Dead America The Third Week (Book 6): Dead America, Mississippi Caravan

by Slaton, Derek

  A somber calm fell over the room as he waited a beat for his words to sink in.

  “When you’re in these trucks,” the Captain continued, “I want each and every one of you to remember that point. Honor the fallen by completing your mission.”

  A chorus of hoots and hollers and hell yeah’s erupted, fists flying into the air as the soldiers pumped themselves up.

  Holt nodded firmly, and hit the projector again, pulling up a fresh map with three nearby targets. “At the moment,” he said loudly, prompting the room to quiet down again, “we have a shortage of truck drivers, but that will be rectified soon enough. To my left here, are three of the finest drivers this side of the Mississippi. Their trucks are loaded up and ready to roll to these three locations. Now, I need three teams of two to step up and volunteer for the first runs.”

  Two sets of people immediately stood up, and Jones shot to his feet. Watkins stared up at him in shock, and his friend grabbed a fistful of his sleeve, pulling him up as well.

  “Okay, thank you all,” Holt said. “If you want to come forward, I’ll brief you on your route today.” He motioned to the rest of the men, waving for the door. “The rest of you can head back out into the lobby, where you’ll be assigned a room for the night before being put to work in the yard. Dismissed.”

  As the room began to empty, Watkins leaned over to his friend. “What the hell, man?” he hissed quietly. “Why did you volunteer us for this?”

  “Because it’s not that far away,” Jones replied. “Should be an easy day. You saw how far away some of those sites are. They’ll be on their way to Florida by the time we get back.”

  Watkins contemplated for a moment before shrugging with agreement. His friend had a point.

  The rest of the volunteers walked to the front of the room, converging around the projector, and Holt waved over the three drivers. He pointed out each driver, introducing each to their team. He approached Watkins and Jones last, heading over with a slightly overweight thick man with a scraggly beard and wild balding hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed since the turn of the millennium.

  “Gentlemen,” Holt said, clapping the man on the shoulder, “I’d like to introduce you to your driver. This is Buddy.” He headed off, leaving the burly driver covered in cheap-looking tattoos of naked women and skulls to get acquainted with his team.

  “Guys, how we doin’?” Buddy asked, extending a hand, his voice sounding like he’d been gargling gravel for a decade.

  Jones smiled, and took his hand. “Doing good, sir,” he said, with an extremely firm handshake. “I’m Jones and this is my good friend Watkins.”

  “Pleasure to meet y’all,” Buddy replied with a toothy grin. “Just do me a favor and drop that sir bullshit. My friends call me Buddy, and since I’m trusting you to watch my ass out there, I’m gonna go ahead and put you in the friend category.”

  Watkins nodded as he shook his hand. “You got it, Buddy.”

  “So, you been driving long?” Jones asked.

  Buddy shrugged. “Ten years, give or take,” he replied, appraising his two new younger friends. “Which… I’m guessin’ is longer than you boys have even been in the military?”

  The soldiers shared a chuckle.

  “Yeah, we’ve been in about three years now,” Watkins confirmed.

  Buddy crossed his beefy arms. “Seen combat?”

  Jones shook his head. “We’ve been stateside our entire career,” he admitted, and then held up a finger. “However, we have seen a fair amount of action the last few weeks.”

  “Well, you’re still standing tall, so you must not be half bad at it,” the driver drawled with a grin. “I can work with that.”

  The Captain wandered back over to the trio. “Gentlemen, are you ready to get your mission details?” he asked.

  The two soldiers turned towards him, standing at attention. “Yes, sir!” they declared in unison.

  The Captain quickly waved them down, putting them at ease, and Buddy casually stood to listen, hands on his hips.

  “You three are going to be headed to an old casino in Lula, Mississippi,” Holt explained. “It’s about a hundred and seventy-five miles straight up highway sixty-one. From the looks of it, the drive should be nice and simple, with only a couple of moderately sized towns that you’ll be passing through.” He pulled out a printout of the casino, with a large mass circled in the parking lot. “While we haven’t had contact with anyone inside…” he trailed off, shaking his head, and made air quotes with his finger, “the experts in D.C. have concluded there are survivors in there based on the amount of zombies in the parking lot.” He tossed the printout on the table behind him and held out his hands, palms up. “How did they figure that?” he asked. “Fuck if I know, but they ordered me to send supplies there, and you boys drew the short straw. Your mission is to get on site, clear out the horde, deliver the goods, and come back for your next load. Any questions?”

  Watkins raised his hand. “Yeah, I have one,” he said slowly. “How are the three of us supposed to clear out several hundred zombies?”

  The Captain pointed to Jones. “Can you shoot?”

  “Yeah,” the soldier replied with a nod.

  Holt pointed to Watkins. “Can you shoot?”

  The soldier simply nodded, knowing where this was going.

  The Captain turned to Buddy. “What the hell. Can you shoot?”

  “Of course I can,” the driver replied, puffing out his chest a bit.

  “There’s your answer,” Holt continued, turning back to Watkins. “Oh, and there’s twenty thousand rounds of ammo in the back of the truck, so even if you are mediocre at it, you shouldn’t have a problem.”

  Jones grinned. “Good enough for me.”

  “Any other questions?” the Captain asked.

  Buddy raised a hand. “How’s my fuel situation?”

  “Glad you asked,” Holt replied, wagging a finger at him. “We upgraded your rig so you have dual tanks, now. Should be able to easily pull six hundred miles on a single fill up, more than enough to get you there and back. We’ll be air dropping strike teams along the interstates to secure truck stops for the longer runs, but that’s next week’s problem.”

  “Appreciate the upgrade,” Buddy replied with a nod, and then smirked. “So you guys just gonna mail me a bill?”

  Holt chuckled. “It’ll be in the mail along with your paycheck.” They shared a laugh and then he raised his chin. “Any other questions?”

  The group all shook their heads, and he raised a hand, rolling it above his head. “All right then, daylight’s burning, get to it.”

  The group headed towards the doors at the back of the room, and Buddy stepped between the two soldiers, clapping them each on their shoulders.

  “What do you say, boys?” he bellowed with a grin. “Let’s hit the road.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The transport truck rumbled down the rural highway, Buddy at the helm. Trees lined the mostly clear road, occasionally breaking open to reveal vast empty fields.

  “Man, I can’t imagine living in the middle of nowhere like this,” Watkins said as he watched the nothingness roll by.

  Jones shrugged. “Ah now, it ain’t so bad,” he said. “Clean country air, no light pollution so you can see all the stars at night.”

  “Driving an hour each way to go to the grocery store or get takeout food,” Watkins countered. “Six women in town that you have to compete with their brothers to date.”

  The three of them laughed at that one, and Jones turned to the driver.

  “What about you, man?” he asked. “Could you live in a small country town?”

  Buddy cocked his head from side to side. “You know, I spent a lot of time in small towns,” he said. “The motels are a lot cheaper to stay in, so I did it to save money. A lot of them have a quaintness to them. Some small mom and pop restaurants have the best food you’ll ever eat. Cost of living is low, so you can get a huge house. I mean, if you’re m
arried and introverted it can work quite well for you.”

  Jones raised an eyebrow. “Not sure I got an answer there.”

  “Does sound like you enjoyed the experience, though,” Watkins added.

  Buddy shrugged. “Yeah, for a night,” he admitted. “If I had to live in one of these places I would have slit my wrists years ago. I need action in my life. Especially when I was younger.” He winked at them.

  “Action, huh?” Jones asked, a smile breaking out on his face. “What was your poison?”

  Buddy grinned. “Motorcycles.” He sighed wistfully.

  “Motorcycles, huh?” Watkins nodded thoughtfully. “Seems like that living in a rural area would be great for that. Lots of open space to ride.”

  The driver chuckled, shaking his head. “When I say motorcycles, it was really more about building them,” he explained. “My contemporaries and I usually only rode them down to the bar.”

  “Contemporaries?” Jones held up a hand. “Is that a fancy word for gang?”

  Buddy ran his tongue over his teeth. “Yeah, that would be a fair description of us,” he said, turning his heavily tattooed arm towards them in the sunlight. “I mean, we weren’t the Hell’s Angels or anything, but we were a bit rough around the edges for sure.”

  “You get into some ruckuses?” Watkins asked.

  The driver chuckled again. “You could call it that.”

  “So what happened?” Jones pressed, shifting excitedly in his seat. “Bar brawl? You steal another man’s woman?”

  All trace of amusement dropped from Buddy’s face. “I beat a man half to death with a tire iron.”

  The soldiers stared at him, waiting for him to start laughing or tease them for falling for his obvious joke. But it didn’t come, he simply kept staring at the rode as he drove.

  “Beat a man half to death with a tire iron,” Watkins repeated, slowly.

  Buddy sighed. “Yeah, we were at the bar and he started insulting my woman, which I took offense to,” he began. “The bartender said to take it outside, and the guy did. I just sat and finished my drink, thinking he blew it off. As soon as we stepped outside, he jumped us and ended up hitting my woman. I shoved him to the ground, grabbed a tire iron out of the back of a truck in the parking lot and beat the everloving fuck out of him.”

  “That sounds like self defense,” Jones piped up.

  Buddy nodded. “I thought so,” he replied. “My lawyer thought so. But his brother, the local district attorney, disagreed with our assessment.”

  Watkins’ eyes widened, and he let out a low whistle. “Wow man, that sucks. What happened?”

  “Took a plea deal,” Buddy replied. “Nine months inside and a chunk of change out of my pocket. Old lady left during that time, saying something about my temper being more than she could handle. Didn’t really have much left once I got out, so started truck driving. Figured if I was alone I might as well see the country. Plus, being on the road keeps me out of trouble.” He reached back behind his seat and pulled out a tire iron, clanging it against the floor behind them, causing the two soldiers to jump at the sudden noise. “But just in case trouble finds me,” he said with a grin, “I’m ready for it.”

  Jones and Watkins laughed, though it was a little strained. They turned front just in time to see a sign boasting Cleveland, Mississippi - 2 Miles. Jones pulled out his map and flattened it in his lap, noting that there was a large circle around the town.

  “Might want to slow up a bit,” he suggested.

  Buddy eased off the gas a bit. “Is this one of our potential trouble spots?” he asked.

  “Biggest one, actually,” Jones replied. “Town of eleven thousand give or take, so it could potentially be bad.”

  Watkins took a deep breath. “Or, it could potentially be empty,” he said. “Been almost three weeks since this started, so a lot of those things could have wandered off by now.”

  “Or, they could be hanging out just waiting on us to give them a drive-up buffet,” Jones quipped.

  Buddy eased off the gas a little more. “If it’s all the same to you boys, I’m gonna assume the worst and proceed like that,” he drawled.

  “Yeah, that’s a good call,” Watkins agreed, the three travelers tense as they approached the town of Cleveland.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The truck inched down the highway at fifteen miles per hour. The inhabitants of the cab kept their eyes peeled for trouble, but the road was completely clear, even of vehicles.

  “You’d figure in a town this size that there would be a wrecked car or two on the highway,” Watkins mused, voice low. There was no need to whisper, but it simply felt right, as if there were an eerie air over the town.

  Buddy nodded. “Yep,” he agreed. “That’s what concerns me.”

  “Got some movement over here,” Jones said, motioning out the passenger window.

  Watkins glanced over, noting a few dozen zombies milling about in the yards and down a side street, several blocks away.

  “Bad?” Buddy asked.

  Jones shook his head. “Nah, stragglers,” he replied. “Nothing we can’t handle if it comes to it.”

  The truck suddenly slowed to a snail’s pace as Buddy rode the brakes, and the soldiers faced front, on alert.

  “What is it?” Watkins asked.

  Buddy pointed to a side street coming up. “Look for yourself,” he said.

  There was a makeshift barricade at the end of the street, used cars piled up.

  “If that isn’t deliberate, that’s one hell of a coincidence that they wrecked like that,” Watkins said.

  Jones shook his head. “Pretty sure it’s not a coincidence.”

  Across the road on the other side was a similar barricade, and as they looked ahead, more cars shone at every intersection.

  “Keep your eyes open, we might not be alone here,” Buddy said.

  The two soldiers swallowed hard. It was one thing to shoot at a walking corpse, but firing at a living human being was something else entirely. As they passed barricade after barricade, it almost felt like they were being tunneled somewhere.

  “I’m not a fan of this,” Buddy finally said. “Jones, get on that map and find us an alternate way out of town. If there’s a side street that’s open, it might be good to take it.”

  Jones nodded, flattening out his map again. “On it.” He pored over the paper, however with such a small town and the marker circle around it, it was difficult to make out all of the little streets.

  As the truck approached the center of town, Buddy braked nearly to a stop. “End of the line,” he muttered.

  Jones looked up, seeing the major roadblock ahead, half a dozen cars across the street to keep them from driving any further.

  “You find us another way around, Jones?” Watkins asked, flexing his fingers in his nervousness.

  His friend scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, but it requires us to turn on this road.”

  “Moot point,” Buddy replied. “Only option is to see if we can move them cars. If no, we’re gonna be driving in reverse for quite a while.” He stopped the truck, and reached behind him for his tire iron.

  The soldiers looked at each other, and then Jones stuffed his map back in his pocket. They jumped down from the passenger’s side, slinging rifles over their shoulders and readying their sidearms.

  The town was eerily quiet, no bodies, living or dead. No cars outside of the roadblock. Not even a bird chirping.

  “This is just fucked up, man,” Jones said, voice almost a whisper. “Where the hell is everybody?”

  Watkins shook his head. “Don’t know, man,” he said, shoulders tense. “Maybe whoever was here set this up to keep the zombies out, then got ran out. I mean, it’s been weeks. A lot can happen in that time.”

  “I don’t really care what the reason is,” Buddy barked. “I just want to clear this so we can get back on the road.”

  Jones nodded like a bobblehead. “Man’s got a valid point there.”

&nbs
p; The trio approached the barricade, which was three cars lined up bumper to bumper, and three more cars behind them, staggered to reinforce the spaces between the first row. Buddy knelt down, grunting when he realized that all of the tires had been slashed.

  “Looks like pushing them out of the way isn’t an option,” he muttered. “How’s the back row looking?”

  The soldiers hopped over the cars, sliding down the other side of the barricade to inspect the second row.

  “Tires are slashed on these, too,” Jones reported from his end.

  Watkins nodded from the far side. “Mine, too.”

  “You think your rig can just plow through them?” Jones asked, straightening up.

  Buddy shook his head. “Not without risking the engine,” he replied. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m not exactly keen on hiking through the apocalyptic wasteland.”

  “Not real high up on my list, either,” Watkins added.

  Jones laced his fingers around the back of his head, taking a deep breath. “So what else can we do?”

  Buddy knelt down and looked under the center car, rummaging and yanking around in the undercarriage. “Hang tight,” he said as he straightened back up. “I got an idea. I think I have some chain on the truck.” He motioned to the car. “If we can hook it up to the front of this, I can pull it out of the way. Gonna be a pain in the ass, but we should be able to clear it, assuming I have what we need.” He turned and sauntered back towards the transport.

  “Yeah Jones,” Watkins said, sarcasm evident in his voice, “this is a whole lot better than hanging out in a powered casino hotel for a night.”

  His friend scoffed as they kept a close eye on the side streets. “Come on now, can’t nothing beat fresh air!”

  “Hundred bucks at the blackjack table says otherwise,” Watkins quipped.

  Jones nodded. “Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed. “And Captain Holt seems like the type of guy who would-”

  A gunshot cracked in the distance, and Jones froze as his gut erupted in white hot pain. He looked down at the blood pouring from his side, and collapsed to the asphalt in a heap.