Zombie Road IV: Road to Redemption

by David A. Simpson

  “Well, yes, we do like our whiskey,” the mayor said, “and other things, too. We’re not going to change that, either.”

  They spoke at length and in the end, both came to the same conclusion. Joining forces was in everyone’s best interest. When Jessie was convinced the old rancher was a good man doing the best he could with what he had, he retrieved one of the ammo cans from under the bed in his car.

  “This is what we’re using for money,” he said as he opened it, revealing neatly stacked gold coins, freshly minted at a small foundry in one of the warehouses in Lakota. Carl the Engineer had designed them and printed out prototypes with a 3D printer. It wasn’t hard to create the molds, and once General Carson told them about a precious metals storage facility in Dallas, it was just a matter of taking one of the trains in to clear a path and pull any hordes out of the immediate area. A team with up-armored trucks and all manner of jackhammers, cutting torches, and drills, went into the building and proceeded to break open the vault.

  “If you have your own form of currency or barter, that’s fine,” Jessie continued. “But this is universal, a Lakota Dollar is good anywhere and its value is the same everywhere.”

  Tackett was suitably impressed. “You really do have it together down there,” he said. “We really are rebuilding this country, going to make it great again?”

  “We’re trying,” Jessie said. “We only have about five years to do it, according to some of the smart guys. They say if we can’t get a few dozen towns up and running with electric and water, a lot of what we have will be lost. We might have books that tell us how to fix a broken power plant or an oil refinery, but if we don’t have the part to fix it and no way to make that part, then it doesn’t do us any good. We’ve got to be able to make new batteries, weave cotton into cloth, get oil out of the ground and turn it into fuel. The president is trying to tie all these little communities together so we can all help each other. Everything is plentiful now, but in another few years, where are you going to get nails or toilet paper if we don’t start working toward getting the infrastructure back in place to make those things?”

  Jessie sipped at the honeyed whiskey, his throat dry from all the talking he was doing. His dad had told him not to try to pressure anyone to get on board, some of the towns would have despots running them who wouldn’t want to give up any of their power. Petty but hard men who were only looking out for themselves. People like Casey. He’d told him to just lay out the truths of what they were facing and all the decent men would gladly get on board with the rebuilding, happy for a chance to trade. But never take your guns off, he’d said. Never let them catch you unarmed.

  14

  Jessie

  Mayor Tackett took him over to the Gold Digger when they finished their long conversation. It was going on eight o’clock and they were both hungry. There was a chill in the air, it would probably drop down below freezing sometime before dawn. The bar was a big, open place with a couple of men playing guitars and a fiddle on the stage, a dance floor covered in peanut shells and sawdust, dozens of booths and tables, and a long horseshoe-shaped bar that was nearly full with thirsty patrons.

  “Pretty lively place,” Jessie commented over the music.

  “We serve up dinner to anyone that wants it,” the mayor said. “It’s free, so most of the town turns out, and we’ve got a lot of folks from the outskirts in today. You came in during our first trade days. We’re going to have it once a month and it looks like it’s going to turn into a party.”

  They sat at a booth, Jessie with his back against the wall, and sipped on beers, cool from being stored outside.

  “We can’t afford to run refrigerators all the time just for the beer,” the mayor said. “We keep a few going for the beef we butcher, or if someone brings in a deer.”

  “No one here can drive a truck?” Jessie asked. “You can’t go get fuel from one of the gas stations or depots?”

  “There are only a few gas stations around here,” Tackett replied. “It got mighty cold up here over the winter and we ran generators constantly. Most of these houses in town don’t even have fireplaces and there wasn’t a whole lot of wood cut anyway. We emptied out the stations nearby and haven’t had time to make trips any farther. We need to build a war rig, just haven’t got around to doing it yet. The towns are swarming with the undead and you can’t go in without serious protection and serious firepower. We’ve been too busy trying to survive the winter and the zombies, but it’s on my list of things to do.”

  Jessie nodded. “We could probably help you with that, we’ve got the armored trucks thing down to a science. Let Wire Bender know when you contact him.”

  “That’d be good,” the mayor said. “We’ve got a mechanic, but nobody here knows a thing about welding.”

  A waitress brought them another round of beers and more chips and salsa, the band was picking out some country song and people were starting to dance.

  “We only had one bad patch of them dead critters come through,” Tackett said as he slowly sipped at his, trying to sober up a little. “They come screaming down the road for no reason, maybe a thousand of ‘em. It was a month-long battle before we finally killed them off. Other than that, we’ve just had to fight the cold.”

  “It hit everyone pretty hard, them releasing the virus at the start of winter,” Jessie said. “I’ve come across fortified houses where I’ve found bodies without any marks on them. I think they froze to death, surrounded by the undead.”

  The mayor nodded. “We’re a pretty rugged lot, up here. Most of us made a living cowboying or farming. We’re used to the electricity going out for weeks at a time during storms, and everybody’s got a horse or two to get around on, so I reckon we were a little better off than those city folks.”

  A woman brought their food and at least she didn’t start in surprise when she looked at Jessie's face. The old scar and the fresh scratches from the cats had made the girl that brought their drinks nearly drop the pitcher of beer as she poured. This gal was friendly, almost flirtatious. The mayor grinned broadly at his mild discomfort at the attention.

  “That’s our Sandy.” he said. “I think half the men in here have asked her to marry them. If you haven’t noticed, there’s a shortage of ladies. If you find a town full of them, make sure you let them know we’ve got a whole bunch of lonely cowboys.”

  Jessie, grinned, nodded and picked up his fork. Apparently, it was the same story everywhere. A lot more men than women had survived the initial uprising.

  “I’ll keep an eye out.” he said and turned his attention to the steak. It smelled good. It was one thing Tombstone had in abundance.

  After dinner was finished, the plates were cleared, and a few more drinks were drunk, the mayor excused himself. He had a lot to do tomorrow, they were heading out on horseback to round up another few hundred head of cattle that had been spotted ranging down near the Airikaree River. The roadhouse was crowded and rowdy and the band got worse and worse as the night progressed. They were playing for drinks and were doing their best to get their money’s worth. No one seemed to notice, though. The first court days of the year had been held over the weekend and everybody that had anything to trade or sell had come from miles around. Guns, dogs, generators, tickets for firewood, and nearly anything else of value was at a flea market in the town square. They called it court days because a hundred years ago, the traveling judge only came around to hold court a few times a year. Everyone that had business in town brought things to trade or sell, and it became a tradition. It was a good time to catch up with seldom-seen friends and family, maybe swap an extra horse for a good scatter gun, or a coon dog pup for some canned goods.

  Jessie found a dim corner to sit in, back against the wall, and sipped on the home-brewed whiskey. It had only been aged for a few months the bartender said. “It ain’t the best you ever had, but it’s what we got plenty of. You want Jack Daniels, you better have something good to barter with.”

  After a sip, Je
ssie asked him to make it a Bin Laden, two shots and a splash of water. The home-brew would be just fine, thank you. He watched the crowd, content to be an outsider. Bob was curled up under the table and trying to doze. He must have had a hundred different people petting him today. He was used to it, he was the friendliest dog at the petting zoo where Jessie had found him and was accustomed to hugs from kids and scratches behind his ears from grownups.

  The people of Tombstone worked hard and played hard, drinking, dancing and gambling with abandon. They might go back to their homes and neighboring farms with a hangover tomorrow, but tonight they were celebrating surviving the first terrible months of the outbreak and the harsh winter. Everyone was having fun at the first gathering of survivors

  Jessie enjoyed the people, the laughter, the acrid whiskey, and the flirty barmaid. It was easy to forget what was outside the walls. He liked that the drinks didn’t affect him much, just gave him a warm glow while everyone else got drunker and drunker, thanks to whatever that injection was he’d had. He had forgotten about the syringes filled with the blue liquid until months after he was healed and was taking out the interior of the Mercury to put in the Kevlar linings. He found them under the seat and it took a long time for the memories to slowly come back to him. They were what had given him the healing ability, not the IV bag. It had only been pain killer. He gave two of the needles to Stacey but kept two for himself. The sisters could try to figure out what was in them or use them on someone with life-threatening injuries. That’s why he kept them: he knew he might need a booster one of these days if he was going back out on the road. He might need a shot of the blue miracle for him or Bob. He’d tossed them in his glove box along with the nitrous mask and first aid kit and hoped he’d never have to use any of that stuff.

  It was nearing three o’clock in the morning when the barkeep yelled last call. The flirty girl who had been pulling beer and slinging plates all night slid into his booth, throwing herself right up against him. Hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. She was the serving girl, although serving woman would be a more accurate term. She was nearing forty, if she hadn’t already reached it. Her name was Sandy, she’d lost both her kids and her husband on the first day of the outbreak, she lived in an apartment above the bar, and she got off at three. Jessie had learned this through the course of the night as she refilled his drinks or brought him toasted tortilla chips. She was also really friendly, thought he was a handsome devil, and had told him to save a dance for her. Jessie had just smiled his crooked smile, he knew she was only being polite to get a bigger tip but enjoyed her flirtations nonetheless. What man wouldn’t? She was kind of old, but she wore it well. Her hair was red, curly and long. Her breasts were big and her hips had a little wiggle when she walked. There were twenty other cowboys boot-scootin' and two-stepping in the roadhouse who had eyes for her. She could have her choice of any of them, he knew she didn’t really have any interest in an uglied up stranger. She was half drunk and just being nice.

  “I want that dance now before the other guitar player passes out,” she said and reached over to take a sip of his beer. “Lordy, this place was crazy tonight. Haven’t seen this many folks since before the fall.”

  She jumped up and started pulling him after her. He resisted, he didn’t want to make a fool out of himself. He’d never country danced in his life.

  “You quit that now, you promised me a dance!” she scolded him. “I don’t think there’s gonna be another song, they’re gonna keel over before they finish this one!”

  She was probably right. Jessie had no idea what they were playing, he was pretty sure the fiddler and the one guitarist still going at it were playing different songs. Everybody was drunk, the place was hot, and who cares if he couldn’t dance. He wouldn’t be seeing these people again for months and they’d probably forget his stomping around by then. Besides, he couldn’t be as bad as some of them, a few fell down every couple of minutes. She led him out to the floor and just started shaking her stuff in some sort of rhythm only she could hear. There certainly wasn’t any beat to follow from the band, so Jessie followed the song in his head. He spread his legs wide, started hearing the beat of his favorite Imagine Dragons song and started dabbing. He couldn’t help himself, he had just enough alcohol in him to let go. It was all so loud and hot, and everyone was laughing and moving to their own beat, and the music was so bad he actually started smiling. It was so dim and smoky, you couldn’t hardly see across the room and no one was looking at his face. He threw on the best moves he remembered from watching YouTube videos, dabbing to the left and dabbing to the right, feet tapping, hips shaking, arms flung and head tucked. Pretty soon, half the drunks on the sawdust-covered dance floor were doing the same thing, everyone covered in sweat and laughing uproariously when the final guitar picker tumbled backward over his amp. With one last jangling screech of feedback, the party was over and the bartender was yelling for everyone to finish up. They didn’t and he kept pulling beers and pouring whiskey for them, writing it down on their tabs. He’d have more goats and potatoes and chickens than he knew what to do with by next week. He asked Sandy to come back to work, he needed help, but she told him to kiss her grits. It was her turn to have fun. But she did spend a few minutes helping him catch up whenever she went up to refill hers and Jessie’s drinks.

  When the eastern horizon was just starting to show the faintest tinge of color from the sun climbing its way into the sky, Sandy took his hand and led him upstairs. She wouldn’t hear of him sleeping in his car or on one of the booths with the dozens of other passed out cowboys. Jessie tried to resist, the game had gone on long enough. He’d had fun, he was able to forget for a few hours that he had an ugly, scarred up face most people couldn’t stand to look at, but it was over now. He didn’t want to see her avert her eyes when she looked at him in the light or be embarrassed in the morning when she realized she’d gotten drunk and had been dancing with a disfigured troll. When he pulled away at her door to go back downstairs, she stopped him. In the dimness of the hallway, lit only by a candle at one end, she held his hand with both of hers and looked into his eyes. “Is it because I’m too old?” she asked. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”

  “No,” he replied. “No, that’s not it, I...

  I just…

  I’m…”

  He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t bring out the words that he told himself every time he looked in a mirror.

  “You’re scarred?” she asked softly. No malice, no pity. Just saying something plainly, something everybody thought. Something he knew to be true.

  Jessie just looked at her in the faint light, nodded his head once.

  “My husband got stomped in the rodeo,” she said and reached up to trace her finger along the jagged line that ran from his eye down to his lip. “Fifteen hundred pounds of pissed off bull stepped on his face.” She leaned in, stood up on her toes and kissed the scar where it started under his eye. She kissed it all the way down to his lips, pulling his hand to her chest and holding it over her heart.

  “You feel that?” she whispered.

  Her heart was hammering hard, matching his own. Her breathing was shallow, her hair smelled like flowers and tobacco, her lips tasted of bourbon.

  “He had scars,” she whispered and pulled him gently into the room, closing the door behind them. “You’ve only got a scratch.”

  15

  Casey

  This place was really pissing him off. It had looked good on the map and nobody had any complaints when they took off for Mexico. It would be kind of fitting, he thought. Like the old days when the banditos would go south of the border and live like kings with their stolen money. They would winter on the beach, their injured from the battle of Lakota could recover in a tropical paradise, and they could let the Mexicans know there was a new Sheriff in town. It would be a long holiday in the sun, just like in the movies. What the movies didn’t show were the giant jumping spiders or the black widows or the rattlesnakes or the scorpions th
e size of your fist. They didn’t show how hot and miserable it was, even in the winter. It was only March and the temperatures were already in the eighties. The ocean disappeared at low tide, it went out so far you couldn’t even see it. It stank like seaweed, the mosquitos were everywhere, and the backup generator to the backup generator was on the fritz. This place would be unlivable without electricity. Hell, it was barely livable now. With the crappy gas they were pulling out of the bottom of the tanks at the stations, no wonder the decrepit machines were breaking down. They needed to get back home. This place sucked and those assholes in Lakota weren’t going to keep him out of America. He’d been listening to their stupid radio station, and he knew there were other towns out there doing just fine. Other walled communities that maybe weren’t as heavily armed as Lakota. Other places with electric and water. He’d heard that idiot Bastille bragging about setting up trade routes and sending people to help other towns get the power turned back on. Lakota had technicians and experts. Whoopy humpy doo. He had experts, too. Experts at taking what they wanted.

  He’d been working on a new plan these past few months. He had the crew, he had the guns, and he had the brains. He was tired of two-bit hood games. He had plans. Big plans. He’d take over one of those towns, make it his own. A good one, with good defenses. They just had to make sure they didn’t kill any of the important people, the ones that knew how to run the power plants and things like that. That’s how he’d start his empire, one town at a time. Once he established his headquarters, made it just as secure as Fort Knox, he’d move on to the next town, expand his network. He didn’t need to completely occupy it, he’d just make them pay taxes. Maybe leave an emissary to oversee things. Get the local leaders to play ball and keep their people in line. Make them responsible. He would get a share of everything they produced, just like in all the mafia movies. Just like a king and his baronies. People would pay, it was easier than getting half their compound torched, their men killed, and their women raped. He just had to make an example or two and the other towns would fall in line. Just like he had when he took over the prison. Show ‘em who's boss. Those assholes in Lakota couldn’t come riding to the rescue of every little town that was springing up. Even if they tried, he’d just cut them down. Teach them a lesson, too.