Zombie Road IV: Road to Redemption

by David A. Simpson

  He trudged over to the mechanic’s shop. The Mercury was in the shadows under the canopy, ready to be moved inside at first light. The shop was locked up, everyone already gone. Once the sun went down, most work stopped since they didn’t have electricity to spare. The only street lights still on were those near the guard house at the gate. Jessie was so tired. He felt defeated. He’d come all this way, hoping for something, at least a smile. Something to let him know he hadn’t been dreaming of her for all these weeks in vain. That she liked him, too. Maybe even missed him a little. That she thought of him once in a while. That the night they’d spent together meant something. For him, it had been beautiful, the best night of his life. He hadn’t dreamed, hadn’t woke with a start at the snarling screams of the undead. Her arms had felt so good wrapped around him. But it was one-sided. He should have known better, no woman would want to be with him if she wasn’t drunk off her ass.

  He sat down in the dirt beside the station and leaned against the wall. He had been stupid. He was just a stupid, ugly kid she threw a mercy screw because she was drunk and felt sorry for him. She was nearly old enough to be his mom, she probably had a real boyfriend and was hoping he’d never show up in her town again. Like an idiot he had, so she’d set him straight. Fine, he thought. I get it. You don’t want me around. You didn’t have to be so mean about it. He wiped at the tears and felt even dumber because they were there. What did he care? What did it matter? They were all going to wind up dead anyway, him probably a lot quicker than most. He’d be like that raider someday, tossed to the side of the road for the coyotes to eat. He leaned over and lay on the ground. The tire needed to be changed, the car needed to be fixed before he went anywhere. He was weak with fatigue, didn’t feel the chill in the air. Bob lay down beside him, sharing his warmth, still gnawing on his bone.

  “I’ve got you, bud,” he said, and idly scratched his dog's neck. “That’s all I need.”

  He fell asleep in the dirt, back against the building, still petting his only friend when troubled thoughts drifted into troubled dreams.

  She stormed into the kitchen, still in high spirits, and started slamming her next order together.

  “You were kind of rough on the kid,” the barman said when he came back to roll out another barrel of beer. “You’ve been bellyaching for weeks about him leaving and when he shows up, you run him off.”

  “I don’t need any crap from you,” she shot at him. “He shouldn’t have left me like he did. He should have said goodbye.”

  “You ever consider that maybe he thought you’d be ashamed to be seen with him? Maybe he thought he was doing you a favor?” the barman answered. “That face of his ain’t real pretty.”

  He didn’t care how mad she was, he didn’t take any guff from anybody, especially not someone who had just treated some lovestruck pup the way she had. That kid had probably killed more zombies, more of those raiders, than the whole town combined. She should have cut him a little slack, let him down easy if she had changed her mind, if she wasn’t interested.

  “I ain’t like that, Adam!” she retorted. “You knew my husband. After the accident, he looked ten times worse than Jessie does. You know I don’t care about things like that.”

  “Yeah,” Adam said on his way out the door. “But the kid don’t know that.”

  31

  Jessie

  Jessie’s eyes popped open, instantly alert at the movement from Bob. He was outside of his car, he was exposed. The two were curled up together in the dirt and something had caused his dog to raise his head and sniff the air. His hand dropped to his gun and he glanced at the night sky. The clouds hid most of it, but he could tell the moon had moved. Not much. Maybe an hour had passed since he sat down, too exhausted to care. He watched from the shadows as someone looked into his car, their hands cupped over the window trying to see inside. He waited, surprised there was a thief in the town. They didn’t open the door, didn’t try to take anything, looked and moved on. Whoever it was stood in the middle of the dusty street, barely visible in the dark, and stared at the buildings, indecisive about where to go. The midnight winds were blowing gently and the clouds scuttled past the moon, illuminating the town for a few moments. Lighting up the curly haired woman trying to decide what to do next. The music was still playing, he could hear it spilling out of the roadhouse blocks away. She came to a decision, turned, then hurried down the road, cutting between two houses. Jessie watched until she was long gone, wondering why she came. Probably making sure he had left and was disappointed that he hadn’t. He stood slowly, feeling like an old man, and walked to his car. He opened the door and nodded for Bob, who grabbed his bone and hopped in. He’d talk to the mayor next time he was in town. If it was important, Tackett could call Lakota.

  Jessie fired up the Merc and rolled toward the gate, the engine’s quiet rumble waking up the guard. He had to get out of here. He didn’t want to see any of the people who’d been staring at the spectacle in the bar. It would be all over town by morning, everyone would be shaking their heads, talking about the ugly kid who thought he actually had a chance with a pretty girl. He’d run down to the dealership and fix the car himself, it wasn’t like there wouldn’t be every tool he needed right there in the shop. He didn’t look in the rearview mirror. He didn’t see the figure chasing after him, waving her arms. He didn’t hear her shouts asking him to wait over the whine of the engine as he ran through the gears and accelerated away.

  She berated herself, watching his tail lights disappear in the dust as the guards pulled the gate closed. Adam was right. She’d screwed up. She’d always been a hothead and just as fast as she exploded, she always cooled down. She’d been so worried about him all this time. She thought maybe he’d snuck out because he’d been embarrassed of her, an older woman. Then he came into the bar like he’d never left, smiling that crooked smile…

  She’d lost it. She wanted to run to him, but her temper got the better of her. She just wanted him to know she was mad he ran out, that she missed him. She was going to bring him a fresh plate and apologize, but he was already gone by the time she went back to his table. Now her words haunted her. Now he must think she hated him.

  Jessie pulled up on the outskirts of Wray a half hour later and zigzagged until he found the dealership. He was still bone tired, the hour of sleep hadn’t done much for him. The town hadn’t been visited by anyone except the ill-fated supply run from Tombstone since the outbreak and there were hundreds of the undead chasing him around by the time he found it. He revved the engine a few times and took off, leading them far enough away so he could get inside the shop and get it secured. He rounded the corner hard back onto the main street and felt the tire roll off the rim, sending him sliding and sparks flying. He goosed the gas, breaking the tires loose, and tried to power slide, to get it back under control, but he still slammed into the sidewalk. The oversized wheel caught the curb and something broke, sending the car sliding to a crunching stop against a concrete bench. The dead caught up in seconds and started trying to tear through the metal and glass to get at him. Bob forgot about his bone and started barking his fury, spittle flying against the windows. Jessie had had enough. He exploded in pent-up frustration and rage, pounding the steering wheel and screaming in mindless anger. WHY, WHY, WHY! Why had he come all this way to be treated like dirt! Why did his car have to break now! Why did she hate him so much!

  He ripped the spiked brass knuckles from his leather, slid them on his hands. He needed to make somebody pay. He needed to dish out some pain. He needed to bust some heads and there were a few hundred of them right in front of him. He tried to open the door but they were piled up against it and it wouldn’t budge. He yelled louder than their screaming moans and rolled down his window, pulling his pistols. They reached for him through the bars and he let them have it with both barrels. The car was rocking from their efforts to get inside, Bob was barking and growling, and Jessie was blowing away huge chunks of heads as fast as he could pull the triggers.
The cacophony was deafening. They dropped where they stood, others replaced them and he kept reloading. Gun kata. His fingers knew how to fight. Barely a second passed between empty and full mags. The boom of the pistols was ceaseless, fire blasted from both fists. They were stacked so high he couldn’t see any more so he shoved Bob out of the way, rolled down the passenger window, and opened up on the undead clawing at him on that side. Jessie hammered them to pulp with his nines. The noise was thunderous and the wolf inside him ran mad, howling its wrath, snarling its fury. He ran out of loaded magazines for his Glocks, grabbed the shotgun from the rack and started blasting with the 12 gauge. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t see straight, and wanted to feel nothing. He killed and killed, pumping round after round into the snarling faces. The SRM held sixteen shells in its mags and when it was empty, he grabbed another one. He emptied a tube, rotated to the next and kept shooting, each round exploding heads like watermelons at nearly point-blank range. The dead stacked up for dozens of yards around the car, the pellets passing through one rotten head after another. Jessie could hardly breathe; the gun smoke filling the interior was thick, the smell of powder almost masking the scent of spoiled blood, rotting meat, and splattered brains. His ears rang and he could barely hear his own screams. When his last loaded magazine clicked empty, Jessie tossed the gun aside and tried to open the door again, but now unmoving corpses were stacked ten deep against it. The zeds were still trying to claw their way through, still clambering over the hood and trunk, still trying to reach through the glass at him. He looked for something to shove in the jamb to give him some leverage, something to pry it open. He was still in an uncontrollable apoplectic rage, still wanted to kill and he still uttered black curses between coughing fits from the smoke. He screamed his throat raw at them, the monster in his head capering and bellowing, rejoicing in the madness. His eyes stung from the powder, his face splashed with back-blasted blood. He’d pound those undead bastards to mush with his bare hands if he had to, he was so sick and tired of them. Sick and tired of people like Casey killing anyone they felt like, sick and tired of people staring at his face and feeling sorry for him, sick and tired of feeling empty, sick and tired of it all. He didn’t even care if one of them bit him, hell, he might even be glad. Give him a reason to put one more bullet in his gun. He turned to grab the shotgun to force the door open.

  Bob sat in the driver’s seat, no longer barking. No longer letting the world know he was not one to be messed with, that he would kill anything that did. He was staring at Jessie; a low whine had replaced his ferocious growls. His golden eyes were confused and worried and held intelligence. They made Jessie pause in his frenzy to destroy. Stilled his maniac anger. They stared at each other and Bob whimpered. Jessie stopped reaching for the shotgun. For his way out. For his suicide.

  He reached for his dog instead. His only friend. The only one who cared. He wrapped his arms around him, buried his face in his fur, and sobbed. He cried like the kid he was. He cried like no one was watching. The boy who’d seen friends torn apart and was haunted by them, lost loved ones and never had time to grieve. Offered his heart and had it rejected. He cried for the world that was gone, for the killing he’d done, and for what lay ahead. Most of all, he cried for himself.

  It took the men of Tombstone nearly a week to build enough armored vehicles so they would be safe on their first long trip out of the fortified town. They had more volunteers than were able to ride in them, and everyone saw them off when they left on their rescue mission. The guard said Jessie had been headed toward Wray the night he’d gone. The mechanic said there was no way the tire would last any farther than that, and he’d be lucky to make it that far. No one said anything to Sandy, but word had spread quickly about the way she’d treated the boy and the flowers in his car. It didn’t take them long to put the story together, gossip and rumors flew fast and loose in small towns. Poor thing, they told each other. She broke his heart and drove him off. They hoped to find him somewhere, maybe trapped inside his car, but if the rescue team found the Mercury and no sign of him, they would know he fell to the horde. They would know whose fault it was. That poor boy.

  They returned in their armored trucks and cars later that afternoon, overloaded with food and medicine taken from the empty town. They told of a new Raptor in the shop at the dealership with its front suspension missing. Someone had camped out in the offices, an open bag of dog food in a corner. There was no sign of the Road Angel or the Mercury, he was long gone.

  “But what of the zombies?” they asked.

  “Dead,” came the reply. There were thousands of them, spread out all over. There were piles of them stacked up on Main Street, there were hundreds up and down every road. There were stacks of them in the parking lot of the Ford dealer. The grocery stores and the hospital had been cleared. The whole place was festering with rotting corpses, the blowflies swarmed in black clouds everywhere, but there were no more undead wandering around.

  Jessie had killed the whole town.

  32

  Jessie

  Jessie decided to get back on his mission exactly where he left off. Try to wipe the past week from his memory and start over again. It took him a few days to clear Wray, and a few more to fix his car, but after that, he retraced his route and picked up his old trail where he’d turned to roll south. He was back where he started. Back at the intersection where he’d let his emotions take over, aching for something that wasn’t real, missing something that never was. To his left was the death and destruction he’d left in his wake, the raiders on the side of the road, food for coyotes. Behind him was pain of a different kind, and he planned to leave it there. He let out the clutch, turned the wheel to the right and hit the plains of northern Montana, aimlessly following route two, headed to the trading post on the Blackfoot Reservation.

  He had heard stories of a different group of bandits that had been terrorizing Canada and wanted to see if he could find better intel on them. Supposedly they were a heavily armed and well-organized bunch that were operating far to the east, maybe over in one of the Dakotas, maybe across the northern border, and they were scooping up everything in the sparsely populated states. They weren’t as vicious as Casey’s Raiders, they didn’t try to kill or eat everyone they met, but they would strip the small towns of any food it had, leaving them bare and moving on. They came in like locusts with trucks, taking all the fuel and raiding the warehouses and stores. They killed you in a different kind of way. Slow starvation or reduced to scavenging for leftovers they may have missed, fighting your neighbor over a can of beans.

  Jessie had only heard the stories from people who had heard the stories, but after the third similar tale from three different settlements, he started to believe them. Some warlord was taking everything that was left and stockpiling it. If they found survivors, they took everything they had and told them to join or starve. They said they served the messenger of god and he had given them immunity from the undead and powers beyond human. They had started their rampage in Canada, where resistance was easily overcome. The States had more guns than people even before the fall and weapons were everywhere, nearly every town in America had a pawn shop or gun store, and many places that didn’t sell guns had ammunition and accessories on the shelves. The Canadians didn’t have a gun culture, weapons were hard to buy and hard to find. The bandits tore through any armed resistance they came across with superior numbers and firepower. They kept growing, getting bigger and stronger, most people joined rather than fight.

  Jessie had his maps spread out on a blackjack table in a walled town on the Blackfoot reservation. Some small settlements, usually close-knit family and rancher communities, were hesitant to let outsiders inside their walls. Not here, it was an easy town to get into, as long as you paid the fee. A gruff Indian and his heavily armed associate had demanded a toll to get through the gate.

  “What’s the toll?” Jessie asked, “and why should I pay?”

  “The price for entry is because yo
u’re paying us to keep you safe,” he said. “This wall didn’t build itself and if we’re here guarding it, that means we ain’t out collecting supplies or tending crops in the greenhouses, now don’t it? We gotta eat, too. If you don’t want to pay, back on out and hit the road.”

  Jessie gave them some smoked beef, a gold coin and a carton of cigarettes. A surly Indian checked him over for bites while men with guns kept them trained on him. Once he was given an okay, they went back to the shed and sat down, picking up their card game where they’d left off. Security was lax, but it was there. Jessie drove through the town, then made his way over to the casino, that’s where all the action seemed to be. He ordered a buffalo steak dinner and found a table where he could watch. It was a rough town, filled with rough men and women, all of them wore guns strapped to their sides. There was a piano player in one corner and the no smoking signs were being ignored. He’d heard a generator running out back when he came in and they had just enough lights on so you could see. Kerosene lamps added to the atmosphere and gave the whole place a feel like it had been transplanted from the gold rush days of the 1800s. The barkeep yelled over at him when his food was ready and Jessie went to pick it up from the counter and order another beer.

  This was a western town at the base of the western mountains, on an Indian reservation that had been filled with men and women who still remembered and lived a simpler life. They rode horses and preferred lever action rifles to AR-15s, Colt Peacemakers and Ruger Blackhawks to Glocks and Sig Sauers. Real metal in their guns instead of plastic and polymers. Their manner of dress was old, too. Sturdy jeans and flannel shirts. Tough oilskin jackets and cowboy hats. Bandannas and attitudes. After six months without electricity, and very little fuel for the generators, they had adapted back to the way things used to be. The town was the only outpost for hundreds of miles and a lot of people came to do their trading, have repairs done, and pick up supplies. Jessie looked different with his armored leathers and plastic guns and was easily identified as an outsider.