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

by Simpson, David A.

  We hope you enjoyed the story and will join us in the next book for the last part of the tale as they make their way to Lakota.

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  Have fun, live life and don’t get hit by a bus.

  David A. Simpson

  7 December, 2019

  The Feral Children 3

  Savages

  Book three in the Feral Children series

  This is a work of fiction by

  David A. Simpson

  And

  Wesley R. Norris

  ISBN: 9798688026283

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No portion of this text may be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission, with the exception of use in reviews

  Copyright 2020 David A. Simpson

  All rights reserved

  Prologue

  September

  12 Months After the Outbreak

  The rickety livestock building stank of manure and hay. It could be described as sickly sweet and disgusting all at the same time. Flies buzzed in and out of the holes that were rusted through the metal siding. Hay rotted in the empty stalls that ran along one of the walls. Most of the bulbs in the high overhead lights had burned out and either no one cared enough to change them or didn’t think the effort was worth it. It was a place for cattle to huddle out of the weather before they were slaughtered to feed the town. The mournful lowing of cows expressing their displeasure at not being fed yet interrupted the stillness and silence.

  Kodiak needed a moment to think. Time to get his mind off his own worries and deal with the imminent threat facing the tribe. Staring at Otis wasn’t helping him or Otis. There was nothing more he could do for his friend. Everything that could be done had already been tried. Dwelling on their situation just made him angrier. He tried to calm himself. It wasn’t working. This was supposed to be a haven. It was supposed to be a place far removed from the struggles of being on the road. It was supposed to be safe and secure from the undead, the Savage Ones and the malicious people that roamed the desolate countryside. Not all of the people here could be evil, but the few they met had been.

  The other members of his tribe looked at him expectantly. He’d led them here; they were counting on him to lead them out. All but Swan. She didn’t like being held against her will and yearned for a fight. The events at Smith’s Landing were too fresh, too raw for her. She’d been restrained, confined, beaten and almost forced into a mockery of the marriage ceremony. Gordon had promised to shame her, break her spirit and then toss her to his gang to do with as they pleased. She’d gone feral on them, though. The tribe had helped her, had come through at the last moment but they had shown mercy to those that fled the battle. She hadn’t though, and her blades had ensured they would never hurt anyone again. She wasn’t opposed to the idea of letting them speak their whispered language of pain again. She paced restlessly along the walls, her pack of wolves tight on her heels, ready to spring into action at her command. She held a tomahawk in each hand as she looked for weakness in the metal siding, anything that would give them a way out. A spot she could lever or pry open far enough to squeeze through before unleashing steel and fury on the man who guarded them. The building was old but it had been built to hold in thousand-pound cows. It was solid and it would take a lot of noise and effort to break out. It would take time. Hack and slash without regard for the consequences was her way. The way of the wolf. Fight without fear, without remorse and without a conscience. A wolf didn’t concern itself with the opinions or lives of sheep. She was terrible and savage when she went over the edge and she was almost at that point. Getting out of the building was the least of her worries, though. She knew they could but the men with the guns and the high walls were the real danger. They couldn’t cover the ground and get past them without being cut down. She didn’t fear for herself, she feared for her tribe.

  Kodiak walked away from the others. He avoided their eyes. They trusted him and he trusted them as well. They had survived from day one with only each other to rely on. They would survive this too, he resolved. He didn’t have a solution. Not yet. He mentally kicked himself for being so desperate, but there had been no other choice at the time but to come here.

  He lowered himself, back to the wall, mindful of the cow manure that dotted the floor of the stock barn. The few overhead lights that still worked didn’t penetrate the darkness that shrouded him. It called to him. The corner was dark and lonely except for a few spiders waiting patiently in their webs for an unsuspecting fly. He sympathized with the fly. Snared in a web and trapped because of a bad choice. Like him and the tribe.

  He dug the old, tarnished Coast Guard Zippo out of his pocket. It had been Derek’s lighter, now it was all that was left of him. The easy-going zookeeper had been the closest thing to a dad he’d had for years and he missed him. He missed the talks and life lessons shared on the banks of the Mississippi River. He missed the easy way Derek had with the animals and the way he’d always treated his mother with kindness and respect. He rubbed his fingers over the raised emblem as memories of all the tribe had endured flashed through his mind.

  Flick. He watched the flame dance from the Zippo.

  Snap. He closed the lid and extinguished the yellow blue fire.

  Flick. He watched the shadows dance on the barn wall. Like ghosts they came and went with the flicker of the flame.

  Snap.

  Flick. He watched as Derek went down under the jaws of the hyenas the day the world went to hell.

  Snap.

  Flick. He thought about his mom using her last breath to give them a chance to survive.

  Snap.

  Flick. He remembered the pain of Gordon pounding his fists into his ribs and stomach while he was helpless at the mercy of the psychotic boy and the thugs that followed him.

  Snap.

  Flick. Bodies were shredded by the fury of the tribe. Blood stained the snow crimson as they fought Gordon’s gang at the church while the winter wind howled its fury. They would have killed them all but the screams of a burning girl drowned out the sounds of battle and snarls of animals as her flesh melted away.

  Snap.

  Flick. Murray waved goodbye from the porch for the last time.

  Snap.

  Flick. The awful sound of dirt striking the charred corpse and the nauseating stench of burnt flesh that no number of fresh flowers could hide as they laid Murray to rest on the banks of the Mississippi.

  Snap.

  Flick. Gordon begging and pleading like the coward he was before he fell into the pool of undead as justice was finally served.

  Snap.

  Flick. Otis roaring as the bullet ripped into his flesh.

  Snap.

  Flick. His tribe herded and caged like animals.

  Snap.

  He’d made a mistake coming here. He’d made a mistake listening to the smooth talk of the man who said he only wanted to help. Lies and more lies. His faith in the human species was fading. Maybe the world would be a better place when mankind was gone. Maybe whatever species came after wouldn’t be hell-bent on destroying what others built.

  He heard voices outside the walls. It was the men who’d caged them. He couldn’t make out the words, just the sound of laughter. It made him angrier. He slid the old Zip
po into his pocket and grasped his war hammer. He listened to the clank of the chain being removed from the door. He looked at Otis, motionless on the ground, and then tore his gaze away from his companion. The time for regret had passed. Now was a time for action.

  He locked eyes with his brothers and sisters as weapons were readied. He hefted his war hammer high above his head; they nodded in agreement and raised their own weapons. He loosened his knife in its sheath so it would come out faster. When the blood spilling started, he wanted to be sure that he drew every drop that was due him.

  When the townspeople lured them in with their empty promises, they hadn’t even tried to take his weapons from him or the others. They thought because the tribe was made up of kids that they were weak. They thought their guns made them superior. They thought because they were bigger, older and there were more of them they had the advantage. Others had thought that too. Others had been wrong. Others were dead.

  He didn’t want to spill any more blood, but he would. He didn’t want any more ghosts following him around, but he would welcome their company if that’s what it took to protect his tribe.

  The tribe spread out as sunlight started streaming in through the opening and silhouetted the two figures standing in the doorway. Animals and children melted into the shadows, ready to hack, slash and tear anyone who would do them harm. Except Otis. Otis lay where he’d fallen. His heart broke as he watched him from the corner of his eyes. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the haft of the hammer and readied himself. Rage coursed through him as he prepared himself for battle.

  He tore his gaze from the fallen bear and brushed the long hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand. He growled low and deep as the two figures entered the barn.

  1

  The Road to Lakota

  11 Months After the Outbreak

  The plod of hooves and the tinkle of a cowbell were the only sounds on the deserted stretch of two-lane blacktop that ran through the lonely southeastern corner of Iowa. A few dried and weathered cornstalks still held out against the ravages of time. They stood crooked and bowed from the winds in the seemingly never-ending fields on both sides of the road where corn was once king. Miles and miles of the same view were behind them. Empty, desolate, and forgotten. Weeks gone from the home they had made. Weeks gone since they laid Murray in a hole on the banks of the river. Weeks gone from the wrath they had rained down on Gordon and his gang of thugs.

  Power lines sagged to the ground where one storm or another had snapped off the poles. They lay across the road in places, but were more a nuisance than anything. Electricity had stopped moving through them more than a year ago and probably never would again. The dead didn’t need power. There was nothing to see except more of the same. It was miles and miles of nothing occasionally broken by an empty house and barns with flapping roofs. Things were falling apart fast with no one to make the small repairs. A corner of a roof sprung loose from a summer storm went unchecked and the wind worried at it relentlessly. Nails worked loose, tin blew free, rains poured in.

  The road was desolate. The interstates were packed with cars in many places, but the back roads the tribe traveled had been ignored by the people fleeing the waves of undead. Mother Nature was slowly eroding all signs that man had once tilled the fertile soil. Prairie grass swayed in the breeze as far as the eye could see. Day by day it encroached on the roadway. Sprigs of grass clawed their way up through the cracks in the asphalt, driving them further apart. Rain washed down through the cracks and eroded the soil underneath the road bed. The painted lines down the center were so faded they could barely be seen. In a few more years the road would be lost, covered in grasses.

  Farm equipment sat rusting in the fields or in barn yards. The most excitement they’d had was the zombie farmer trapped in the cab of a tractor just off the road. It had banged and keened against the glass when they passed. They stopped and watched out of curiosity. A summer spent in the oven like atmosphere of the tractor cab hadn’t been kind to the zombie. Its flesh fell off in chunks as it railed against the glass that kept it in. They’d made morbid jokes about how it must smell in there and Tobias said it was the equivalent of Crockpot Zombie. They left him in his prison and the sounds of mushy hands slapping on glass faded behind them.

  Endless miles of barbed wire rusted and fence posts rotted. Tractors and combines sat in fields wasting away with harrows and plows hooked behind them that rested on flat tires and provided sanctuary for rabbits and field mice. Without man and his machines to beat it back the grass dominated the landscape like it once did when the Native Americans called this place home. Kodiak liked to imagine that someday maybe buffalo would once more roam these grasslands and tribes of nomads would follow them like they did before the land was settled, taking only what they needed to survive. That was the way it should be, order out of chaos.

  Fresh meat had been scarce. They saw plenty of animals, but they were always far away, just specks on the horizon. The terrain was too open and neither Donny nor Swan knew how to hunt it. They’d honed their deadly skills in the forests surrounding Piedmont, not on the open plains. They watched hungrily as pheasant and quail flushed from the tall grass. Many times they’d seen deer or antelope dart from the grassy plains to disappear out of sight. Too far away for the deadly accuracy of Donny’s spear or an arrow from Swan’s bow. Too far away for even the wolves or panther to have a chance of catching them. It was hard to sneak up on prey that could smell and hear you coming for miles. It was impossible to spot an animal that was perfectly camouflaged in the tall grass. They did find a snake now and then but for the most part it was tough and tasteless. Still, it was meat, so they ate it when there was nothing else. Stomachs growled and children grumbled about the meager rations they had left. Backpacks and saddlebags hung flat and almost empty.

  Hopes had been high when they spotted the hundreds of rail cars sitting idle on their tracks. Disappointment took its place when they discovered the cars were full of coal once destined for power plants and bug riddled grain that was fermented and rotten. Dreams of cases of canned goods and clothing that wasn’t worn and tattered from the miles and elements faded. The tribe pressed on. There was nothing behind them so they didn’t waste time worrying about what they didn’t find and refocused their efforts on what might be ahead.

  They’d lived fairly good in the security of Piedmont Animal Sanctuary but those days were gone. Being burned out of their home and the murder of Murray erased any desire to try and rebuild. The ruins of the house would always be a painful reminder for all of them. The stories of Lakota drew them like a moth to the flame. The promise of hope and a chance to grow up without looking over their shoulders drew them like a magnet. Landon, Clara, and Caleb were already there thanks to the girls they had rescued from Gordon.

  The tribe had loaded up with supplies from the food warehouse in Putnam but most of it was long gone. The bears, the wolves and the panther ate a lot and even with careful rationing, there wasn’t enough. They thought it would be easy to scavenge supplies on the road but it hadn’t been. Most of the farmhouses didn’t have cellars full of home canned goods. They had cupboards with a few weeks’ worth of groceries. One of the bears could eat everything in the house and still be hungry. They thought they could hunt for game but once the woodlands turned to prairie, the biggest thing they’d caught was a rabbit. Now it was a day to day struggle to keep food in their bellies.

  Harpers giraffe grazed the grass on the shoulders of the road and Vanessa’s ostrich sought out seeds or insects to fill her belly. The carnivores that traveled with the tribe weren’t as lucky. There had been no fresh meat for them to feast on. They could go for days or even weeks without eating, relying on their fat stores to carry them through to the next meal, but even the mightiest of beasts had their limits and everyone was almost at theirs. The few rabbits and mice they managed to catch were just enough to leave them wanting more.

  Kodiak swayed in his saddle atop Otis, the twelve-hundred
-pound Grizzly bear that was his companion and most loyal friend. He was nearly asleep. He tried to shake off the tiredness, the fatigue of endless hours of travel through a deserted country where everything looked the same. He needed to be alert for signs of danger, but it was all he could do just to sit in the saddle. The tall grass that surrounded them could hold thousands of the undead or allow the Savage Ones perfect cover to attack them from downwind.

  Fitful snatches of nightmares woke him sometimes in a cold sweat. More than once, images of Gordon’s zombified face pulled him from sleep as its jagged teeth lunged for him. Scenes of broken bones, shattered skulls, splayed open bellies and blood running like a river haunted him. There was always so much blood.

  The weapons the tribe used were for killing up close. Sharp and pointy or blunt and heavy. They were silent and deadly. Unlike a bullet fired from a distance, you got to see the look of shock in your enemy’s eyes as you thrust your weapon into their bodies. You felt the suction of the wound on the blade when you ripped it free and smelled the coppery tang of blood in the air or tasted the spray of arterial blood on your tongue. You felt the bones collapse under the force of a war hammer or Morningstar and if you stopped to watch you saw the light fade from their eyes. It was harsh and brutal, but it was the only way to stay alive. Fight for what you have and what you love or watch it be destroyed. What their animals did was worse. Arms or legs were torn free, stomachs were ripped open and long coils of gray poured out. It was nothing like the carnage he’d seen on TV or video games. Not at all.