Dead Lands Pass the Ammunition

by Aaron Polson

  Donnie nodded. “Bio-diesel.”

  “Is this part of the hog operation?”

  Mack shrugged. “We need to eat more than anything, but if we manage to get those trucks and Ghost’s old Camry running, we might be able to really beef this place up. Make it a palace instead of just a place to hide.”

  Ambitious?

  Yes.

  Did I believe him?

  What choice did I have?

  ~

  Any other time, I would have enjoyed a nice walk through the woods. Any other time—some life where the dead didn’t come back and munch on the living—I would have reveled in nature.

  It had been winter when Mack and I joined the camp, so the fresh spring growth—weeds and leaves and all—caught me off guard. We trekked without speaking, pounding our feet over the rocky path leading toward the remnants of U.S. 81 down a ditch and into the trees. I knew the trees must follow the creek as they did in Kansas. Near the water was the only place trees grew well out in the open prairie.

  The trees brought shade; shade brought a chill colder than the lack of sun. We continued on a rough path into the woods, one fashioned from repeated ventures into the trees. I figured it must have been the same trail Big D took on the day he was shot. Maybe I was wrong, but it felt right. The woods smelled like murder. They smelled like the dead.

  Rabbit caught my eye. “The beast is out here,” he said. “And it’s hungry.”

  I offered a weak smile and nodded. We trundled along until the path broke apart, leaving us groping through aggressive underbrush. New branches tugged at our clothes like the fingers of the dead. Sweat spilled from every pore, but it wasn’t likely seventy-five degrees. We tromped maybe fifty yards before Mack, leading the way, paused and faced us over his shoulder.

  “Big D figured there must be a nest down here near the creek.”

  I held my breath. Mack met my eyes—a quick, cold glance—and then turned and stepped away from the path. A branch snapped to my right, and I turned, feeling the stock of my gun.

  “Jumpy,” Rabbit said, sneering. “Fucking jumpy. Bet you wouldn’t fire that gun nine times of ten with Big D’s big undead ass bearing down on you. Bet you got lucky is all. Lucky and alive.”

  Another snap dragged my head to the other side. Mack was gone. Donnie was long gone.

  The gunshot came like a long gone summer firecracker, snap, and Rabbit lurched forward.

  His mouth opened, and a little sound tumbled out. Ungh. Just ungh. The whole thing happened kind of herky-jerky, like I’d been flipping a hand drawn comic book.

  I didn’t hear the shot that hit me in the back.

  As I fell forward, driven hard by the impact of the bullet, my brain flashed to one name.

  Ellen.

  Chapter 9

  Nobody really expects to be shot in the back, let alone feel the impact of the mossy, leaf-covered ground and live to spin a story about it. Usually, when a guy is shot in the back, it’s treachery at its most treacherous. Usually, the shooter finishes the job and leaves nothing behind—no half-dead victim to dust himself off and seek revenge.

  Most guys just don’t expect to be shot in the back, much less cover themselves with not one but two vintage army surplus flak jackets.

  Had it been a hunk of lead from Mack’s rifle or another big caliber shooter, I would have bled out on the Nebraksa dirt while waiting for the meatwads to munch away at my still steaming parts. Maybe I’d still be alive when the chewing started. Maybe I’d get a really good sense of just how bad it hurt.

  I’d made my little detour through the armory before going on Mack’s hunt. Two vintage flak jackets and a small caliber weapon added to one stiff Pete and maybe a broken rib.

  I didn’t stand at first, but lay there, nose in the dirt. The soil gave me a good, stiff whiff. Funny how dirt—worm shit after all—can smell so warm and wholesome. The first few breaths came in stiff, staccato shudders. White hot pain danced across my back.

  “Fuck,” I muttered. A louder shot crawled around in my mouth, but I thought better of it and kept my trap shut. If any flesh bags had been stumble-strolling through the woods, they’d have heard the shots and come close enough for their rotten noses to take over. I didn’t need any more trouble. My right hand crept forward until fingertips touched polish wooden stock.

  They’d left my gun.

  I listened.

  Quiet. Rabbit hadn’t stirred either. Sometimes a guy’s ears would play tricks and suggest the undead were shambling his way, but I listened, sure to hear a cracking twig or grunt or groan, but nothing came. Nothing came.

  I sucked a big, deep breath into my lungs and, wincing against the pain, struggled to all fours.

  Somebody had shot me—I was pretty sure it wasn’t or couldn’t have been Mack from where I saw him standing last. Donnie maybe? That might make sense because Donnie’d been a real weird asshole since I met him. But motive? I don’t suspect Donnie had much reason to off me.

  I forced my hands from the ground and, squatting, dusted my filthy palms against my knees. The pain throbbed like a hammer tapping a sore finger, thud, thud thud. I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight. The dim awareness that the flesh bags might still be coming sparked in my head. I couldn’t stay there, alone, exposed.

  Rabbit groaned.

  I stooped for my gun and limped to his side. He lay face down, his back dark and matted with blood.

  “Unngh…”

  “Quiet,” I whispered. “Quiet.”

  “Fuck… Somebody…”

  “Shhhh. I’ll get you out of here.”

  “Y-you?” He tilted his head slightly so I could see the side of his face. His eyes flickered and rolled back in his head.

  “Pete.”

  His mouth opened again, but instead of words, another groan tumbled out. There was another sound, not from Rabbit, but somewhere behind us. A twig snapping. Footsteps.

  My throat closed off. I couldn’t feel my legs for a moment, but the pain in my back vanished, too. The meatwads were coming. They were coming, and I couldn’t do anything about it. My right hand tightened around the stock of the shotgun. My left hand patted the thigh pockets of my worn BDUs. The shells. Whoever shot me hadn’t taken the shells.

  Twenty-eight of them.

  Whoever shot me had left both of us as food for the God-damned monsters. I slid a thumb over the shotgun’s safety and worked my index finger into the trigger guard. My gaze fell to Rabbit. His face had gone pale, but his eyes were open.

  I counted down in my head.

  Three…

  Another broken twig. The wet crunch of damp leaves from last autumn.

  Two…

  I imagined the stale, rotten breath of the flesh bags on my back. My finger stroked the smooth metal trigger.

  One…

  I turned.

  Three men had melted out of the woods and stood less than ten feet away, each of them pointing a crossbow at my chest.

  “Don’t think about firing that damn gun.”

  THE END

  (for now)

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