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

by Simpson, David A.

  There was much death in their wake and it troubled him. The eternal question of why plagued him. Humans were an endangered species. Why were the last of them hell bent on destroying each other? He’d heard the stories from the traveler Bob about the towns and rebuilding. Places where there was plenty of food and security. Places of unity and cooperation. They sounded like fairy tales but was their own story any less fantastic? The stories filled him with hope and trepidation at the same time. He hadn’t seen these places with his own eyes. He hadn’t walked their streets, hadn’t seen a normal society with stores and schools and cars. All he’d seen in this new world was death and destruction. He wouldn’t believe one of those places existed until he saw it.

  His conscience didn’t bother him, he’d been forced into a corner. He’d even considered giving up everything they’d built and moving away but they’d forced them into a fight. They had wanted it because they thought they couldn’t lose. He never wanted any of it to happen but there’d been no choice. They tried to live in isolation. Tried to carve something out of nothing with their meager supplies and hard work. Sweat and blisters, bug bites and sunburns, they’d pushed through it all to make their own little corner of the world. They were succeeding, doing fine and getting better until everything came to an end. It only took days to destroy what had taken a year to build.

  Attacked by the Savage Ones, animals crazed from feeding on the undead and even more crazed humans it had all been trampled and burned to ash. Gordon’s final assault on their sanctuary had been the last straw. He and his gang had killed one of the tribe and torched their home. Without mercy, Gordon tortured and burned the purest soul Kodiak had ever known.

  The death of Murray still weighed heavy on his heart. He’d been off gathering supplies at the warehouse with the rest of the tribe while Murray was at the mercy of that monster.

  They kept to the back roads. One lane blacktop and gravel. It wasn’t the straightest line from one point to another but they wanted to avoid wandering hordes of the undead or gangs of men scavenging for supplies. They didn’t like their chances against heavily armed bands of men in their trucks and off road cars. They might shoot first and ask questions later.

  The undead would follow where the scent of man was strongest. Mindless and merciless, they only existed to spread the zombie virus from infected to the uninfected. Scavenging opportunities on these forgotten roads were few and far between. This was once farmland. Before the outbreak, corn and grains covered tens of thousands of acres to feed a hungry nation. Houses on the long stretches of road were scattered and far apart. They’d attempted to get food from a few silos, but the corns and grains stored inside were rat and insect infested or rotted and fermented.

  Kodiak still felt the decision to stay to all back roads was the right one, even though his growling stomach disagreed. He knew the interstates increased their chances of finding easy supplies, but also held the danger of encountering huge hordes of the undead. The tribe was in agreement, even though it added hundreds of miles to their trip. They would get to Lakota when they got there, they’d decided. Even with the longer route, they would make it before the winter snows started falling. None of them could forget the tales the mysterious stranger had told them about raiders and cannibals prowling the road.

  Still, none of them had anticipated how hard the trip was going to be. They were going almost a thousand miles on foot based on the stories of an outsider they barely knew to a place that seemed too good to be true.

  The state of Iowa was in a drought. Creeks that should have been filled with fish were dry rock beds and apple trees that should have been loaded down with juicy apples only held small, bitter worm-infested fruits that weren’t even suitable for the animals to eat. Tobias had tried cooking them down to make tarts. The boy had used up the last of their sugar and flour stocks to try and salvage something from nothing. Even Otis wouldn’t eat them, so they had to be terrible.

  Kodiak looked over his shoulder at the cow that plodded along on a rope tied to Harper’s saddle. He contemplated butchering her for the hundredth time. She was skinny and malnourished, more bone and gristle than beef. The bones of her ribs and hips protruded sharply from her brown hide and her eyes sat sunken deep in her skull.

  They’d found her wandering in a pasture that was nothing but bare dirt with a few sprigs of dead dry grass. Scattered bones littered the ground where a large herd had once grazed, back when the world was still alive. The trapped herd had overgrazed it, and then succumbed to starvation. Somehow, she’d survived when the others hadn’t and it just didn’t sit right with him to save her from certain death, only to slaughter her for the little bit of food she’d provide. Maybe they could put some weight on her, and she’d produce some milk or trade her for supplies to replenish their depleted stock. The idea of fresh milk caused his stomach to rumble in protest. It had been too long since they’d had any and he knew the rest of the tribe missed it as much as he did. I’d give anything for a big bowl of Captain Crunch and milk, he thought.

  Boredom and monotony had set in on the long southwestern trek down the endless miles of blacktop. They were tired of playing I Spy and sharing their thoughts about what they were going to do first when they reached Lakota. Almost a month of travel and they still weren’t out of Iowa. It had been days since they’d passed through a town. The Welcome to Pineville, Iowa sign read population 217. It had been nothing more than a crossroads with a solitary caution light swaying in the breeze and there wasn’t a single pine tree in sight. The lone grocery store and gas station had been long looted and houses still filled with the undead curbed their desire to risks their necks for a can of chicken noodle soup, though with the way their supplies were dwindling it wouldn’t be long before they had to do something drastic.

  The tink of a rock striking metal snapped Kodiak out of his lull. Tobias and Donny had been plucking rocks from the roadbed and throwing them at the road signs. He watched as the two boys raced through the tall grass into the ditch and he heard Tobias yell in excitement. He slid from the saddle strapped to Otis’ broad back and went to see what the fuss was.

  Kodiak pushed his way through the gathered tribe and wiped the dust from the window of the tan Buick that sat forlornly in the ditch, its owner long since gone or turned into one of the mindless undead. The fading paint matched the grass that surrounded it perfectly. The windows were covered in a thick layer of dust. Weeds had grown up tall around it and they’d not even seen it, only the errant aim of a rock had alerted them to its presence.

  The back seat was full of plastic bags. Someone had been shopping the morning of the outbreak. Their misfortune could mean a much-needed meal for the tribe. Without hesitation, Kodiak smashed the window out of the car with his war hammer. Harper stepped beside him and pulled up on the door handle. It wasn’t locked.

  “Oh,” he said sheepishly.

  He stepped aside to let Harper see if there was anything they could salvage from the bags. Donny wasted no time getting into the driver’s compartment to search for loot.

  The smell of decay wafted out of the car from the meats, milk and vegetables which had long ago rotted. It wasn’t bad enough to keep them out though. They’d smelled worse. They’d endured the stench of corpses bloated from the sun and heat. Smelled the sickly-sweet smell of animals ripped open in battle. This was nothing compared to one of Bert’s farts.

  Rummaging through the bags she found several cans of soup along with some Ramen noodles, potted meat and Vienna sausages. Canned peaches and pineapple slices. Stale crackers and boxes of macaroni way past their expiration date were handled with reverence. This was food, much needed food, and they would make do. There wouldn’t be any complaining when it was parceled out. Maybe some jokes about how awful it tasted as they devoured the stale crackers, but they wouldn’t waste any of it. Other bags yielded some toilet paper, body wash and moisturizer, which earned a fist pump from Vanessa. Toilet paper was a precious commodity and the ebony skinned girl never m
issed an opportunity to add to her stash.

  They rooted through every inch of the car. They checked the glove box, center console and under the seats. Ignored the change in the cup holders and the cellphone still plugged into its charger. The wallet full of cash and credit cards that lay open in the passenger seat was tossed aside. Worthless stuff. Anybody willing to risk it could wear all the gold necklaces and diamond rings they wanted. You couldn’t eat them though. Anybody could have a million dollars if they wanted to now. It wasn’t good for anything anymore but maybe wiping your butt or starting a fire.

  A half full disposable lighter and a cheap pocketknife were all they found that was worth keeping. Donny pocketed both items. He’d clean up the knife and put an edge on it. They’d made it a point to gather any items that might be worth trading whenever they finally encountered other people.

  Nervous and excited, they chattered among themselves about what it would be like to finally meet some other survivors and trade with them. They couldn’t wait to tell an enraptured crowd their stories as they gathered around to inspect the wares they’d pilfered along the way.

  Donny exited the car and popped the trunk. He smiled then bolted away in terror when he stuck his head inside. Nestled inside was a case of bottled water and four cans of Coca-Cola along with a nest full of wasps, angered at the disturbance which sent children and animal alike scattering from their fury.

  Tobias swatted at the wasps with the flat of his axe and stomped them as he knocked them from the air. He was stung twice but ignored it. He reached in the trunk and grabbed a Coke and popped the top. The rest of the twelve pack had exploded from the heat and covered the trunk in dried syrup.

  “Aah,” he exclaimed and belched loudly. “Still good and worth it,” he said as he eyed the swelling on his arm from the wasp’s stings.

  He handed the half empty can to his sister. She turned it up and drained it. She belched loudly, and then giggled. Tobias handed out the other three cans. The rest of the tribe shared them among themselves. No one drank more than their fair share before passing them along. It had been a while since they’d had a whole soda to themselves.

  The supplies went into the saddlebags on the animals and they moved on. They’d keep a sharper eye out for more vehicles hidden in the grass.

  “This was a good find,” Kodiak said as he tossed the empty Coke can away. “But it’s not enough. We’ll be in Missouri tomorrow if our luck holds out.”

  “Maybe the hunting will be better,” Swan muttered. “First set of woods we come across I’m getting us something more appetizing than that scrawny cow and a handful of old Saltines.”

  Donny signed at her. I’ll get a kill before you do. What you want to bet on it?

  Swan snorted. “Keep dreaming buddy.”

  Kodiak pulled out the map he’d marked up with Misty after they’d defeated Gordon. He put his finger on their location and ran it down southward. He pointed at a junction where the road they were on crossed a state highway.

  “I think it’s time we get on a bigger road, we’ll still stay away from the interstate but there should be better scavenging near a four lane. There will be more cars, houses and stores. Maybe even a big rig or two full of food.” His stomach growled at the mention of food. They nodded in agreement.

  “This is another few days or so away. There are some little towns between here and there. Maybe we can find us some decent clothes before we get to a settlement. I remember Bob mentioning a walled town right here.” He put his finger on a tiny spot marked Gallatin.

  “I’m not trading my armor for a dress.” Swan said. “They can like it or not. I don’t care.”

  Donny thumped his spear in agreement.

  “I’m not getting all fancied up for people I don’t know.” Tobias said.

  His coyote pelt poncho had been worked for many hours and was soft but resilient to bites. It was easy to move in and he could pull his arms inside to protect his pale skin from the sun. They had spent a lot of time working and living in their armor and rough leather clothes. It would feel strange, not to mention not nearly as safe, to go back to jeans and t-shirts.

  “I didn’t say we were going to put on our Sunday best.” Kodiak protested. “Just something a little less, you know, wild looking. Maybe some normal clothes or something.”

  “Meh.” Vanessa said. “I like my skins. Too bad if they don’t.”

  “You could at least put on a shirt.” Kodiak said. “You know city people won’t be used to seeing an African princess running around mostly topless.”

  “Then they don’t have to look.” She said and smiled, the tribal scars on her face shining under a sheen of sweat.

  “Maybe they can show us how to hunt the prairie.” Donny signed. “There must be some way to get the game. We’ve seen plenty but we can’t get close.”

  “True.” Swan said. “Wish we still had Murray. One of his books would have told us.”

  Her painted face turned into a snarl at the memory of what Gordon had done and her hands fell unconsciously to her tomahawks. She’d kill that bastard over and over again if she could.

  They got quiet at the reminder and started adjusting their gear, checking their mounts for any saddle chaffing and mounted up. It was settled. Even if they faced trouble on the bigger roads, they could handle it. They couldn’t watch their companions slowly starve.

  They were optimistic, surely the people of the plains would know how to hunt the grasslands. There had to be tricks to taking down the antelope and deer. Kodiak folded the map, tucked it away and fingered the memory bead braided into his hair. It was an oval of polished steel crafted from the melted steel of Murray’s wheelchair and smiled. Yeah, Murray would have had them eating well, knowledge gained from one of the thousands of survival books he’d downloaded.

  Chatter broke out among them as they started forward again. Supposedly these fortified towns had tall walls and most even had electricity and running water. They were filled with kindhearted people who were working hard to rebuild the country. Murray had spoken long hours with Bob and he had made it sound like paradise. There would be cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes, movies and real toilets.

  Sometimes they rode, sometimes they walked but they always kept moving. Kept picking them up and putting them down one step at a time. It was slow but they steadily ate up the miles, one after another. Hours later as they watched the sun drop in the western sky, the excitement of Gallatin had worn off as the day slowly dragged on. Each lost in their own thoughts, they focused on the ribbon of asphalt that seemed to stretch on forever.

  They had to seek shelter for the night. Even though they’d seen nothing of the Savage Ones and very few of the undead, sleeping out in the open was a last resort. They’d done it a few times but no one rested well when they were so exposed. Houses were few and far between on the long, lonely stretch of highway but they weren’t worried. This was farm country and they all had barns or equipment sheds. They preferred those rather than the houses. They didn’t smell as bad from the mold and mildew of wet carpets or the stench of the field mice warrens. Barns were built to get wet and dry out naturally, they were open and airy.

  From her perch on Bert’s tall back, Harper spied a grain silo in the distance and called it out to the tribe.

  “Another mile, maybe.” She said. “I see a few outbuildings, too. We’ll make it before dark.”

  “I hope the well has a hand pump.” Analise said. “I’m overdue for a shower.”

  Vanessa swung up on Ziggy and urged her into a run as they darted ahead to scout it out.

  2

  The Prophet

  Hundreds of miles away, headed in the opposite direction of the tribe, a solitary figure shuffled along like an old man although he had turned eighteen only a few months before. Sometimes he thought his name used to be Zack Scott, but he didn’t know for sure. Everything from before had become a hazy blur of muddled memories that were fuzzy at best. He remembered being with a group of friends that
weren’t really his friends for a time. They had called him Skull but that wasn’t his true name either. He wasn’t that person anymore. He was someone else.

  He’d been struck down by a band of wild children and reborn as something new. He called himself the Prophet now because it was the only name he could remember. The source of his downfall was also the source of his deliverance. The tribe of feral kids. They had been his enemy. He’d suffered at their hands, but he’d deserved it. He knew that now. They had hurt him but they had also shown mercy. He knew he wouldn’t have if the tables had been turned. Not back then, not when he’d been Skull, and the guilt gnawed away at him. Sometimes he didn’t know why he felt so remorseful, couldn’t remember the things he’d done to feel such shame but he knew they must be bad and he had earned what had happened. He’d had it coming.

  He knew he’d fought them three times, a mystical number that held power. The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. The maiden, the mother and the crone. Life, death, rebirth. Every time he had gone to war with them, they had struck him down. Once with a war hammer, once with tomahawks and once with a spear. Every time he’d taken a blow to the head, more damage had been done. His cracked skull had healed but something inside his head hadn’t.

  He didn’t know if they had names, he only remembered them as wrathful visions as they struck him down. They could have finished him but they hadn’t. The Girl Who Walks with Wolves had spared him, had turned her blades at the last second and hit him with the flats. The One Without Words had knocked him unconscious with the butt of a steel spear then kept his inky black panther from tearing his face off. Their leader, the Keeper of the Hammer, had turned his killing blow aside when he had been dazed and on his knees. He had spared him once more that day in the ratty old mobile home. The young warrior king told him he didn’t deserve mercy but he wouldn’t strike him down as he sat bound and helpless. They’d left him alive; they hadn’t ended his miserable life or turned their animals loose on him. He wasn’t worthy of their kindness but they had given it anyway. It was more than he deserved.