Battlefield Z Omnibus, Vol. 1 [Books 1-9]

by Lowry, Chris

  When they were beside each other and gasping, I ducked back under and planted next to him.

  "Where's Tyler?" Bem worried.

  "He can handle himself," I assured her. "We need to find out what's out there."

  "Why didn't they shoot?" the Boy wondered.

  So did I.

  Great question.

  We were in the open, and exposed. Anyone who felt threatened had a clean kill on any of us.

  That's what I thought happened to Tyler, but no one was shooting.

  Heck, no one was even threatening us.

  It was just our guts screaming that something was wrong, someone was watching us.

  I didn't feel like that under the awning.

  "Did you see anything?"

  The kids shook their heads, faces swiveling from one end of the street to the other.

  "Still don't," said Bem.

  "He's out there watching our backs," I told her.

  I could see her shoulders visibly relax and almost growled.

  But I'd figure that part out later.

  I focused on the now.

  Unknown threat. Untouched store, or at least that's how it looked. Empty town.

  Lots of places for people to hide.

  "Hi."

  A tiny voice said from the corner of the building.

  I whipped my gun around and watched a mop of blonde hair slip around the corner.

  "Was that real?" the Boy sounded surprised.

  "It wasn't a ghost," said Bem.

  I scrambled up and gave chase.

  A little boy stood his ground in the alley by the building, a wooden sword held in front of him,

  sharp point wavering. He used his other hand to hold a smaller kid behind him.

  The mop of blond hair.

  I lowered my rifle.

  "You're not going to hurt him," the older boy growled.

  "Hi," said the blond.

  Bem and the Boy rounded the corner behind me.

  The tip of the sword bounced as he aimed at each of us.

  "Are you alone?"

  "Yes," said the little one.

  "Shut up Rick," the big-eyed boy with the sword growled.

  "Where are your parents?" Bem slid her rifle around to her back and went to one knee so she

  was on their level.

  Rick, the tiny blond one sniffed as his lip trembled.

  "You don't belong here," the older one pointed the sword.

  It looked like it was made of balsa wood and would snap if he decided to stab her with it.

  The layers of clothes she wore would protect her.

  The two little boys wore practically nothing, just shorts and tank tops and mismatched shoes

  with the laces undone.

  The outfits looked like they had been worn for a long time, dirt crusted layers almost crunching

  as they moved.

  They were thin, almost emaciated. Wild hair, wild eyes.

  Feral.

  "Do you belong here?" Bem soothed.

  Tyler stepped around the back of the alley and stood as still as a statue while he watched.

  "This is our town."

  "We came in on the railroad," said Bem. "Do you know where that is?"

  "I didn't hear a train," said the older one.

  "I'm Rick," the blond chimed in. "This is Carl."

  "Hi Rick," Bem smiled. "Hi Carl. Are you guys hungry?"

  The point of the sword wavered and dropped.

  That was answer enough.

  "We're going to go in the store and get some food. Do you want to come with us?"

  I locked eyes with Tyler and he made a slight shake with his head.

  No one else out there.

  We had found our watchers.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The two boys followed us into the store. More precisely, they followed Bem into the store,

  keeping a wary eye on me and distance from the Boy and Tyler.

  I can't say that I blame them.

  I wasn't much to look at before the zombie Armageddon forever changed the population landscape

  of our country, and since then, I've been shot, blown up, stabbed, wrecked, tossed, and beaten

  on a weekly basis.

  It takes a toll on one's body and mine was no exception.

  I had a long thick scar that gave my hair a new part just above my ear. Scars around my eyes where people

  kept punching me, scrapes, cuts, bruises added to the ensemble.

  Plus, I used to joke with my kids, I have a resting bitch face.

  My normal look is pissed, even when I'm delighted.

  They were always in a perpetual state of wonder growing up.

  "What's wrong Dad?"

  "Nothing. Why do you ask?"

  "You look mad."

  "I'm not mad, it's just my face."

  Not the best way to go through life, to constantly look concerned and on the verge of an

  anger management catastrophic breakdown, but such is luck.

  I tried to mask it with jokes, and funny little songs.

  Sometimes it worked.

  But for little boys who just met an armed guy marching into town, I might have given me space

  and some sideways eye too.

  The store was locked.

  The Boy used a universal key to gain entry by busting out the glass in the door.

  We stood back to do a Z check in case anything inside was drawn by the noise, but there was nothing.

  "Where is everyone?" Bem asked the kids.

  I didn't expect an answer, or at least one that made sense, but Carl surprised me.

  "Gone."

  His tiny voice was solemn.

  "I'll show you," he offered.

  She shot a raised eyebrow in my direction. Should she go

  I slid my eyes from the Boy to Tyler and back again.

  "Go with her," I told the scout. "Nothing happens to her. To them."

  I tried not to make it sound menacing.

  I really tried to rein in the threat in the tone.

  But he shivered and nodded.

  Quickly.

  "Yes Sir."

  Capital S.

  "You're with me," I told the Boy before he could argue.

  Bem made a noise in her throat, and I thought she was going to say she could take care of herself,

  but she held it in.

  It made sense for her to have back up if we split up, and I did not like us splitting up.

  If Tyler said the town was a population of two, then I was less worried.

  A little less.

  Not much.

  I made sure the Boy and I hurried as we gathered supplies while Bem, Tyler and the two kids slipped back through the glass

  and onto Main street.

  The inside of the store was pristine, if Spartan in choice.

  There were about a dozen of every food item, and the choices were limited. Mac n Cheese, Beans, Rice, Chili, Corn.

  Still we were able to gather about a week's worth of meals, if we stretched it.

  I was surprised there wasn't more, but it looked as if the clerk or owner had a big run on food, and just organized the remaining

  items before disappearing.

  Or going Z.

  "We'll check the houses too," I told the Boy.

  He nodded and shouldered the heavier pack.

  I smiled and took it from him.

  "I got it," he tried to argue.

  "I know you do."

  But I took it from him and slid my arms through the straps.

  Then I handed him a peanut candy bar that had been hidden behind the register.

  "Save half for your sister."

  His grin made me warm inside, and he smelled the wrapper, vacuum sealed for freshness.

  We made one more look around the store to see if we missed anything, and then made our way to the

  first house.

  The front door was open.

  The same with the kitchen cabinets
.

  "Rick and Carl?" said the Boy.

  I nodded.

  It was probably how to the two stayed alive.

  We checked for weapons and kit in the bedrooms, but came up empty. There was plenty there,

  but nothing compact we could carry back to the truck.

  Most households are built to stay where they are, and travel time in the new zombie world

  was a minimalist paradise.

  We still had a lot of daylight left and Kentucky was only a few hours away driving straight on the railroad.

  "Leave it," I told him as he grabbed a comforter off the bed. "We'll find something when we stop

  for the night."

  He nodded, and we moved from house to house in silence.

  The same story played out in each.

  Open doors, empty pantries.

  I'm glad the two little wild men had been able to stay alive, but it made

  for a light haul on our supply run.

  We had found a couple of knives, and ammo for guns we didn't have by the time we reached the trailers and met up with

  Bem and Tyler.

  That's when we found everyone else too.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "I see dead people," the Boy deadpanned.

  The ground between the trailers was row after row of raised mounds, scrap board tombstones stuck haphazardly

  into the dirt.

  I counted ten in the first row, and five rows deep.

  "Did you do this?" Bem asked Carl and Rick.

  The oldest pointed.

  A rotting corpse leaned against a sign, legs splayed in an open grave.

  The top of its head was missing.

  "Was that your Dad?"

  They both shook their moppet tops.

  "Shane," said Rick. "He's dead."

  That was a fitting epitaph for Shane I think.

  "He was bit," Carl explained.

  I held my breath and walked over. A blood crusted pistol was between the skeletal legs of Shane.

  He got bit and went out before he could go Z.

  "How long ago?" I asked.

  Trying to get a frame around how long they were alone. The corpse looked like months.

  "He did this," Rick offered.

  "Is this the whole town Dad?"

  I shrugged.

  Bem sat on the ground and reached for the little one's hands. Rick let her hold his, but Carl skittered away.

  Who could blame him for trust issues.

  "Let's check the trailers."

  I pulled out a couple of pouches of food and handed it to Bem, then shot a look to Tyler

  to watch over her.

  The Boy and I searched for more food.

  We found where the boys had been sleeping.

  It was trashed.

  The food was gone though, hence the house scavenging or maybe Shane had done some stockpiling

  before he died.

  There was none now though.

  "Shane, you glorious bastard," I breathed when I opened the back bedroom door.

  It had fifteen rifles, four pistols, ammo for all and a knife.

  Whoever he had been, he was smart.

  The guns had a long thin cable running through the trigger guards so the kids couldn't

  get them, and the ammo was at the top of the closet.

  "I'll flip you for who gets to search the body for the key," I joked with my son.

  He ran a hand across the top of the mirror on the dresser and showed me a tiny piece of metal,

  a victory smile plastered on his face.

  "Kid's don't think to look high."

  "You're a kid."

  "Still am," he kept grinning and released the padlock.

  I checked the action on a couple of hunting rifles, and matched ammunition to them. We loaded

  them, and then did the same with pistols.

  Back when gun control was a hot button issue, some proponents argued it was better to have it and not need it, than have the reverse be true.

  I was indifferent at the time.

  Growing up in the south meant guns were tools, no different than a hammer or screwdriver, just used for a purpose.

  I wasn't in love with them, the way some folks were.

  Since the Z though, better to have more than enough.

  I adopted a SEAL philosophy I read somewhere. Two is one, one is none and peace through superior

  firepower or something to that effect.

  I handed a second rifle to the Boy, and a pistol. He slung the first across his shoulder and seated the other in his waistband.

  "Holsters might be good next time."

  "Beggars and choosers," I told him.

  "Just wishing out loud."

  We met the others back outside and I passed out weapons to Tyler and Bem.

  She had Rick in her lap, and Carl was standing beside her, wiping pasta crumbs from his lips.

  "They're coming with us," she told me.

  Like I was going to leave two toddlers in the middle of a town.

  It must be the face.

  I tried on a smile, but the Boy shook his head.

  "Give it up Dad," he grinned.

  "Let's move out," I snorted.

  Bem took her two new charges by the hand and led them toward the truck. The little blond haired

  boy lasted longer than I thought he would before he asked to be carried. She picked him up, and perched him on

  one hip as we went back to the railroad.

  "I'm hungry," Carl said as Bem passed me the keys to unlock the truck.

  I passed her my backpack of food as she settled in the backseat with the boys. Tyler jumped

  in with them before I could object.

  I don't know who growled louder, the Boy or me, but we let it pass as I gave him the keys.

  "You drive," I told him and got a grin again.

  He hopped behind the wheel, fired it up and we took off with a lurch that turned yells into giggles from the back.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I was a notorious traffic hater before the plague. I even adjusted my work hours just so I could avoid the most clogged and congested times of day. There was no easier way to piss me off than to schedule something that put me in the cross hairs of traffic. It was like building a bonfire at a gas station.

  It might not blow up, but why take that chance?

  Which is why I was in love with the railway car.

  Truck.

  The Boy locked in our speed at fifty miles an hour, slowing for curves and blind spots. I liked his foresight. He was being prepared in case we came up on something unexpected.

  Tyler kept a rifle across his lap, ready, and Bem entertained the two little children in the back.

  She teased their story out of them, or as close to one as she was going to get from their young minds.

  Momma gone.

  Dad never was.

  Shane was a neighbor who helped.

  Everyone died. Shane killed a lot of them when they became monsters.

  They couldn't play much anymore.

  The older boy was seven and Momma left him to babysit his five year old brother.

  A lot.

  They broke into houses to eat, but always slept in Shane's trailer.

  A sad story, but I bet it played out a lot across the country.

  He said something I didn't understand, about a Wall, but couldn't explain it. Told us Shane told him.

  So we drove.

  Bem hummed from the back seat as the younger boy leaned against her, the combination of the drive, the engine and a full bully lulling him to sleep.

  “Bill Groggin’s Goat?”

  “What’s that?” the Boy asked.

  “A song. My Papaw used to sing it to us when we were kids.”

  “So it’s ancient.”

  “Be nice.”

  “Come on Dad,” the Boy grinned. “Did you and Papaw have to saddle up the horses to go look at the railroad when this happened.”

 
; “More like dinosaurs,” Bem chimed in.

  “I am Captain Caveman.”

  “Who?”

  “Dear Lord up in heaven, please grant me the strength,” I prayed and shook my head.

  My kids weren’t raised around me as much as I would have liked, so I couldn’t expose them to all the awesomeness that I remember from my childhood. My brother and I would wake up on Saturday mornings and eat cereal in our tighty whities while we watched cartoons for a couple of hours.

  Then mom would push us out of the door and lock the screen. We were left up to our own devices until the streetlights came on.

  There were ramps, and tree forts and bike roads across the city. I think it said a lot about why I was so independent as an adult, and where I got a real “I’ll figure it out” attitude that made me a decent jack of all trades.

  But before the Z I wouldn’t have let my kids roam around.

  Too many crazies out there. Kids got picked up off the side of the road when I was young, but the news didn’t broadcast it twenty four seven.

  And maybe because I had so many scars from childhood accidents, I didn’t want to put my children through that.

  I couldn’t call these kids soft though.

  Couldn’t even think it, not after what they had been through, what they had done.

  The Boy was a crack shot.

  Tyler had been my number one scout for the group.

  Bem had outwitted zombies and soldiers and survived lynch mobs and gangs.

  Soft kids?

  Like hell.

  Chips off the old block. Tiny polished diamonds, if you asked me.

  Except they were woefully ignorant of car songs.

  I blame myself.

  When they were coming to visit me in Florida, and we had to drive, I would pick them up at seven or eight o’clock at night. We would drive the two hours to Memphis, grab some food, and they could pass out while I drove through the darkness so they could wake up in Florida, or close enough.

  After the sun came up and they were stirring, I was too zonked to think of car songs to sing. The radio sufficed. Hence my brain space dedicated to boy bands.

  But no boy band had ever belted out Bill Groggin’s goat with the level of passion I mustered as we drove along.

  Not too loud though.

  We were still surrounded by Z, even if we couldn’t see them.

  The iron wheels screeching on the rail was noisy enough that I imagined a herd of them vectoring our way.

  CHAPTER TWELVE