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

by Simpson, David A.

  He dropped the knife and held up his hands.

  “Please.” he said “Please…”

  Swan stopped short of driving the blade into his skull, put a hand on her wolf to stay his spring. To stop his killing lunge.

  His terror filled eyes were wide, his hands held up in a feeble effort to protect himself from the wolf girls’ terrible anger. From the gleaming tomahawk in her hand.

  “Please…”

  Swan hesitated, ground her teeth. He flinched and gasped when she snagged her other tomahawk out of his shoulder then stepped back.

  “Run.” she said.

  It was a limping, ungainly run that left a trail of blood melting the snow behind him but he fled as fast as he could.

  Vanessa lit the flare and tried to spot another gas can, another target, through the swirling snow. She heard the twins yelling their battle cries, the roaring and snarling of the animals, the screams of men in pain. The winds lashed the flames and illuminated the ambush area in dancing orange light. Dark smoke whipped through the pandemonium of battle. One of the riders had managed to strip off his burning suit and armor, dig out his pistol and fired as he ran straight at her. Bullets whizzed by her head, splintered bark from the tree, but she didn’t cower and hide. She let her spear fly, its duct taped magnesium flare sending a shower of red fire out of the end. It flew true, hit him square in the chest and sunk deep. He dropped the gun, sank to his knees, gripped the spear and stared in shocked disbelief. His insides were on fire, he was glowing pinkish red and smoking. She came out of the woods, small, dark and silent, running at him with a machete.

  He was being killed by ten-year-old.

  A dark-skinned girl with scars and paint on her face.

  She had a tight mohawk, feathers and beads around her neck and he was so stunned he didn’t feel the blade as it sliced open his neck when she ran past.

  Gordon screamed his frustration and jumped on a sled that didn’t look damaged. The crazy twins and their bears had scattered everyone and smashed most of the machines. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They had the numbers and they had the guns. It wasn’t fair. They were losing and everyone was running as fast as they could. He didn’t know where his cousin was, he thought he saw him take off a few minutes ago, and he really didn’t care. Pole pulled himself along in the snow, trying to get back to the sleds, a mangled, broken leg left a blood trail behind him. Gordon goosed the machine to knock a twisted snowmobile out of the way and almost didn’t see the crawling boy in the confusion. He heard the snarl of Swan behind him and didn’t have time to go around. Pole would understand, nothing personal, he would have done the same thing. He bumped over him, dodged around Donny and Yewan as they appeared out of the smoke and pressed the throttle. The machine shot forward, out of the reach of Swans tomahawks and Yewans fangs. He saw Cody when he passed by the burning sled and cut the skis.

  He grinned maniacally as he bore down on him. It was small revenge but it was all he was going to get this time. At least he would accomplish something on this messed up mission.

  Kodiak heard the quick revving buzz of the engine, threw himself out of the way as Gordon sped by. The handlebar caught his buffalo robe, jerked him off his feet as the snowmobile jagged sharply and caught the rear end of a burning sled. One of the skis on Gordon’s machine hooked something solid and snapped off. The fiberglass and plastic fairing exploded as he fought for control. It nearly jerked his arm out of its socket but the machine righted itself and he leaned his weight to the opposite side to keep it moving forward. He breathed a deep sigh, threw a hateful look over his shoulder and gave gas again. The machine would ride with one ski. It might be hard to handle but that was okay. It was better than being dead. He turned around just in time to see a giraffe appear out of the darkness and a flail of spiked steel coming straight for his head. He threw up his hands barely in time to stop it from impaling his face and screamed in terror as he went sprawling off the sled. The tough, padded armor saved him from two shattered arms but the plastic tore free on the spikes. They gouged through his flesh, leaving bloody rifts in both arms. The machine came to a halt a dozen yards up the road and he scrambled to get back to it. To get away from these lunatic children. To escape.

  A huge yellow and black head swung for him and once again the giraffe sent him tumbling away. Harper spun in her saddle, hopped on to Bert’s long, sloping back and slid to the ground, using his tail to slow her fall. Gordon tried to clear his head, tried to stand but she knocked him flat before he could get to his feet. Harper stood over him, her blonde hair whipping in the wind, her face painted like the rest of them, her morning star ready to bash his head in if he tried to move. He heard other snowmobile engines revving and fading as they took off through the woods or down the road, running for home. Swan and Donny came out of the smoke and snow, bloody wolf and bloodier panther padding slowly beside them. Kodiak appeared, him and Otis both bleeding but they walked steadily forward. He heard more cries of pain, more engines starting up. Headlights split the night and shot down the road, injured riders crouched low and fleeing for their lives. Leaving him behind. The fires behind the kids turned them into shadowy wraiths as Gordon crabbed slowly backward, away from the girl with the tomahawk. Away from the boy with the spear. Away from the animals who would shred him alive and feast on him as he died. The twins materialized out of the snow, white on white and splashed with red.

  Harper kept pace, not trying to stop him, just watching him with an inscrutable look on her painted face. Gordon’s eyes flashed to each of them looking for mercy but saw none. He remembered his gun and fumbled with the zipper of his suit. As Kodiak approached, he pulled the pistol from his pocket, pointed it before anyone could react and squeezed the trigger. Fire erupted from the barrel and the bullet hit Kodiak at nearly point-blank range. He stumbled as it struck, felt the burn as it plunged through the thick buffalo robe, his plastic breastplate then buried itself into his chest.

  Barely.

  The children’s response was instant and Gordon would have been speared, flailed, hatcheted, macheted and slashed to ribbons with sharp toothed axes if Kodiak hadn’t yelled for them to stop. Donny was the quickest and barely altered his thrust to snap Gordon’s wrist instead of plunging the steel through his faceplate.

  They heard the bone break, saw the pistol spin away to be lost in the snow. Kodiak reached under his chest plate and plucked the flattened little bullet out. It was still hot so he let it drop the ground and sizzle in the snow. The fire in the background was slowly dying out, but there was enough light to illuminate the panic and terror on Gordons face as he cradled his broken wrist.

  “I’ll do it.” Kodiak said. “I’ll carry out the judgement.”

  They backed off, formed a half circle as he approached and adjusted his grip on the hammer. Their bloodlust was still high, these men had come to kill, rape and enslave. They didn’t have pity and they wouldn’t show mercy. Gordon started to keen, a drawn out high pitched nooooooo coming from somewhere deep inside him.

  They heard someone crying, a girl, and turned to watch as a naked woman staggered out of the smoke, most of her hair burnt off and smoldering bits of Gore-Tex snowsuit fused to her skin. They smelled her then, the sickly-sweet smell of burnt flesh as she stumbled and sobbed, her body raw, blistered and red. They slowly lowered their weapons and their faces softened.

  “She came to kill us, too.” Swan said. “She deserved what she got.”

  Her heart wasn’t in it though and when the girl fell, Swan was the first to run help her.

  52

  Diablo

  Diablo slunk through the tree line, his senses alert. The smell of burnt fuel irritated his nostrils and he sneezed. There was another scent though, blood. His acute nose homed in on it and he approached stealthily towards its source.

  Behind him, the Savage Ones followed. The crows, ravens and vultures soared overhead in oblong circles. The raccoons, opossums, feral hogs, stray cats, dogs and foxes followed in his wa
ke. Some of them had felt his ire when they got too close. Powerful jaws crushed fragile bones and his laughing bark warned them to keep their distance. The fallen became food for the many as they fought over the scraps of whatever unfortunate had met Diablo’s wrath. Yet they followed still, drawn by his power and commanding presence. They had been eating the undead for months and it changed them. Subtly altered the way their brains worked. The virus that turned the humans into frenzied flesh eaters almost instantly was caused by microscopic man-made nanobots. It didn’t affect the animals in the same way, it didn’t turn them into undead monsters. The more of the infected flesh they ate, the more they wanted. It was addictive, easy to hunt and plentiful. It slowly changed them over time. It didn’t make them undead, it made them crave the same thing the undead craved. It made them hunger for human blood. The more dead flesh they ate, the more living flesh they wanted.

  Diablo crept forward, his infected shoulder was stiff, weeping pus, but it would hold. He was the most fearsome creature roaming these woods and even wounded, he would shred any animal that crossed him.

  He eyed the roadway warily, keen night vision taking in the machines that man rode and the rapidly filling depressions in the snow where the blood scent emanated. He growled a warning at his followers, letting them know this was his find. He would feast first; he would have the choicest bits. The hearts and kidneys and liver. His wounded body craved the blood enriched protein and drool ran from his massive jaws as he crept slowly forward. He feared no creature but man. Man meant pain. Man meant beatings with leather straps and shocks with cattle prods. He inhaled the scent of his enemy, the wolf, but it was an old scent, faint and fading. He had no desire to tangle with the wolf again, but he didn’t fear him either. The scents of the bears and the other animals still lingered but his nose told him the danger was long past and the spoils were his.

  He dug into the first cavity, ignoring the pain from his wound. He found the body beneath and with his powerful jaws ripped through the clothing until he reached the flesh. It was hard, nearly frozen but he forced his muzzle through, sharp canines snipping through flesh and tendon to the warmer treats inside. He sensed the approach of the others and growled another low warning. They watched him feast, keeping plenty of distance between them. He gorged on the internal organs; his muzzle coated in blood until he had eaten the choicest bites. He moved on to the next, the Savage Ones quickly fell onto the remains he left behind, snarling and biting amongst themselves as they fought for position around the corpse. The rotten ones they’d been feasting on were scarce lately and their empty stomachs drove them to near madness. Some of them were devoured in the frenzy by their own pack as their first taste of untainted blood pushed them over the brink.

  Diablo, sated at last, moved towards the shelter of an abandoned car and put his back to the vehicle. None of the ravenous beasts would flank him. He watched as they devoured his scraps. There was more meat not far from here. The ones who’d caged him. The ones who’d hurt him. His instincts told him he wasn’t prepared to attack there yet. He would heal then seek out the weaker ones inside the fences to fill his belly.

  He rose to his feet, turned back into the wood line and disappeared. They would follow, his scent was unique to these woods. These things didn’t concern him. Sleep and the warmth of a den beckoned. He set out in search of a suitable place, the snapping and snarling, the crunching of bone and ripping of flesh echoing in his ears as he disappeared into the forest, leaving the carnage behind him.

  53

  Smith’s Landing

  Richard slammed the door behind him to the startled looks of the girls who had stayed behind.

  “Where’s everyone else?” Misty asked then shrank back from the baleful glare, his torn suit and the blood running down his leg.

  A few of his guys had made it back before him and they didn’t look injured. They were the ones who ran away first. Cowards. He’d deal with them later. He hobbled to the bar, grabbed a bottle of tequila and turned it up. He chugged deeply, the fire making its way down his throat to burn in his stomach. His leg throbbed and blood flowed freely from the spike hole in his shoulder. The alcohol gave him the illusion of warmth and dulled the pain. The whole miserable ride back it had taken every ounce of his willpower. Every jostle and bump in the road made him hurt more.

  “Gordon” he muttered under his breath, turning the name into a vile curse word. “He did this.”

  He flung the half empty bottle against the wall. It shattered and the gold liquid soaked into the expensive rug covering the floor. He should have known better than to let that lying little weasel talk him into the raid. His libido always overrode his good sense. Girls were his weakness and Gordy had promised him girls. An easy victory and beautiful girls. He hadn’t said they were wild and untamed like that painted up wolf girl who stabbed him. He had escaped, he was alive when others were dead and he was trying to forget how he begged for his life from a twelve-year-old. Those kids weren’t normal, they were as savage as anything he’d ever seen and she was like a honey badger, vicious and unforgiving. He’d watched the rest of the battle from his hiding spot in the tree line and they scared him. He’d rather fight a horde of zombies than face them again. Their animals were even worse, he’d seen the polar bears grab someone and rip his arm completely off. His whole damn arm. And those pale white savages riding them, they scared him more than the wolf girl the way they swung their axes, splitting helmets and cutting down his men. He was glad they were separated by so many miles and he was thankful for the storm. It would cover his tracks, they wouldn’t be able to follow.

  “Get over here, Tasha.” he spat at the pale faced girl.

  Or maybe it was Sasha. He couldn’t remember.

  “Get some bandages and get me sewn up.”

  He looked at the hamburger that was his calf, which the wolf had ravaged. This was gonna hurt.

  The rest of the Riders trickled in one by one or in pairs and Richard realized he had been lucky. He only had a hole in his shoulder, bear claw slashes across his chest and a chewed-up ankle. The others were scattered around the living room, the few that were left anyway. They were all wounded. Broken arms, broken ribs, broken legs and cracked skulls. Frostbite, slash marks, bite marks, arrows that punched through armor, missing fingers, gut wounds that probably wouldn’t heal, third degree burns, jagged gashes and then there was Squirrel. The pretty little party girl that thought everything was a joke, who lived in a constant state of inebriation, was a blackened mess. She’d been splashed in gas, caught fire, panicked and ran. It wasn’t that bad at first, only her jacket was burning. She had Everclear in her camelback and when it caught fire, she’d been engulfed. If she would have dropped into the snow and unzipped her suit, she would have been fine but she didn’t. She ran and it melted into her. She probably wouldn’t survive either but if she did, her good looks were gone forever.

  His crew would be incapacitated for months. He’d lost friends. Their loss meant more than Gordon was worth. He hoped he was dead. He hoped the bear had killed him or that he’d had his head bashed in by the Warhammer the boy in the buffalo robe carried. The last he’d seen of him, he was on the ground with the kids and their animals gathered around him.

  They’d had guns but barely got a shot off. They’d had superior numbers and powerful machines but a few cables across the road had stopped them in their tracks. It had been a perfect ambush and he should have known better. He’d done something similar a thousand times in a hundred different video games. It never occurred to him that the kids would do it in real life.

  The girls that stayed behind couldn’t wrap their heads around what happened. Little kids and big animals had killed or maimed everyone. How did Richard let that happen? Were the men of Smith’s Landing really that weak or were the tweenagers almost God-like warriors?

  Richard sat in a recliner, his leg elevated, and surveyed the oversized living room that had been turned into a hospital ward. He’d heard their stories as they told wh
at happened to them, how they had gotten injured. He called BS on every one of them. None of them had stood to fight like they claimed. None of them had been brave, him included. They all ran. Moans and groans and curses filled the house. Nearly every one of them were wounded and he still wasn’t sure who was dead. More survivors may be coming.

  He looked at Skull. Blood trails ran out of both ears, his head was puffy and misshapen, his nose flattened across his face. The boy with the Warhammer had done a number on him. He chewed Oxy like it was candy.

  Maggot was busted up bad from Cappy running over him. He looked terrible, his back looked like someone had taken a cheese grater to it before they bandaged him up. He was black and yellow with bruises and stared blankly at the wall, drool pooling on the couch from the corner of his mouth. He kept moaning that his guts hurt. Richard tuned him out. There was nothing he could do for him except pump him full of drugs and alcohol.

  Gargoyle was gone. The panther had killed the shit out of him. He’d miss Gargoyle.

  Boonie was dead, that crazy wolf girl had punched his ticket. He was pretty sure Rooster was dead because he was pretty sure it had been him getting his arm ripped off.

  They’ll just have to rot out there, he thought. No way was he going anywhere near those crazy bastards and their animals. If they ever left the compound again, no one would ever be allowed to go south. Ever.

  Cowboy and Shaggy were chewed up from the psycho albinos on the polar bears. Jagged sawblade axes had sliced through their snowsuits and found soft flesh. Cowboys back had been laid wide open. Shaggy’s was no better but at least he wasn’t crying about it like Cowboy was.

  Bong lay passed out next to his namesake. He couldn’t even tell them what happened. One minute he was riding, the next he woke up freezing cold, all alone with an arrow in him and his helmet cracked open. At least a concussion there, he thought. Bong was brain damaged enough already without taking a hit like that.