The Zombie Road Omnibus: The Road Kill Collection

by David A. Simpson

  He held his tongue for the moment. He didn’t want to fight another man’s fight, but if push came to shove, he’d be there. The kid had more balls than Shakey did. Ol’ Shakey hadn’t been outside the safety of the truck stop all day, and that kid had been scouting alternative escape routes if they needed them.

  “If you hadn’t been playing that jungle music at full volume, they wouldn’t have come in the parking lot in the first place! It’s your fault Gumball and Ozzy got bit, and it’s your fault the deputy is dead, boy!” Shakey repeated himself, his face nearly purple with rage, using his 280 pounds to intimidate.

  Long Dawg just stood there and took it, the red-faced man and his poking finger. He had planned on shedding his whole ghetto persona, had planned on quietly slipping out to the bathroom and scrubbing off the Henna neck tattoos, stripping off this costume he was wearing, because that’s exactly what it was. A costume.

  He mentally kicked himself for not getting rid of it when he had been driving around, but it hadn’t occurred to him, he was too busy trying to stay alert and alive, scratching out notes of different routes by the dashboard light. But the old man had drug him in here, “where the light was better” and had him roll up his sleeves as he scrutinized him for bites.

  Then the argument started. He had been playing the part of some cheap Nigga from the hood to draw any police attention away from the van, but all they saw was what he wanted them to see. The hood rat. His plan was working too well. He had decided to get back to his normal self but this cracker had got in his face before he had a chance. Blaming him for everything. Said he ran off and left the rest to die, didn’t believe for one instant that he was scouting routes. Probably got lost and just now found his way back. Long Dawg sighed. When all else fails, show ‘em what you’ve got. At this point, talking was useless. He’d been talking and it hadn’t done a bit of good. They weren’t hearing him. Weren’t listening. Words were cheap. If he wanted to throw in with this group, and most of them seemed okay, he had to show them he wasn’t a liability. He had to show them that he could be an asset. Had to show them he wasn’t going to take any shit from some redneck peckerwood.

  He was snake fast and moved like lightning, pulling his Beretta out of its holster, grabbing the fat man’s finger with his left hand and violently twisting it up and around his back. He bent him over the table, his face against the wood, the cold steel of the 9mm against the back of his head.

  It happened so fast, was so quick and savage, even everyone watching didn’t quite know how it happened. The silence in the room was deafening. “My name is Lawrence. Not Boy,” he said. “But only my mom calls me that. My friends call me Lars.”

  A quick glance around the room reaffirmed to him that no one else had pulled their iron, this was just between the two of them.

  With his arm nearly dislocated and twisted up behind his back, Shakey was helpless to do anything about the steel pressed against his head. He closed his eyes against the pain and tried to wrap his mind around how the tables could be turned so fast. He waited for a shot, but the kid stepped back quickly and holstered the weapon.

  Then to everyone’s amazement, he snapped to attention in a posture any marine would have acknowledged as perfect. He pulled out his Beretta again, the same model he had used for years in the Army, this time bringing it up to port arms, then expertly dropping the magazine, catching it one handed and slapping it down on the table in front of Shakey’s face.

  His movements were precise, measured, and with full military discipline. Quick and smooth, robotically perfect. He executed a one-handed slide lock, catching the ejected round cat quick and slapping it on the table, nose up, beside the perfectly placed magazine. He held the weapon out in an inspection arms gesture, as if to an officer who wasn’t there for a few seconds, then with a quick twist brought it back to his chest.

  Shakey had pulled himself up off the table, and along with everyone else, was just staring at this kid executing a perfect military small arms inspection process. He had even done the one handed slide lock, a very difficult maneuver. The snaps and clicks, the pops and slaps sounded loud in the silence. As he smacked the magazine back in and let the slide go home chambering a round, he twisted the Beretta in the robotic way formal military actions take and slid it firmly back into its holster.

  He immediately went to a parade rest position and addressed Shakey.

  “In the Army, I was called Sergeant Brown,” he said. He let the quick and jerky military actions go and hitched up his pants, tightening the belt so they rode around his waist, not his ass. He removed the sideways hat and pulled the chrome grill out of his mouth, revealing perfect white teeth. He tossed them on the table and snapped the fake gold chains around his neck and they joined the rest.

  “Back on the block, they called me Long Dawg,” he said. “But that nigga is dead. You know why I was dressed like that? You know why I was driving that hooptie and blasting Tupac? You ever see Smokey and the Bandit, shithead?”

  He waited for an answer.

  Shakey nodded his head. Like everyone else, a little dumbfounded at this strange turn of events.

  “Then you know what I was doing. I was Burt.”

  He poked himself in the chest, enunciating it.

  “I was The Bandit. I was running interference for any cops we happened to cross. Make them eyeball me, not the van. And my cousins in the van, they were the Snowmen. Except we weren’t smuggling Coors to a party. We had the real snow. Millions of dollars worth, right there in the back. Not worth much now, and there ain’t no more law that’s worried about a bucket full of powder.

  “So there you have it, Bubba. I told you the roads are full of them things just wandering around, looking for somebody to eat. I didn’t draw those zombies, they were coming in here whether they heard my music, or not.”

  He reached out and picked up the single round from the table and held it up in front of Shakey’s eyes. “And if you call me boy one more time, I’ll put this bullet through your cracker ass face.”

  The tension was ratcheting up again, but Shakey wasn’t so sure of himself anymore. This kid wasn’t who he thought he was. Wasn’t afraid of him. But he wasn’t going to back down, not in front of everybody. How come nobody in the crowd was helping him? If Gunny had the kid’s back…Maybe he was telling the truth, had tried to help. Maybe he had been out scouting roads, and not running around lost.

  They eyed each other, almost nose to nose, each waiting for the other to make that first move. The tension was building, nearly crackling the air as jaws tightened, eyes narrowed, and fists clenched.

  “You owe two dollars to the cuss jar, Lars,” Kim said, walking over and standing between them, shaking the jar with the big hand printed label on it. “No swearing in here, or you have to pay.” She smiled sweetly. “A dollar for every dirty word.” She held out her hand for payment.

  There was a collective sigh and nervous laughter in the room as people let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding.

  “Them’s the rules,” Shakey said, and laughed with the rest of them. Partly out of relief and partly because he thought he had just avoided an ass whoopin’.

  “Better pay up quick, she’ll be adding interest if you don’t,” somebody hollered.

  Lars couldn’t help but grin and shake his head as he reached for his wallet. What kind of people had he thrown in with?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gunny went up to the counter, caught Martha’s eye, and asked if there was anything left to eat.

  “You say what you want, I make myself,” she said. He knew she wanted to stay busy, wanted something to do, and he was the only one left who hadn’t eaten. So he ordered up a bacon and peanut butter cheeseburger and asked the cowboys if he could snag one of their beers.

  “Come on over here,” Cobb barked at him. He was at the biggest table with Griz, Stacy, Sara, Cadillac Jack and his son Tommy. They had some papers spread out in front of them, and it looked like they had been maki
ng plans.

  Gunny slid into the oversized booth as the girls scrunched up a little to make room.

  “Tell us what it’s like out there,” Cobb said without preamble. “How far did you get?”

  He told them. He told them about the hordes that numbered in the thousands, about the main arteries being completely gridlocked with abandoned cars. About their pack mentality and the feeding frenzy. Their inhuman strength and speed. The fact that they felt no pain, had no fear, but were pretty dumb and docile if they weren’t on the chase.

  Stacy quizzed him relentlessly about everything he heard and saw when he was under the bunk, then she and Sara were speculating why they didn’t go after him. They must hunt by sight, maybe sound. Couldn’t be smell. He wasn’t sure if he was being insulted or not. Gunny noticed they had quite a crowd gathered at the other tables, everyone listening in intently. He told them his theory, his idea that he had yelled out to Wire Bender. Yesterday he would have been called an Islamophobe or racist for even thinking such a thing, but today there was contemplation, even though most people couldn’t believe such a thing could happen.

  “Wire Bender made contact with some brass at Cheyenne Mountain,” Griz said “They got hit pretty hard, too. Some of the guys coming off night shift managed to lock down the areas they were in, but most of it is lost.”

  “Are they in communication with anyone else?” Gunny asked.

  “A few dozen countries have been on the Ham, but it’s just guys like us. Some survivalist type groups. Some remote hunting lodges. Quite a few up in Idaho and Canada. The Russians up in Yamantau Mountain claim to be unaffected, but they’re scared. They watched the whole world fall, Moscow included. They had been in contact with Washington before it fell. They hoped we would be able to stop it. Man, there ain’t no Commies and Yanks anymore. Just people wanting to survive.”

  “They’re cut off up there, without resupply infrastructure,” Cadillac Jack chimed in, drawing on his years of service in Military Intelligence. “The Road of Bones doesn’t even go near them, and it’s the only road through that whole area. They’ve probably got their winter supplies laid in, but they won’t last forever.”

  “The boys under the mountain in Colorado Springs aren’t any better off,” he continued. “They’re not allowed to have weapons in there, so they’re stuck in a big hole in the ground. Unless they have access to the mess area and all the food, they’re screwed. Probably only have what little bit is in the office refrigerators. They don’t even have snack machines down there.”

  One of the tourists raised a hand and timidly asked, “We still have military operating?”

  “Not really,” Cobb answered. “We’ve talked to NORAD and that’s it.”

  He saw the uncomprehending look on her face and elaborated.

  “NORAD is who launches the nukes. They’re outside of Colorado Springs, underneath Cheyenne Mountain. They are in the most secure bunker in the world, but only a handful survived the initial outbreak ,as far as we know.”

  “So a bunch of Military Intelligence eggheads would have to battle their way out of there with improvised weapons. I don’t give them much of a chance,” Gunny sighed. The news that Wire Bender had been able to glean was catastrophically bad. No word from Washington, or anyone claiming to be in charge. No word from the President.

  “He probably ate the first Hajji bacon this morning for the cameras. You know politicians,” Griz said, and they all had to agree. Everyone Wire Bender had either talked to directly, or anyone the boys in Cheyenne Mountain had told him about, were all in the same situation. Isolated and cut off. Acting autonomously because there simply was no more government. No one was in charge. The soldiers in assigned nuclear bunkers and fortified bases around the world, that hadn’t been overrun, were just people wanting to understand and live. They no longer had politicians pointing at another country and telling them they were the enemy. Every survivor he had been able to contact had lost nearly everything.

  Martha brought Gunny’s burger out with a heaping supply of seasoned fries and he dove in, offering the fries to anyone that wanted some.

  “Shakey, go relieve Scratch. Tell him I need him here,” Cobb barked out and went back to his list he’d been looking at. “Anybody know how long the electricity will last?” he looked up and asked the room in general.

  After a moment a hesitant voice spoke up. “It depends. But if no one is there to replenish the coal supply, two or three days. Four on the outside,” she said. “Reno gets its power from coal-fired plants, not hydro. So probably about four days.”

  It was the girl in the matching clothes with her boyfriend, Gunny noted. He thought they had left with the rest. They all just looked at her, eyebrows raised.

  “I was studying to be an electrical engineer,” she said shyly. “We toured some of the local plants. They have huge automated conveyor systems to feed the furnaces directly from the rail lines.”

  Cobb grunted and nodded and scribbled something on the paper. “Our biggest concern is going to be water,” he said. “We’ve got generators that will run the place, and the fuel tanks were filled up a couple of days ago. They’re three-quarters full still. Guess I won’t be paying that bill. But we’re on city water and as soon as the electric goes out, we’ll be out of water. There’s an old well out back that the old man had before they piped water in, but it ain’t been used in years. We’ll have to get a few guys on that tomorrow.” He made a few more notes and one of the women from the surrounding tables asked if there was any place to sleep, glancing at the little girl nodding off in her lap.

  The truck stop used to have a bunk house for drivers when most trucks didn’t have sleepers on them, but it was long gone, the space converted to the various shops in trucker’s alley.

  “We’re going to have to rough it tonight,” Cobb told her. “The most comfortable spots will be here in the diner, at the booths. There’s plenty of Mexican blankets in the store, help yourselves to them. We’ll clear out some areas in Driver’s Alley tomorrow, make something a little more private.”

  “I’ve got a pallet of moving blankets in my wagon,” Hot Rod said. “They’ll make good mattresses piled up a few thick.”

  “Them doors ain’t being opened up at night,” Cobb growled with finality. “We can fix things up tomorrow when there’s light to see.”

  Gunny looked around as he finished his burger and asked, “Where’s the Stabby guy? I have got to hear his story. Why was he all dressed up like Halloween?”

  Griz chuckled. “Seems like we got us a rock star in our midst. He said they had a show tonight in Reno. The rest of the band took off to go party, but he stayed behind in their tour bus to play Xbox. They never came back.”

  “He is fried out of his gourd on something,” Stacy said. “He’s strung tight. I’d say Meth, but his teeth are still good. Skin, too. So probably cocaine.”

  “Probably coked up,” Sara agreed. “We see it a lot.”

  “Well, it’s not booze,” Gunny said. “You see the way he took those two out? Like watching a blood ballet. Even when he got knocked on his ass, he bounced up like it was a Michael Jackson dance move.”

  “It does have that going for it, but unless you’ve been using it for a while, you would likely just get stoned,” Stacy said. “It builds up, affects dopamine levels, which affect your muscle and reaction times. Quickens them in some people. Messes up the frontal cortex in your brain, so you don’t feel fear, or worry about things. Like being eaten by zombies. So he could be a great zombie fighter when stoned, and a huge incompetent blob when straight.”

  “He’s still in the shower?” Gunny asked, not seeing him in the diner.

  “No,” Tommy said. “Pops turned all the arcade machines to free play. He’s down there with the rest of the kids.”

  Scratch came up to the table, overhearing the last of their conversation. “Dude, he’s always on something! Don’t you know who he is? That’s Jody Blades! The front man for Brutal Retort!” he said e
xcitedly. “He’s all over the net, he posts pictures of himself snorting cocaine off of hookers asses! He lives the rock ‘n roll life, man. Destroys hotel rooms and everything. I caught one of their shows last year in L.A. It was unreal. The whole stage was trashed with all the stuff he was chopping up, I heard one dude lost half his hand during one of his stage slides, the mosh pit was soaked…” He trailed off when he saw all of them just looking at him with those old people looks of, ‘We couldn’t possibly care less’.

  “Uh, anyway. Yeah. He’s kind of famous for being a coke head,” he finished lamely. “You needed me, Top?”

  Cobb went on to quiz him about the behavior of the infected. How long they stayed agitated, what he thought was drawing them to cluster around the truck stop. Scratch had been on duty on the roof most of the night, hadn’t wanted to be relieved. He kept watching for Tiny and Gunny.

  Kim would take him a sandwich and cool drinks from time to time and keep him company. Cobb already knew most of the answers, but since everyone was listening in to his little meeting, he wanted to get everything they knew out on the table so everyone had as much information as they could.

  There were some hard decisions coming up tomorrow, and he wanted people to sleep on their choices. They were life and death choices. Stay here or try to leave again. Scratch reiterated what he’d already told Cobb for the benefit of everyone else and when he was finished, Cobb looked around the room and spotted who he was looking for. “Hey, Bob Marley, show us on this map the roads you scouted again.”

  Lars was near the back, talking quietly with a few of the other people, his long beaded braids quietly clinking back and forth as he shook his head ‘no’ again as he was asked about getting through Reno. He chuffed. He knew the old man wasn’t being hateful. That’s just how old First Sergeants talked to everyone.

  He’d heard the guys call him Top. and judging from his demeanor and scars, it had been earned, not given. He spun the map toward him and scanned it for a moment then, pointing out the different roads he had taken, how far he had traveled down them before turning, and the infected situation. It was pretty simple and straightforward.