn’t as harsh as some of the others in his cabinet, it went down smooth and easy. He wanted the boy to feel grown up, drinking a man’s drink and matching the old cowboy shot for shot. The kid didn’t seem to be affected at all. His little plan wasn’t going as expected. The baby-faced youngster was drinking him under the table. He just wanted to be sure he wasn’t signing his town up with some illegitimate government, some group of wannabe dictators. It wasn’t like he could look them up on the internet anymore, see what other people were saying about them.