Zombie Road IV: Road to Redemption

by David A. Simpson

  Gunny moved his sights over to the other window, placed them right where he thought the face would appear, then raised them, allowing for the drop at three hundred yards. He applied pressure to the trigger and let his breath out, holding it at the bottom. When the curtains flicked back and a bearded face squinted out, Gunny squeezed. Glass tinkled and the man didn’t have time to look surprised before the bullet smashed through his forehead. The sound of a little engine roaring to life behind the house brought him to his feet. He was up and sprinting before the body hit the floor. It was the high revving, angry insect sound of a two-stroke motorcycle. A dirt bike that would be gone across the desert in seconds. He’d never be able to chase him down. Gunny couldn’t let him get away, couldn’t let him warn Casey. He ran full-out, covering the ground in huge bounds, angling for the sound so he could get a shot off. The bike was already hard to see in the dim light, but it was heading down the driveway for the road, not fleeing out into the desert where he’d have been half hidden by boulders and scrub brush. Amateur mistake. Gunny slid to a halt and shouldered the gun, held his breath, led the target and squeezed the trigger twice. Both arms flew up in the air and the bike careened toward a stand of cactus trees, leaving the rider impaled and dangling for a moment before he dropped bonelessly to the ground.

  Gunny heard it at the last second, the sound of a quiet engine racing and coming right for him. A little Honda was almost on top of him, its motor revving and the driver holding it to the floor. No time to dive out of the way. Gunny sprang straight up, dropping the carbine and drawing his Glock. He started firing into the windshield as the Honda sped toward him, punching through it, weakening it, and when he slammed into the speeding car, the safety glass caved under his heavy boots. He hit the passenger seat so hard it broke, tilting all the way back, sending him sprawling into the back seat. The driver had shielded his face from the flying glass but had a Desert Eagle in his fist and brought it around, foot still mashing the gas. Gunny saw the gun swinging toward him and managed to bring his up and put four rounds through the seat and into the back of the man. He slammed forward over the steering wheel, his hand cannon flying out of his fingers. The car left the graded driveway and went careening off through the desert, plowing down prickly brushes and bouncing over shallow washes. Gunny tried to pull the dead guy away from the wheel, his foot off the gas, but he crumpled in the seat and slid to the floorboard, locking the pedal to the floor. The little motor screamed down an embankment, into the dry river bed, with Gunny trying to grab the steering wheel from the back seat. He saw headlights coming down the road and realized the car was flying out of the arroyo and right toward them. He dropped his gun and lunged for the wheel, but the car screamed up the shallow embankment and went flying through the air, the plastic bumper tearing off and a massive plume of dirt and sand spraying out behind him. He launched over the rise, the little car climbing high in the air as it shot over the road and slammed down nose first into a dune, flipping over onto its roof, rolling back into the gully, and sliding into a cluster of barrel cactus.

  Gunny smashed into the back of the driver’s seat, breaking it, then was shoved backward by the airbags. When the car finally came to rest, he was all the way in the hatchback section with the dead man sprawled on top of him, bleeding all over. Gunny groaned and took a quick inventory, making sure nothing was broken, then shoved the guy off. Flashlights were coming toward him and he didn’t know if it was his crew, or more bad guys and he didn’t see his gun anywhere. He looked for it frantically, moving his hands around in the broken glass.

  A light stabbed in his face and he squinted, but kept searching for his Glock or the Desert Eagle. It was a sinking feeling, being unarmed and people who would do you harm were only a few feet away.

  “Well, that’s a hell of an entrance, Evil Knievel,” Scratch said. “You coulda just flagged us down, you didn’t have to jump over the top of us.”

  “Ha freaking ha,” Gunny said. “Get that light out of my eyes and help me find my gun. And get this guy out of my way.” He shoved the body toward the broken side window and a pair of hands dragged it away to give him room to wriggle out.

  “Is it safe to assume the dead guy was driving?” Bridget asked, holstering her Berettas.

  “Yeah, he died with his foot on the gas. Couldn’t get him off of it,” Gunny replied, spotting his favorite gun half buried in the sand.

  “Why didn’t you just throw it in neutral?” Scratch asked.

  “Because…” Gunny started, but realized the kid was right. He hadn’t thought about it in the panic. “Because piss off, Scratch,” he said, annoyed at the snickers coming from the others.

  19

  Jessie

  Jessie awoke long after the sun was up, but from the angle of the light and the shadows stretched across the wall, he knew it was still early. Only a few hours had passed. He felt good, lying next to her and listening to her steady breathing. Her skin was warm and soft and he inhaled her scent, felt her heartbeat when he concentrated. He’d started noticing things about himself a few months ago, about the time he stopped taking the pain meds and quit trying to drown his nightmares with whiskey every day. Looking back, he had to admit he’d been a train wreck for a while. Once he stopped trying to kill himself with booze, and let his mind and body become clear again, he discovered he could run circles around all the other guys in training. He could lift more weight, run farther and faster, his reflexes were snake quick, and he swore he could see and hear better. He was as confused as the SS sisters about his miraculous recovery, and after a while started slowing down on group runs. At the gym, he didn’t lift as much or as long as he could and feigned exhaustion when he was barely breaking a sweat. The weird looks he’d been getting, and the whispers, went away after a while. He said it must have been a residual effect of the IV he’d been on, but now it was gone. He didn’t like being a freak, it was bad enough with his face being messed up.

  When he was bulletproofing the car and found the injectors, it took him a long time to remember what they were and where they came from. A blonde girl had given them to him in a parking lot somewhere up north. He had tried to remember, had looked at maps and tried to determine where he’d been, but it was no use. His brain was a fog during that time period, he only recalled snippets. An underground prison. Some kind of laboratory. An angry woman dragging him out and dumping him in a parking lot after she gave him some sort of injection. He didn’t know how long it had taken him to drive home. One day? Two? Was it three? He could have been anywhere, maybe even up in Canada, and it was their government doing the experiments.

  He relished the feel of her skin against his, the woman who had shown him the ways of women, and he wanted her again. He started to run a finger over her breast, covered by the thin sheet, but stopped when he smiled and felt the familiar wrong pull of his cheek. The poorly healed scar turning his boyish grin into an ugly snarl. He stared at her quiet beauty, the tousled red hair, the crow’s feet around her eyes, the small lines around her mouth. His heart lurched, almost hurt. He got out of bed quietly and gathered his clothes. She’d been drinking last night. What if she woke up this morning and he saw disgust on her face? He wouldn’t risk it because it would kill him. Better to slip away and keep the little fantasy alive that she didn’t see him as a mistake. Something embarrassing. He dressed in the hallway, the only person up so early in the morning, and went downstairs to the bar. Bob greeted him when he walked in with a tail wag but went back to his dish of leftovers. He could hear the barkeep rattling around in the kitchen and when he asked if Jessie wanted a ‘leftover burrito,’ he agreed. It was yesterday’s shredded steak, mashed potatoes, and corn warmed up, mixed up, and spread on a tortilla.

  “Adam.” he said and sat two plates down. “In case you didn’t remember. Helluva night last night.”

  Jessie grinned around the burrito. “Yeah it was. To be honest, that was the most fun I’ve had since… Well, since before the fall.”

  Adam matched
his grin. “Yeah, some of us heard how much fun you two were having.”

  Jessie’s eyes got big and he swallowed hard, not sure what to say, he’d been busted.

  The barkeep laughed out loud, nearly spitting coffee through his nose.

  “Boy, you look like you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar.” he said, dabbing the tears at the corner of his eyes.

  “Well, I suppose you did.” he laughed even louder at his own joke.

  Jessie didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how he was supposed to act. He tried to smile but felt the pull of the scar and dropped his head to take another bite.

  “Hey,” Adam said, picking up on his discomfort. “Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. Every swinging dick still passed out in here would be jealous if he knew but I’m not one to gossip. Code of the bar man, you can tell us anything and your secrets are safe. You sure you want to be leaving so soon, though? She might get mad, you sneaking out.”

  “She might be glad I did.” Jessie mumbled, unable to meet his eyes.

  Before Adam could say something, tell the boy he was being ridiculous, the smell of burning meat drifted out of the kitchen and he sprang off his stool, running to save it.

  Jessie grabbed the burrito and hopped up, he needed to get going and this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. He left some gold on the counter and a little extra for feeding his dog.

  It was still chilly out when he eased through the gate and aimed his car west. It had been a good visit and he was pleased with how things went. His first attempt at being an ambassador had gone well. They were completely on board, he’d written down the things they needed in his notebook, and the items they had to trade on a regular basis. He’d left them with the lists of trade goods the Hutterites and Lakota had in abundance and assurances that Lakota would have rigs patrolling the established route, keeping the undead population under control. The country was starting to get back on its feet. The farther he drove, the more he second-guessed himself about Sandy. Maybe he should have seen how things went. Maybe she wouldn’t have been embarrassed by him, the ugly kid half her age. Maybe.

  Maybe he’d stop back in after he hit up a few more towns on his map, circle around to see. He’d think up some reason for his return, some business with the mayor or something. If she ignored him, or pretended nothing happened, then he would know. He’d understand.

  Jessie rechecked his map and took the next road coming up. He had left tombstone behind two days ago, had checked on an abandoned Hutterite farm, pulled up miles of fences and had been steadily headed west on his way toward a survivalist outpost in Idaho. They seemed well armed, well organized, and had good communications. They’d broken radio silence after months of listening to Bastille’s show and had contacted Wire Bender on the Ham. They said they might be interested in trade and they would meet with an emissary. Jessie’s dad had told him to be wary of the group. They seemed a little too on edge, a bit too over the top security conscious, and there was a guy called the Colonel in charge, who seemed a little sketchy. His old man told him to skip it if it didn’t feel right, they could send a team later on, when he had the manpower and the time. For now, just check them out. Make sure they weren’t any part of the cult that had taken him prisoner.

  But first, Jessie had to make a quick stop at a ranch that was only a hundred miles out of his way. When the people of Lakota found out he was taking off on an extended run into the wastelands, some had given him their addresses and a list of things they would pay him for if he could locate them and bring them back. Jessie had marked the places on his map and told them he’d do his best. No promises.

  The miles rolled by and the Wyoming landscape never seemed to change. Sandy soil, scrub brush, and solitude. The sky was huge, blue and bright with puffy white clouds and not a single jet trail. The blacktop was old and faded gray from the many summers since it had been resurfaced, and he spotted an occasional deer or elk that glanced up at him as he passed. The houses were few and far between, sometimes hidden entirely from view, miles down a dirt driveway. He was getting close and glanced at the note again.

  Black mailbox without any numbers.

  Four Forks Ranch written in wooden letters on an arched sign over the driveway.

  Twenty miles from the crossroads.

  Family Bible and photo album.

  Hope chest at the foot of the bed.

  Be careful, infected inside.

  Wally Abelson and his wife had given it to him. They said not to put himself in any danger, but if it was possible…

  They’d been lucky enough to grab a few biscuits, pack a lunch, and head out early on the morning of the outbreak. Their oldest would get the kids to grandmas for breakfast and make sure they didn’t miss the bus for school. A neighbor had called, said he’d seen a cow with their brand with a fresh new calf and she was stuck in the creek bottom. Apparently, she’d wandered deep into a ravine to have her baby and couldn’t find her way out. He said he heard her bawling when checking his fences but she’d gotten spooked by his dog and he didn’t have any luck leading her out. She was in high spirits and he was afraid she’d hurt herself, so he’d let her be and gave Wally a call when he got home.

  They left at dawn on their four-wheelers, laden down with a picnic basket, grain and medicine, and figured they would make a day of it. They would run their property line to check fences and springs to make sure they were still flowing. Winter was coming and the farmer's almanac was calling for heavy snows.

  They’d gotten the bossy old mamma out of the ravine, she’d come running when they offered her corn, and she’d joined back up with the rest of the herd. The calf was fine and they went ahead and tagged him and gave him his shots. They spent the rest of the day enjoying the warm September afternoon and had a late lunch at the spring that fed the creeks. When they got home late that evening, they were attacked by one of their children. Cody was only five and if he wasn’t so completely torn up, if he hadn’t been missing an arm and had half his intestines dragging behind him, they may have succumbed to the virus, too, but when they saw him they ran. They knew he was dead, but alive somehow. They were out of their minds with fear and grief but they knew the thing screaming after them was no longer their son. They made it to the pickup truck and ran him down. The rest of the extended family were in the old farmhouse. The big two story where Wally’s mom still cooked breakfast for everyone, same as she’d been doing for fifty years.

  They never went in, there were twelve people in there. His parents, his brothers and sister and their families. They each had their own houses on the property, but everyone always met at the farmhouse for breakfast and to start the day with family. After that, it was school and work and chores and ranch duties, but you’d better have a good excuse for Mamma Abelson if you weren’t there.

  Jessie spotted the ranch sign hanging over the driveway and turned in.

  The dirt path twisted and turned for a few miles before it opened up on a little oasis in the high desert. There were a dozen buildings spread out among the tall, old oak trees. A few of them were houses, the rest were barns and equipment sheds. He picked out the main house easily enough, it was the biggest and the first built when the family started cowboying the land.

  He pulled up in the yard and spun the car around so it was facing out. Bob could smell them already and was doing his whine-growl thing. He didn’t like them, they were deadly and something unnatural and he was afraid for Jessie, but he also wanted to attack and kill. To make them stop moving, because every sense he had told him they were worm food and they needed to lay down and act like it. They needed to stop walking around.

  Jessie hopped out and double checked his loadout. Both pistols firmly in place on his hips, both knives secured. He pulled on the leather jacket with the reinforced shoulder pads his mom had made. It had disappeared from his shop one day and he was actually starting to think someone had stolen it when Stabby and Scratch brought it back, customized even more.

  “Now it�
�s a proper Zombie Hunter’s leather,” Stabby had said when they presented it to him. They’d added bits of chainmail, some ammo bandoliers, and had painted a skull on the sleeve.

  “Metal as fuck!” Scratch had proclaimed, sticking out his tongue and throwing the devil’s horn sign. Jessie had to admit, it did look kinda cool.

  He grabbed the SRM 12-16 Griz had pimped out for him. It was a twelve gauge with a rotating magazine that would hold sixteen rounds total, hence the name. There were only twelve of the undead and he was using number four birdshot. Each shell had about two hundred bits of lead so he had more than enough to make a big brainy mess, wade through the glop, see if they had any Ding Dongs, then get the books from upstairs. Piece of cake.

  No stupid mistakes, he reminded himself and rechecked everything for the third time. Pull them to you, kill ‘em one at a time, keep constant situational awareness.

  “You ready, Bob?” he asked and got a cocked head for an answer. Ol’ Bob knew they were getting ready for something. His hair was already standing on end and his growl came from deep in his chest. Jessie took another deep breath, willed himself calm, and started for the porch steps. Nope, he didn’t have to do this, but he was going to anyway. He liked Wally and his wife, the guy had helped him nurse Bob back to health. He didn’t have any schooling, but he knew a lot about animals and how to take care of them. It was Jessie’s time to return the favor.

  They were at the door, he could hear them on the other side, slapping at it and starting to keen. Part of him wondered how they even knew where the door was. They were so brain dead they couldn’t turn a knob, but somehow, they knew the difference between a door and a wall. Most of the time. It was made of solid wood, though. No windows to shoot through. There was a big picture window that led into the living room so Jessie walked down to it so he could see in. Maybe see what he was up against. They followed his footsteps, stumbled over furniture and against the curtains. They tore loose and fell on top of the small horde causing a few of them to start thrashing. A flailing arm sent a heavy lamp flying toward the window and it was cold enough for it to shatter. Jessie had the gun up and started splitting heads instantly, raking it across the clawing crowd. They were fast, they’d been protected all winter inside the house and ten of them leapt, almost in unison, for him. Jessie spun and ran, Bob right on his heels. The undead poured out of the frame, using the bodies of the two dropped by the shotgun as a springboard through the opening. There were a couple that were ten or twelve years old and they hit the porch in a bound, springing like animals after prey. They covered the distance to the steps in a single jump and were reaching for Jessie with outstretched arms, curled fingers, and guttural cries of hunger. He hooked the banister with his free hand and spun down the step, the shrieking crowd right on his heels, tumbling over each other in their eagerness.