She came down the stairs slowly, one at a time, placing each foot with care not to bounce herself and bring on new waves of hurt, or tear open the quickly healing wounds. She limped over to him and he offered a can of Vienna sausages. She tried to smile, but it hurt.
“How long have we been out?” she said, trying not to move her lips too much.
“I think about three days, judging from how many rabbits my dog brought in,” he replied, trying not to feel self-conscious about sitting nearly naked in front of a girl with her boobs hanging out of her open jacket. He doubted if she could see much anyway, one eye was still swollen shut and the other was just a slit. It hurt to breathe. She could have been the hottest stripper in Vegas giving him a lap dance and he would have told her to go away. The nasty purple and yellow bruises all over her body brought back the simmering rage, though. He brought out a few more cans of the little sausages and they dipped their fingers in, pulling them out and eating hungrily.
She was famished, the serum in her veins burned through her calories and fat reserves as it did its job, knitting broken bones, repairing torn muscles, regrowing ripped skin. She knew the same magic drug flowed through him, too. Or something similar, he’d had the early prototypes that Doctor Stevens was still trying to perfect. Occasionally it had unfortunate side effects, not like the newest version that worked faster and gave a few more enhanced abilities. He seemed to be doing okay though. She’d seen him in action, he hadn’t had any of the adverse reactions. She did smile then, pain or no pain. She’d beat herself up for months over giving him the shots and now he’d saved her life. She was as sure of that as she was sure of anything. Good karma had come around.
She pushed up off the car when they finished the third can and tossed it to Bob, who caught it, then got busy making sure it was spotlessly clean. Jessie noticed one foot was dragging a little, wondered if one of the slashes had done some nerve damage. She made it across the yard to the pump, managed to get her jacket off, but struggled with the pants.
“Heads up,” Jessie called over and tossed his Ka-Bar in a wide, underhanded arc. It landed point-first a few feet from her, burying halfway to the hilt in the ground. She nodded her thanks and freed it, used it to slice away the remains of her shredded pants. She was in too much pain to be shy, he was in too much pain to care. Mostly. It was hard not to appreciate her: scabs, scars, welts, bruises and all. He looked away quickly, not interested and not wanting to be creepy, but couldn’t help but notice the downy blonde as she ran the blade over her panties and let them fall.
He eased himself off the nightstand turned walker and filled a ruck with supplies, occasionally glancing over her way. Taking in the damage they’d done. Her once perfect pale skin was mottled, almost piebald, hundreds of bruises from angry boots covered most of it. Blood seeped from long slashes on her arms, legs, and back as she cleaned them with the icy water. She was banged up pretty good but she’d be all right. The miracle drug had brought her back from the edge of death.
46
Jessie
Jessie eased the rucksack on his back with many winces and groans, then grabbed his walker, his fine antique spindle-legged walker, finished with a nutmeg stain and clear coated so it shone. He moved the holster around to cover his bare ass then clumped his way back up the steps and into the kitchen, sliding the ruck onto the table. He dug out a loose-fitting pair of cargo pants first.
He had his priorities.
He had no hope of getting a t-shirt on, it would mean moving his arms in ways he just wasn’t up to for the time being. He strapped his guns back on, letting them find their place, and slid over to the stove. It wasn’t electric. That was a good sign. When he turned a burner on, he heard the hiss of gas and smiled. Whether propane or natural, it didn’t matter. It still had pressure. They could heat water and cook without resorting to the wood-stove. He used his improvised walker to explore the rest of the downstairs, he wasn’t ready to attempt the steps leading to the upper story.
“Jackpot,” he said to himself when he opened the other bedroom door. Grandma’s room. A lot of farm families lived with all three generations under the same roof, and this one was no exception. He hoped ol’ granny was a little shaky on her feet and he’d find some crutches or canes, maybe even a wheelchair, if he was lucky.
Bingo. Right next to the extra tall toilet was the old woman’s walker. A real one, not one crafted in a furniture factory. Jessie happily traded and glided over to the master bedroom, looking for a button-up shirt. He stopped when he saw the bed, it looked like somebody had been ax murdered in it, there was so much blood. He stripped the sheets, wrapped them in the matted blanket and tossed the bundle out of the window. The mattress was stained but not too bad. The two of them should be able to flip it over. He didn’t mind sleeping on it, he’d been in worse places. She could crash in grandma’s room. This was a good place to spend a week or so recovering until they were well enough to make it to a walled town. The chances of them being found were pretty slim, he’d zigged and zagged for miles before turning down the long drive to the farmhouse. He did need to get all the guns out of the car and hide it in the equipment shed, though. Just in case. But it had already been at least two days, probably three. If the goons were smart enough to search for them in a grid pattern, they would have already been found. The Raiders had taken a hard beating, more than half of their numbers killed, probably a lot more wounded. They most likely recovered what they could from the gas station then tucked their tails and ran.
Jessie found a flannel shirt that fit pretty good, not too baggy, and buttoned it up. There were also a lot of women’s clothes in the closet. They would probably fit the girl, or if she could climb the steps, it looked like they had a teenage daughter.
Jessie went back outside, moving a little easier with a real walker, and loaded another duffle of food and guns, leaving it laying on the ground. He’d get it after he stashed the car in the shed. He looked over to see if she was still washing, but she was laying on a towel in the grass, letting the sun warm her and dry her off. Jessie's breathe caught, and not just from the jab in his side as he slid into the seat. She was something to see, even with black and blue and purple marks all over her body and long, red gashes on her arms and legs. Her face was a mess, but he knew what it looked like under the swollen lips and slitted eyes and crooked nose. He knew it probably took ten men jumping her from an ambush to best her and that made her something special in his book. If he hadn’t sworn off women, he might actually be attracted to her, bashed up face or not. He grinned, felt the old familiar pull of his scar, and remembered the last time he started liking a girl. They only liked you back when they were too drunk to know any better. He looked away, slid his walker behind the seat, and fired it up. He had other things to think about, like what he was going to make for dinner. He was still hungry.
He heard her come in a half hour later, his ears attuned. She had the towel wrapped around her, was moving slowly and painfully, but she was moving. And clean. She was limping badly, one foot still dragging, using the walls and furniture to support herself.
“There are old people clothes in the bedroom,” Jessie said from the kitchen. “Probably a teenage girl’s room upstairs, if you can manage them.”
“Old people,” she mumbled and made her way down the hall.
A few minutes later she came back wearing a summer dress over sweatpants, and a sweater pulled over her shoulders to ward off the chill. Jessie already had a fire going, giving the living room a nice glow. He sat at the table cleaning his guns, dinner was simmering on the stove giving off a pleasant aroma that had them both salivating. All they’d had for days was a couple of cans of bland sausages. Now that their hurts were tended to, they weren’t in any immediate danger and they’d washed off days of filth and blood, the hunger was demanding to be satisfied.
“Even I can smell that,” she said, and Jessie noticed she’d put her nose back in place, it wasn’t crooked anymore. That had to of hurt.
&
nbsp; “Dinty Moore and some of that rabbit Bob caught for us,” Jessie replied, and the Shepherd wagged his tail at the sound of his name. Good trade as far as he was concerned. The humans always made the food taste better.
“The people here at the farm supplied the noodles, and the peaches for dessert.”
“I love peaches,” she said. “Is it ready? I’m starving.”
“It’s done,” Jessie said, quickly reassembling his pistol. “Grab a bowl and help yourself.”
He started to get up from the table, but she waved him back down.
“I got it. How much you want.”
“Fill it up,” he said. “I’m about ready to pass out.”
They sat and ate like half-starved people, spooning in the thick stew as quickly as they could, considering it hurt Jessie to swallow and her to chew. They slowed on the second bowl, actually tasting and enjoying the food. Bob wanted seconds also and happily lapped it up, tail wagging when she plopped a ladle full in his bowl.
“Got a name?” Jessie asked, adding salt to his.
“Doesn’t everyone?” she quipped.
Jessie just looked at her, their eyes meeting, and gave her a slight smile. Fine, he thought. We don’t have to be friends. In another week, when we’re ready to travel, you can take the old pickup in the shed and be on your way. He went back to his stew, grinding a little pepper into it.
“Sorry,” she said after a long pause. “Sarcasm is my defense mechanism. I get tired of all the guys trying to hit on me. It was annoying before, it’s really bad now. If you haven’t noticed, there aren’t a lot of single women left. They try to chat up every pretty face they see.”
Jessie looked back up, cocked his head a little, as if studying her. “I don’t think you have to worry about that anymore,” he said, and went back to eating.
She stopped, her spoon halfway to her mouth, and stared at him.
“Did you just call me ugly?” she asked, her one good eye widening.
“Butt Ugly,” Jessie said. “Voodoo on a stick.”
The eye narrowed, “You’re so ugly, your mom got fined for littering when she dropped you off at school.”
Jessie hid his grin behind the napkin as he wiped his mouth.
“If ugly were a crime, you’d get a life sentence,” he replied.
“You’re so ugly when you go to the beach, the cats try to bury you in the sand,” she came right back.
“You’re so ugly you have to trick or treat by phone,” Jessie said, setting down his spoon, staring right at her mangled face.
“You must have been born on the highway,” she said, setting her own spoon down. “That’s where most accidents happen.”
“You were so ugly when you were born, the doctor slapped your mamma.” Jessie’s slow smile widened.
“Your family tree must be a cactus, because you’re a prick.”
And on they went, pulling out jokes and one-liners, insulting each other’s looks, their mothers, their weight, intelligence, and family history. When it finally devolved to knock-knock jokes, Jessie couldn’t help but grin at her, not at all self-conscious about his scar. She’d just called him everything he’d ever thought about himself, he gave it all back, and he realized it didn’t matter. His face was the one he had and if people didn’t like it that was their problem, not his. He smiled his twisted snarl smile at her and didn’t care. She grinned right back with her broken lips, slashed cheeks, and blackened eyes.
“It’s Scarlet,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
Afterword
The long winter is over. The world isn’t dead and the ones who survived have a plan. Some want to make it a better place for everyone. Some want to make it a better place for themselves.
Gunny and his crew are running for the border and running for their lives. Their plan hadn’t worked out and now the only plan at the moment is stay alive until the next gas stop.
Jessie is recuperating again but at least it isn’t as bad as before. This time he’s not bed ridden and has interesting company.
He plans on finishing his mission, continue to set up trade routes and help where ever he can.
Scarlet doesn’t have a plan, she is as confused as ever about her place in the world, her loyalties to her father and the young man who saved her life.
Hasif has plans to get away from Egypt and make it to the States.
Casey has plans. Big plans. First he’ll take care of that asshole Gunny then Lakota is going down. That’s his plan. He will finally establish himself as the new ruler over everything.
The Anubis Movement has things under control and everything is going according to their plan.
All of the communities, towns and settlements have plans, too. They have survived, now they want to thrive. Crops need to be planted, electricity needs to be routed, and the undead need to be exterminated.
Somebody’s plans aren’t going to work out.
Authors Note
Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it and the new post-apocalyptic world I’m trying to portray. Something between Gunsmoke, Night of the Living Dead and Mad Max.
Like most projects, this couldn’t have been done without the help of others: like the insistence from members of the fan club that the story wasn’t over, they wanted more. Thank you, you were right.
I go to them whenever I have a question and they always come through. They have suggested the cover artist, written the back-cover blurbs, given me subtitles and reminded me of story threads that needed to be addressed. They have enthusiastically suggested all kinds of gross and disgusting behavior that Casey and his band of outlaws could do to people. This is a PG rated book, the zombie brothel didn’t make it in. Or ripping chunks of zombie flesh from the sunbaked undead and eating it like jerky. You guys are gross. But in a good way. Some of the characters in the book are named or based on members. Believe it or not, Casey is the construct of a member who won a contest to create a character. He wanted to be written into the story as a bad guy.
If you would like to keep up to date on new releases, win fabulous swag in the occasional contests or be the first to know about anything else going on in the Zombie Road world, there is a David Simpson Fan Club on Facebook.
Please take a moment to leave a review if you can, it’s the life-blood of Indies. It’s one of the few ways others can judge whether they would like to read the books.
Thanks. Enjoy life. Don’t get hit by a bus.
David A. Simpson
6/1/2018
Zombie Road IV: Road to Redemption Page 32
