The Feral Children [A Zombie Road Tale] Box Set | Books 1-3

by Simpson, David A.

  He kept the pedal mashed for nearly a half hour before it finally died. It had been getting slower and slower as the battery ran down and he kept it pointed north. He wasn’t far enough away if they chased after him but he didn’t think they would. Mr. High and Mighty had said he was banished. He was allowed to leave. He didn’t say the psycho’s would be allowed to hunt him down. They might do it on their own, though. He knew they hunted in the north woods but they’d be more concerned about fixing the fence than chasing him. It was full dark and freezing cold before he came across a house. He approached carefully, trying to stay quiet and hidden but his teeth kept wanting to chatter. The front door stood wide open and one of the windows was broken. That was a good sign, it meant nobody was home. Living or dead.

  Gordon slipped inside and jammed a chair against the door to keep it closed. The house had been empty for months, and from the moonlight he saw evidence of breakfast remains on the counter. The empty packaging had never made it to the trash can. The owner had been eating a greasy breakfast, he guessed, from the moldy cast iron skillet left sitting on the stovetop. He wondered if there was something in the food, if that’s what had started the outbreak. He was too exhausted to think about it and too afraid to stand there in front of the window where he might be seen. He found the bedroom and burrowed under the covers, shivering for a long time before he fell into fitful sleep. A deep, thundering boom that was miles off woke him in the middle of the night and he only wondered about it for a moment before dozing off again.

  When he awoke, he was afraid. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of those things that came out of nowhere, snarling and hungry. They were untiring and relentless with no capacity for mercy, no understanding of how important he was and his potential in this new world. He was afraid of being wrong. What if there weren’t any survivors back home? What if it really was something in the food? No place would have been safe. He couldn’t go back to Putnam; they would find him there and one of them would kill him. Or worse, let their animals tear him apart. He had to go north. Maybe he could find another golf cart, a gas powered one, or maybe a quad. He could ride one of those. His older cousin had one and let him drive it on occasion.

  He was angry with all of them, all of the savage little kids who thought they were one with their spirit animals or whatever that loon Swan was always going on about. They had run him out and he’d only been trying to lead them to a better place. They’d get what was coming to them one of these days.

  He crept around the house quietly once the sun was up and prowled through all the drawers. There were jackets in the closet and winter clothes in boxes on the shelves. He found a nickel-plated revolver in the nightstand. It took a minute to figure out how to open it but when he did, he found six bullets in the chambers. A full load. He practiced pulling it out of his belt in front of the full-length mirror and it didn’t take long before he learned the trick of pulling it out quickly without snagging it on his clothes.

  “What was that?” he asked the image facing him. “You think I should leave?”

  He whipped out the pistol and shoved it into the face staring back at him.

  “I don’t think so Mr. High and Mighty. I think I’m taking over.”

  He whipped the gun to the left and said pow, pow then shoved it back towards the face. In his mind, the two wolves’ heads exploded and Swan fell to her knees screaming in pain and sorrow.

  “Shut up, bitch.” he said coldly “or I’ll blow the cubs away too.”

  “No!” she cried. “Please don’t Gordon. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything you ask, please don’t hurt them.”

  Donny came from the shadows at him, his spear cocked and ready to throw and the panther leaped for him, a snarl on its lips. Gordon whipped the gun around and fanned the hammer faster than an eye blink. He sent a dozen rounds into the panther and Donny and everyone shrieked as they were sent flying across the room and crumpled to the floor. Buckets of blood poured out of them, painted the walls red and saturated the carpet. The rest of the animals fled away or cowered in the corners.

  “Anybody else want to try me?” he asked as the smoke curled up from the barrel of his gun and framed his face.

  Cody fell to his knees and the rest followed his lead. They bowed to him. He snapped his fingers at Harper and she came. Hesitant at first but she melted when he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “Things are going to be different around here.” he said, “I’m running the show and if anybody gives me any trouble…”

  Gordon aimed the gun right between the eyes of the image in the mirror then screamed and dropped it when it went off, shattering the glass and creating a deafening roar in the room. He snatched it off the carpet and ran. Gunshots attracted the undead, that’s what Cody always said. Who knows, it might be true. He wasn’t going to hang around and find out.

  It was true.

  Gordon heard them coming, heard their keening cries of hunger and got off the road. He went down the embankment and slipped behind a root bundle of a fallen tree near the icy waters of the Mississippi. Sound carried for a long way in the stillness of the new world and he heard them run by, flapping shoes slapping the pavement or bare feet worn down to bones making their own haunting sound. He waited for a long time after he heard something dragging itself along the asphalt but no more came. Just that half dozen or so. They had been close, maybe at the next farmhouse up the road so it was probably a good thing he’d fired off that shot. If he hadn’t, they might have caught him by surprise. Gordon smiled despite the cold because the fates were taking care of him. They always smiled on a Lowery. He dragged himself out of the mud and cut through the woods until he found the road again and started the long trek north. A half mile later, he saw where the runners had come from. There was an old-fashioned country church and from the tattered clothes and shoes around the front door, it looked like they had been hanging around it for a while. He wondered if there were survivors inside and crept closer to listen. He heard them milling around and chanced a peep through a stained-glass window set high in the stone wall. It was full of the undead, scores of them, just bumping around the pews and stumbling over each other. There would be no shelter there. He snuck away and kept moving north.

  Before the world went to hell Gordon and his friends would have ruined a punk like Cody. They would have ridiculed and scorned him for his Walmart clothes and his job shoveling dung. They would have made his life in high school miserable. What kind of people even thought about work until after at least four years of college? Trash, that’s what kind, he thought with disdain. The platinum Visa still in his wallet had ensured Gordon never wanted for anything. That was the difference between him and them. They didn’t know any better. They were content to wallow in the muck and eat garbage food and live like animals. He wasn’t. He was a Lowery. He knew better. He knew living like a medieval peasant in some drafty old hovel wasn’t his lot in life. He deserved better and he would have better.

  He walked all day, eyes constantly searching for danger. He’d seen the pack of coyotes following him, always at a distance. He had been tempted to take a shot or yell at them but he didn’t. He was afraid of what the noise might attract. The houses were few and far between on this desolate stretch of road and some of them had people inside. Dead people. He could see them wandering around, wearing a path in the rug. At one of the farms he found a small utility vehicle, some kind of John Deere ATV but it wouldn’t start. The key was in it but nothing happened when he turned it. He couldn’t tell if there were zombies in the house and he didn’t want to chance it. He slept in the barn that night wrapped in a smelly horse blanket. The owner was in his stall but he didn’t stink much, he’d probably been dead since right after the outbreak. Starvation most likely.

  He found a house the next morning he knew was empty. The door was hanging on one hinge, a rotted body was on the porch and he could see brown stains of old blood on the walls. There was canned food in the cupboard and he ate cold cre
amed corn while staring at the mummified corpse with half its head blown off. He didn’t find any more guns and there wasn’t a car in the driveway. Whoever had lived here was long gone and from the looks of the place, they had left in a hurry. He found an oversized ski jacket that fit over his armor and slipped it on. It had a furry hood and would be warm if he had to spend a night outside.

  He wasn’t moving very fast, it seemed like he had to run off the road and hide all the time. Sometimes he’d heard a zombie or two shuffling along with no destination in mind. Sometimes it was the wind playing tricks on him. A few times it was the coyotes and he’d watched them tear into a crawling woman as she ignored them and kept moving south. They followed her, taking bite sized snacks. They weren’t skinny coyotes, either. Not at all like those he’d seen in movies or in pictures. They were fat and waddling, stuffing themselves on the easy meals.

  He found a bicycle with air in the tires and thought long and hard before throwing a leg over it. It would be faster but he might ride up on a horde of them. When he was walking, he could stop and listen often. On the bike, it might be too late and he knew once they got the scent, once they started chasing something, they never stopped. He would have to ride until he got there. No breaks, no stops. Just keep pedaling unless they would catch him. Not worth the risk, he decided. It might take him another day or two at the rate he was going but at least he would make it there alive. He would be welcomed home, back to his people. His tribe.

  The closer he got, the more devastation he saw, the less confident he became that he would find the welcoming gates of Smiths Landing standing firm against the outside world. If the infection had been in the food like he was beginning to suspect then no one would have been safe. When the long stretches of farmland and woods became more populated with houses his pace slowed to a crawl. He darted from corner to corner, watched and waited and listened before running to the next. He would never admit it but he had learned a lot from the little kids at the Park. His months of forced labor had hardened him. His chubby cheeks and belly fat were gone. He’d learned how the undead moved and “thought”. He knew they were stupid, felt no pain and would never, ever, ever give up if they caught your scent. As much as he hated them, he was afraid to be without the snotty little brats. He was afraid to be alone. They were good fighters, they could have protected him and if he had convinced them to come, even if the Landing was over run, they could have cleaned it out.

  The sky was overcast and snow flurries danced in the wind. He was cold, hungry, afraid and full of self-pity. He hadn’t had a decent meal in days and eating stale crackers and cans of nearly frozen vegetables had his stomach cramping. He’d seen nothing but empty houses and wandering dead since he left. No smoke from fires, no human noises, no people or cars. This had been a mistake. He should have believed Cody when he said the rest of the world was dead. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to kill off the animals, at least the twins whipped up some pretty good meals. His fingers and toes were numb. He’d been standing as still as a shadow for over an hour while a group of twenty or thirty dead things shambled aimlessly down the street. They were moving a lot slower now that the cold weather had set in but when they wanted to, he knew they could still run. Easily outrun him and drag him down. He had to wait until the last dragging crawler was long gone before he dared move. His guts roiled and he was afraid he was going to mess himself before it was safe to drop his pants. He snuck into an empty house and barely made it to the bathroom in time. He sat there shivering for a long time and when he was finally finished, there was no toilet paper.

  He wanted to cry. He was going to die out here all because of those damn kids who wouldn’t see reason. Days of walking and nights of no sleep had left him too exhausted to be mad. Too fatigued to care about anything anymore. Constantly on alert, always listening and looking had left his nerves frayed. He didn’t know what he would do if Smiths Landing was crawling with the undead and the closer he got, the more sure he became that it would be. Everything was dead. Only he and the kids had survived. Even if he could make it back to the Safari Park without getting killed or dying of hunger, they would never take him in. Maybe he could beg. Maybe he could promise he’d never doubt Cody again. Maybe he could be their slave and do whatever they said. Anything was better than this. Tears and snot started streaming down his face and he was ready to give up. Ready to curl up and die. He sat down on a musty couch in the living room, pulled a comforter over him and sobbed himself to sleep. Cody had won. Cody had broken him.

  35

  Smith’s Landing

  Gordon woke up with a scream as something bit into him. It was full dark and a thousand needle sharp teeth ripped at his hand. He sprang up and flung the thing off, heard it slam against the wall and felt his flesh rip away. He stumbled over another furry body that had latched on to his leg and ran for the door. In the moonlight he saw them; a grin of opossums with their beady red eyes and rat like tails chased him out of the house. They were attacking him like he was one of the undead, looking for an easy meal. He stomped at the one on his leg, heard it squeal and felt the bones crush under his boot. Gordon ran. He ran blindly and they gave chase. They smelled his blood and they were as frenzied as the zombies. He didn’t have time to think, he could hear their skittering claws on the pavement coming for him. He sprinted for blocks, unsure of where he was going, he only knew he had to get away. They were worse than the undead, they didn’t stop after a few bites. They would eat him alive one chunk at a time.

  He rounded a corner, out of breath, lost, his hand spasming in pain and unsure where to go. There was a faint glow on a hilltop off in the distance and his eyes got wide. He realized where he was and his heart soared with renewed hope. He was at the base of the knoll where the exclusive golf course community of Smith’s Landing had been built. He had made it and that was electric lights burning bright like a beacon calling for survivors. All of his uncertainty, fear and doubts fell away and he almost laughed out loud. He had made it home!

  He easily outpaced the little monsters chasing him and slowed to a jog. As he got nearer, he heard music blaring and the screams of the undead at the front gate. That wasn’t what he was expecting, the gate guard or the security patrols should have been on duty and keeping things under control. He dashed into the little strip mall just outside the decorative brick walls flanking the winding driveway that led to the gated community and took cover behind the Starbucks. The front gate was choked with the undead, they were ten deep trying to force their way in. Hip hop music blasted from speakers and a bonfire was burning brightly in the middle of road just inside the gates. He heard the revving of dirt bikes and the whooping of people having a party. A couple on an ATV zoomed up and down the streets driving the undead into a frenzy.

  A slow smile crept across his face. His friends and neighbors were gathering all the undead, pulling in whatever ones were left in town so survivors could sneak around to the back entrance to get in. It was a great idea. He would be able to get to the rear without worrying about running into any of the undead. He swelled a little with pride. His people didn’t cower and hide. They were bold as brass.

  He tore off a piece of his shirt to wrap his bleeding hand, forgot about his hunger, his cramping stomach and his utter exhaustion. He had made it and he’d been right all along. His people were living like the kings they were and he was about to be welcomed home like a returning son. His father was the richest and most influential of all the other families in the Landing and he would take his rightful place as his successor. It would have been nice to have the kids with him. He would rub their noses in it for doubting him and with his family and friends to back him up, they could have killed the animals easily, stripped them of their weapons and made them his servants. He might have to go back and get Harper. After he got inside and got established, he could lead an army back down to the Park. He’d show them. He’d teach them that you didn’t treat a Lowery like they had. The thought gave him pleasure as he slipped down the side str
eets and worked his way through the woods to the back of the compound. He picked up a tail, some moaning undead thing that was dragging a broken leg. He tried to outrun her but he was too tired. He stayed a good way ahead of her, it wasn’t hard, and all he had to do was get to the gate.

  He paralleled the tall fence running along the golf course that kept stray balls in and riff raff out. He was shivering again when he reached the back entrance as it neared midnight. The long trek had sapped him of the last of his strength. All he wanted was to get inside, get back home and go to sleep in his own bed. When he approached the gate, a couple of men were standing around a burn barrel with rifles slung on their shoulders and warming their hands over the flames. Gordon sighed heavily with relief. The military were here and everything was going to be fine. He had made it.

  “Hey.” he yelled when they didn’t see him walk up.

  Both turned and nearly dropped the bottle they’d been passing back and forth between them. Gordon frowned. They shouldn’t be drinking on guard duty, even he knew that. They should be alert to protect the people inside. To protect him.

  “What?” asked one of them.