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

by Simpson, David A.

  He’d made peace with his decision. He told himself he would feel no more remorse for them than a bear felt for a fish when he killed it. He didn’t do it for meanness or spite, he did it to survive. Kodiak was doing the same thing. He wouldn’t have to hurt them if they weren’t coming for him. He wouldn’t have to kill them if they would have stayed home and left him alone.

  He was warm and comfortable wrapped in his robe, soaking up the heat coming off Otis and he must have dozed off. It took him a moment to recognize that the lights cutting through the snow far up the road weren’t reflections. He heard them then, the wind carried the high-pitched whine of screaming engines and Otis raised his head.

  They were coming.

  They were coming!

  He sprang to his feet and raced to the old maple tree. He grabbed the cable TV wire and yanked it tight. It popped up from the road, sending the covering snow flying away as he tied it in place about three feet above the surface. He ran to the next tree, pulled thicker electric line into place and locked it in position less than a foot from the asphalt.

  Otis stood, shook the snow from his fur and sniffed the wind.

  The mosquito buzz of the two-stroke engines was getting louder and he could make out the individual headlights. They were running single file and spread out for a long way. He’d hoped they’d be bunched up, running in a tight pack down the road so he could take most of them out but his ambush wouldn’t get them all. Maybe only two or three if he was lucky.

  It won’t be long, he thought. He felt the churning in his stomach, his nerves raw and on edge. He would do what he had to tonight.

  He’d hurt them.

  He’d kill them.

  He’d do it so maybe the others wouldn’t have to. He felt a twinge of regret, not being able to say goodbye because he was pretty sure he knew how this was going to end. He couldn’t get all of the riders and it was too late to abandon the plan and run. They’d see his tracks and follow. They’d kill Otis for sure, him more than likely, then continue to the house where they were all nestled under their blankets by the fireplace. Warm and safe.

  He had to take the battle to them, maybe if he did enough damage, they’d get scared and turn back. Maybe he could tell them the others were waiting with similar ambushes and they’d all be dead before they made it to the house.

  He pulled the last cable tight, tied it off, gripped his Warhammer and waited. Otis felt his tension, growled and started chuffing. He sensed a fight was coming, he could smell the machines and hear their angry buzz over the wind and whipping snow. He stood on his hind legs and roared a warning.

  A panther answered and Kodiak whirled to see them running out of the woods by the church. They materialized in the snowy mist like phantoms. Yewan, ebony black against the pure white snow and Donny: armored and armed with his spear with only his eyes visible through the protective gear. They hurried toward him and he felt a new chill run down his spine. His brother was here. The hunter and his cat.

  Behind him came Tobias and Annalise, battle axes in hand, cloaked in coyote hides, astride their polar bears. The big bears puffed out white smoke as they galloped along, the twins had their faces painted for war like Vikings of old and Kodiaks heart swelled.

  Swan appeared other worldly in her hyena cloak, its ears sticking up, its head covered hers and Zero loped alongside her. Both were painted for war and wore collars of hyena fangs and claws; hers for decoration, his for protection. She wore red slashes of paint on her soot blackened face and Zero had red handprints on his hindquarters. The beads and feathers and acorns twisted into her dark hair clacked together like a wind chime.

  She had her bow slung over a shoulder, a quiver of arrows protruding over the other and her tomahawks hung in their holsters. She wore a grim expression and Kodiak wasn’t sure if she looked like an avenging angel or a demon from the pits of Hell. Maybe a little of both.

  Vanessa and Ziggy followed behind, ready for whatever was going to happen. She had her spear in one hand and with the other she tried to reassure Ziggy who was agitated and unaccustomed to the severe temperatures.

  Bert faded into view out of the snow with Harper riding high on his back, a morning star in her hand.

  Kodiak wasn’t surprised to see them but he had been prepared to fight the Riders alone. Prepared to die alone if it came down to that.

  But he wasn’t and he realized that he’d never been alone. The tribe had been there every step of the way since this all began months ago. From the time they’d comforted him over the loss of his mother and through all his decisions, good and bad, they’d been there. Solid and dependable. More than friends. More than family. A tribe.

  “We knew what you were doing.” Swan said “And we know why. It’s not your fight to fight alone. It’s all of ours.”

  The headlights dancing through the trees were getting closer, they were on the long curve just before the straight stretch and his traps.

  “We have to hurry.” Kodiak said and snatched up the wooden spears with the road flares attached a few inches down from the points.

  He handed them up to Vanessa on the side-stepping ostrich and pointed up the road. “Light them when they stop. Aim for the gas cans strapped to the machines.”

  She nodded, gigged Ziggy and they raced off to find a place to get out of sight.

  “The rest of you spread out, both sides of the road.” Kodiak said. “Remember, they have guns. We have to hit them hard and fast. If one guy starts shooting, he can kill us all.”

  They melted back into the shadows of the woods, disappeared in the snow storm, and each shivered in anticipation.

  51

  Gordon

  Gordon and the other Riders flew down the highway, the snowmobiles eating up the miles on the covered roads. They were built for whatever winter threw at them: top of the line, high dollar machines that were popular in the north. They drove fast, warm in their heavy suits and motocross gear they wore beneath them. He could taste the victory already and he smiled under his full-face helmet at the thoughts of revenge. The plan to attack tonight had been Richards but he’d helped by answering hundreds of questions. It was a good plan, he approved. With most of the animals either hibernating or penned up in the barn, they would only have a few to deal with. They all crashed out in the same room, gathered around the fireplace, and at two in the morning they would catch them sleeping. They never locked the doors and they would wake up to the sounds of gunshots putting down their animals. They’d never expect it with the storm raging, it would be a quick and easy victory. They could tie up the boys, maybe beat on them a little if they got sassy then break in the new girls. He knew he’d never get first dibs on Harper or any of the others for that matter. He’d come to terms with it, though. They’d get tired of her after a few months and then he could move in and claim her as his own. He’d get Richard to tell them to leave her alone. They were family so he probably would. He was looking forward to seeing Skull or Gargoyle have their fun with Swan. Those two were pretty rough on the girls back at the Landing and Richard had to tell them to tone it down more than once. If they kept it up, they were going to break them. That would teach the wolf girl to get on his bad side.

  The snowmobile handled like a dream, the heated seat and handlebars dispelled the cold, the fairings kept the wind off him.

  He carried a .32 caliber revolver tucked inside the pocket of the snowsuit. Richard had called it a popgun with its little bullets, but Gordon liked how small it was and easy to hide. He’d turned down the big guns offered to him by the other guys. It would do just fine for the job he had in mind.

  He couldn’t wait to hear Cody beg and plead. He planned on sitting on top of Otis’s bullet riddled body with Cody trussed up at his feet listening to Harper scream and cry as they took turns with her. He wanted to laugh at his pain and when the time was right, he’d shoot him in the knee caps with his little pop gun. It wouldn’t kill him but he’d never run again and he’d never be able to win a fight. One little
tap to the leg would send him tumbling to the ground.

  They were getting close; the old church was just ahead. He was near the rear of the pack, right in front of Richard. His cousin wanted him close in case he had any questions. He took another sip of whiskey from his camelback and didn’t even grimace. He was getting used to the taste. Like the others, he was half lit from the alcohol in his hydration bag. He was sixteen now. He drank and smoked, took turns with the girls and popped pills the same as the rest of them. He was a man.

  Pole was in the lead and knew the fun was about to begin when his headlight caught the church they’d burnt down. They were just around the corner and the back gate was only another mile beyond it. He came out of the bend, took another sip of tequila and goosed it. The machine shot up to fifty miles an hour then slammed into something solid. He didn’t see the cable stretched across the road. It caught the snowmobile right above the skis and sent it tumbling end over end before it snapped. Pole flew through the air, arms waving frantically and bounced off a telephone pole. His leg bent in places it wasn’t supposed to bend and he screamed when he felt the bone break and spear through his flesh and snowsuit. His machine continued to spin and roll, fiberglass pieces and bits of metal flying in every direction, headlight flashing like a strobe. He howled in agony at the pain and nearly passed out when he saw the sharp, bloody end of his bone sticking out of the snowsuit.

  Jester was right behind him, dodged to the right to miss the wreck and caught the second cable strung across the road. It caught the tip of his fairing and rode it up, smashed through his windshield and caught him across the chest. He was going thirty when it snapped his ribs, sent him flying in one direction and the snowmobile in another.

  Two more riders, reaction time dulled by booze and blowing snow, the vibration of the machines and the warm electric suits, jerked the handlebars to avoid Jester who was flying right towards them.

  They slammed together and Cappy’s gloved hand slid over the thumb throttle, revving the big Polaris to redline. It answered instantly. The studded track dug in, lifted the front skis skyward and powered the machine up and across Maggots back. The steel barbs shredded the seat, his snowsuit then sent chunks of muscle and flesh spraying across the snow.

  Cappy tried to scream but choked on a mouth full of alcohol as he held on for dear life. The machine launched into the air, hit the same cable and snapped it. The flying end caught the wildly spinning track, tangled in the sprocket and jerked the sled towards the tree where it was tied. Cappy went flying the other direction, landed hard and the camel back flattened. It shot a half liter of booze down his throat. The impact knocked the air out of him and his coughing fit turned into drowning as he sucked the tequila into his lungs.

  The rest of the machines slid to a halt, helmet visors were flipped up and they started yelling questions at each other.

  “What did they hit?”

  “What the hell just happened?”

  A war cry erupted from the wood line, a flaming spear shot through the darkness, an arrow from a compound bow drove deep into a rider’s heart and screaming children on polar bears charged out of the night swinging saw bladed battle axes.

  “Shoot them! Shoot them!” Gordon shrieked in panic and fought to rip his gloves off so he could grab his own gun.

  The Yamaha behind him erupted into a geyser of flames and someone ran past him beating at a burning suit, trying to tear it off.

  Two shadows leapt from the ditch line, one with a spear and one with claws, and a rider trying to pull his rifle from its scabbard was knocked sideways off his machine. Snarling white fangs sank into his shoulder as claws tore his snow suit to ribbons. The man tried to scream but vomited blood inside his helmet when something hard and sharp tore through his belly. Donny withdrew his steel shafted spear from the man’s stomach, twisted it to cut lose the trailing bits of guts and let Yewan finish the kill.

  Skull tore his AR-15 out of its bag and aimed at the big, brown bear that felt like it was making the ground shake as it thundered towards him. He squeezed the trigger, heard the bear roar in pain and fury before an arrow knocked his aim off. It hit the hard plastic of his hockey pad and shattered but it caused his bullets to go wide. The boy they had tied to the front of Gordon’s machine leaped for him, a wicked looking Warhammer swinging for his face. Skull jerked the gun up just in time to block the hammer from knocking his head off, iron smashed against metal and plastic, sent the rifle flying away. He grabbed the boy by a handful of hair as he fell over the seat and pulled him down into the snow while flaming pieces of plastic rained down all around them.

  Swan sent arrow after carefully aimed arrow into the bunched-up machines, silent death coming at them from the shadows.

  Richard couldn’t get his gloves off to pull his pistols; they were velcroed to his suit to keep out the cold. In his panic, he pawed at the slick, waterproof material and kept slipping. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Half his guys were already down and screaming, being mauled by crazy looking kids in war paint and monster animals that were supposed to be hibernating.

  Another flaming spear came out of the dark and another snowmobile splashed bright orange, lighting up the night in a ball of flame. Roiling black smoke from burning plastic joined the wind whipped snow to shroud them with a haze that was hard to see through.

  The fight was over before it even began, he had to go. He had to get away. He’d just seen half-naked kids riding polar bears and swinging homemade axes cut down one of his men. How did you fight something like that? Gordon had lied, this was no easy way to get a few more girls, and this was a slaughter. He stopped trying to pull his gun and hit the throttle of the idling machine.

  Kodiak twisted his hammer, tried to hit the hand curled in his hair but it was knocked aside. Skull was three years older, fifty pounds heavier and still heavily muscled. He head-butted the boy with his helmet then rammed his face into the Kevlar track. Blood exploded from Kodiaks nose and Skull jerked him back to slam it again and again but was suddenly lifted off his knees and flung through the air. Six inch long claw as big as cigars shredded his armor, slashed through flesh and tossed him some ten feet away next to one of the burning snowmobiles. Otis towered above him silhouetted by flames with blood matting his shoulder where the bullet had hit. He roared, the polar bears answered and the savage growls of the wolf and panther drowned out the screams of terror and war cries of fury.

  Snowmobile engines revved to life adding to the cacophony of horror as riders tried to escape from the nightmare. Otis clawed at a passing rider, sent him tumbling towards the ditch then dropped to all fours to chase a fleeing machine.

  Kodiak wiped the blood out of his face and saw Skull reaching for the rifle. He rolled to his feet, double fisted his hammer and raised it over his head as he catapulted high in the air. He drove it straight down against the rider’s helmet, putting all his strength and all his weight behind the blow. It was a solid hit, cracked the plastic and slammed him back down to the ground. He swung again like he was wielding a baseball bat and trying to knock one into the stands. Chunks of the helmet broke away and the rider stopped reaching for the gun. He pushed himself unsteadily to his knees and tried to crawl away. He had no more fight left in him. The helmet pieces fell to the snow as he hung his head and in the dancing firelight, Kodiak saw blood oozing out of his ears. The boy was helpless, was trying to crawl away but was headed back into the madness. Gordon’s gang member had tried to shoot him, had hit Otis at least once. The boy had tried to break his skull and blood still cascaded from a gash across his eye. Kodiak gripped the long, iron handle, raised it high over his head and aimed for the back of boys’ neck. It would be like slaughtering a pig, all he had to do was bash his head. It was unprotected. The boy would never even feel it. Kodiak held the Warhammer high for a moment then let it fall. He kicked him instead, knocked him flat again.

  “You’re going the wrong way, idiot.” he said then ran into the smoke, looking for targets that could fight back.


  Richard spun his snowmobile out of the cluster, ducked low behind his windshield and raced around the roaring bear for the open road. Otis slashed out, splintered the front of the machine and swept his paw across the boy’s chest. His massive claws sent him flying, sheared through the snowsuit and raked four deep gouges across his ribs. His machine careened through the ditch and came to a halt with its nose against a tree. Richard hit the ground, staggered to his feet and ran, clutching his wounded chest. He fled towards the forest, hit the ditch and stumbled. A wolf came out of the darkness, ripped into his leg, pulled him down. His screams were lost in the night, mixed with the others as the wolf shredded his clothes, anxious to get at the flesh beneath. The snarling beast was jerking him around like a rag doll but he managed to get his knife out of its sheath and slashed at the thing trying to rip his leg off.

  Swan dropped her bow when she heard Zero yelp. She had a tomahawk in each hand as she left the woods and ran to the ditch to join the fight. Zero had backed off, a long gash across his muzzle but his teeth were bared and he had a rumbling, snarling growl deep in his throat. Swan hurled one her tomahawks as she leaped down the embankment and slid to a halt by Zero, her own growl on her peeled back lips. The spike slammed into the boy’s shoulder, buried itself to the head and he looked up at her in shock and surprise. Richard turned his hunting knife towards her, stared at the soot blackened face, the spotted hyena hide she wore over her shoulders, and knew he was going to die. These kids weren’t human, they were something else. Something vicious and wild. Another snowmobile exploded into flames and the screaming albino twins were slashing at anyone they saw. Their bears ran them down after they had smashed through the clustered snowmobiles, scattering everyone in panic. Nobody was firing their guns, nobody was fighting back, it was complete chaos and the feral children were butchering them one by one.