The Feral Children | Book 3 | Nomads

by Simpson, David A.

  “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.

  They’d freed him from his addictions, he couldn’t stand the smell of booze anymore. He’d done bad things and would have continued doing bad things if it hadn’t been for the kids and their animals. They’d opened his eyes to the truth of his fake friends. They didn’t care. They left him to die. The Children showed him what true love was. They would kill for each other and would never leave one of their own behind.

  For days after he had lain in the mobile home that stank of vomit and death from the body just outside the door. He’d been delirious from the concussion, weak from hunger and had nowhere to go. Gordon, or his friends that weren’t really friends, never came back for him. He was completely alone. His head throbbed and pulsed with every heartbeat and he waited for death to finally claim him but then a miracle happened.

  He sat on the floor in a haze, he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness and knew the end was getting close. The next time he closed his eyes, it could be the last. He’d never open them again. A single beam of moonlight came through the tattered mini blinds and he watched it move across the floor until it was full in his eyes. He looked into it and saw the girl and her wolves’ right before she struck him down. In his vision she wasn’t a vengeful, angry banshee about to sink steel into his head, she was an angel of shimmering, ethereal beauty. Peaceful and kind. She wasn’t painted for war, the blood of her enemies wasn’t splashed across her battle scarred armor. She was bathed in the pale light, it seemed to come from within her. He knew she was dead, then. That Gordon had killed her and the other children would be next. He reached out a hand, tried to touch her as the tears ran freely down his cheeks.

  “Take me with you.” He whispered “Take me away from this.”

  She and her wolves glowed and a beatific smile parted her lips. He bowed his head, unworthy to look at her shining face and begged for her forgiveness. He begged her not to go, not to leave him alone, and to take him with her. He knelt in abject humility, bared his soul and listened to her voice that sounded like wind whispering through the leaves or the tinkling of the wind chime outside the door. He may have listened to her for hours or it may have been seconds but angelic encounters were like that, weren’t they? The moonbeam shifted, the room darkened again and he drifted off into blackness, a whispered prayer on his lips.

  When the morning sun woke him, he understood what he must do. She hadn’t come to lead him out of this world and into a better one. It was his duty, his calling, to make this one a little better. The girl who walks with wolves had washed him clean of his crimes with her glow. After a lifetime of bad decisions and poor judgment, the angel in the dust filled beam of light had shown him the way.

  She was offering him a life worth living. It didn’t have to end curled in a ball on a filthy carpet. He discovered a hidden inner strength, a new purpose as he struggled to his knees.

  Truly, the tribe of wild kids were the chosen ones. How else had they survived on their own? What other reason could explain their power over the beasts that stood by their sides? They were merciless, yet they were not cruel. They were strong, but helped the weak. They lived in harmony with their environment and asked nothing of any man. They were pure and clean. They were the new way, they were the ones chosen to rebuild a better world and he knew he had to save them. To get them out of Gordon’s clutches.

  With a renewed heart and spirit, the Prophet had emerged from the run-down trailer and breathed in the fresh air. It had never tasted sweeter. He’d never appreciated the flowers and the trees. He’d never stopped to listen to a cricket chirp or a bird sing from a branch. He soaked up those experiences as he stood with his head tilted towards the sky and his arms outstretched. The hammering in his head stopped, a gift from the Mother of Wolves. He felt alive for the first time in as long as he could remember. It felt good, it felt right. It was their way and he couldn’t let people like Gordon stop them.

  Poor Blind Mike never had the chance to see the true path and he didn’t waste time putting him in the ground. The creatures of the earth needed to eat, he wouldn’t deprive them of a meal. The Prophet shouldered the dead man’s rifle and hummed Amazing Grace as he made his way northeast. Yes, he thought, he would follow their path to Smiths Landing. He would free them from Gordon and maybe, just maybe, they would let him walk with them. Follow in their footsteps. Learn to be like them.

  It took him all day to make the five mile journey to Smith’s Landing. His spirit was willing but his body was weak. Something was wrong in his head; his movements were slow and sometimes jerky. His coordination wasn’t what it used to be, sometimes he tripped over his own feet because one of his legs didn’t work as well as the other. It dragged a little and he had to concentrate to make it move right. He didn’t run into any of the undead on the county highway. The children had killed the ones they encountered and any that survived had followed their trail and joined the horde at the front gates of Smiths Landing. He was lucky, he wouldn’t have been able to defend himself very well. His thoughts tended to wander and he’d shuffle along for hours in a fugue state, not knowing where his mind had been or what he’d been thinking. A waking blackout.

  He made his way to the rear gates and saw them standing wide open, the chain broken and the bars bent. He stumbled in the tall grass of the overgrown golf course but kept pushing forward to the houses
where the gang lived. He didn’t know what he would say to convince Gordon to set the children free but he knew he would think of something. The Mother of Wolves would show up and tell him. Her spirit was with him, he believed it with all his heart.

  The houses were quiet when he approached and the carnage started in the driveway. Bodies were strewn on the lawn, butchered and dismembered. It wasn’t the kids, it was the gang. The Prophet carefully picked his way through the shattered glass, broken furniture and splintered doors. More bodies littered the kitchen and living room and he smiled at the carnage. The children had done this. He should have known. A lowly human like Gordon couldn’t stop them, they were the chosen ones. A scraping sound caught his attention and he limped out towards the patio area, passing a member of the gang who was still pinned to the wall, his lifeless body held in place by a spear. He stood at the edge of the pool and stared down at the gore encrusted thing reaching for him and keening hungrily. It was the only one still moving, the rest had been put to rest. Two spears stuck through its chest and it had been scalped, days old blood covered its bald head and shoulders. At first he didn’t know who it was but the leather holster hanging on its side told him it was Gordon. The only one who carried a gun and he knew it was she who had left him like this. A warning to others and sign for him. She lived. She and her tribe were truly the chosen ones, protected by power greater than themselves.

  He swayed at the edge of the pool, his mind going dark for a time, and listened as the thing spoke to him with its keens and rasps. When he came back to himself it was still there, still reaching for him, but he no longer understood its words. He turned and gazed on the destruction wrought on Gordon’s home, at the bloated and mangled bodies rotting in the afternoon sun and knew what he must do. She had shown him this so he would know their power, an affirmation of his vision. They were on the true path, not him or the gang he’d run with. Not Gordon who had tried to turn him from the way. He would be their voice. He would sing their praises and spread the Gospel of the Tribe far and wide to all who would hear it.

  He walked through the mansion with a torch, set each room ablaze then moved on to the next house. He would level them all, erase the stain from the planet. As the fire raged through the million-dollar homes and the scent of burning flesh filled the air, it finally resembled what it had really been. Hell on Earth. He left through the back gate in search of people to tell them of the Tribe. To tell them of the chosen ones.

  He adopted their manner of dress. Flowers and feathers were crudely woven into his hair. He skinned out the animals and sewed the hides together as a cloak. He had walked for most of the first day before he realized he only wore one shoe. It didn’t matter and he smiled to himself. He was above such creature comforts and discarded the other in a ditch.

  He scavenged when he was hungry or ate from the flesh of the animals that refreshed his clothing. He had no idea how to tan hides, so he wore them fresh from the deer or dog or whatever animal was sacrificed. He wore them until they became too stiff, and then sought out new ones. With the late summer heat he was forced to hunt for new hides every few days. Even the maggots and flies had given up on the furs by that point, but he wasn’t disheartened. There was always game in abundance. Deer or stray dogs fashioned his cloaks, raccoons and opossums provided for his leggings and loin cloth. He paid no mind to the horrific odor they gave off, or the sores that covered his skin from the bites and stings of insects or the rot from the untanned hides.

  Days later, his faith was reaffirmed when he encountered a dozen of the undead while searching for his next meal in an abandoned minivan. The undead paid him no mind, further proof in his mind that he was on the True Path. The truth was that the foul-smelling hides that covered his body masked his human scent and his shuffling gait didn’t set off the undeads radar. In the Before, before he’d been smote down by the children and reborn, they would have torn him apart in seconds and added him to their ranks. They shuffled by him and continued their slow shamble to wherever they were headed.

  Realizing they weren’t going to attack him and needing to bear witness, he climbed on to the hood of the van and threw his arms towards heaven and yelled.

  “Brothers and sisters let me tell you the story of how God sent his angels in the form of children to vanquish evil from this land. They strike swift and sure but are not without mercy for a repentant soul. I stand before you as proof.”

  The zombies turned and approached the car. They sniffed the air, seeking the smell of untainted flesh that would put them in a frenzy of bloodlust. They served one purpose; carry the virus from the infected to the uninfected. They couldn’t detect his human scent, only the smell of animals and rot. They milled about in confusion as he ranted from the hood of the car and implored them to follow him to truth and light. Eventually they lost interest and shuffled on in search of living flesh.

  The Prophet was elated as he climbed down from the van. They hadn’t attacked him, just stood there while he testified to them. He was certain he’d gotten through to at least a couple of them. He grinned like the idiot he was as he made his way down the blacktop in search of other souls to enlighten.

  As he looked for someone to share the Gospel of the Tribe with.

  3

  Diablo

  Diablo loped along in a broken gait. He was a once a magnificent specimen. Covered with thick mottled fur, massive jaws that exerted tons of pressure and weighing in at over two hundred pounds of densely packed muscle, he had elicited fear from every human who peered at him through the iron bars that kept them safe.

  Now, every movement brought pain. His body was scarred from endless fighting. Some areas were scarred so badly that fur would never grow in those spots again. Chunks of muscle had been ripped from him by the sharp steel of the girl and the fangs of her pack. His tongue was thick where it didn’t heal properly from her piercing steel. The puncture from the spike of Swan’s tomahawk through the roof of his mouth impacted his nasal cavity. His nostrils were always running with mucus tinged with blood. Deep aches filled his body where glass had embedded itself in his flight through the window of the children’s den. Biting and pawing at the shards only managed to embed them deeper.

  He ignored the pain. He ignored the new wounds inflicted by the huge assortment of beasts that trailed in his wake. He’d been gored by tusks from boars twice his size, savaged by the claws and teeth of wild cats, bloodied and ripped under the fangs of dogs, coyotes and a black bear that had briefly joined the pack. Every few days, one would sniff his urine, seeking weakness and the opportunity to challenge him as Alpha. Every few days a new challenger died and became food for those who followed. His powerful jaws and desire to live prevailed time after time.

  He had one purpose that drove him onward. The wolf girl. The scent of his brother’s hide draped across her back ignited his primal urges. He didn’t have emotions, only impulses. He didn’t feel hate or anger, only the urge to rend her flesh and crack her bones for the marrow inside while he lay next to the skin of his brother and pack mate. The scent of Diablo had been the only thing of comfort in a life of cruelty and abuse. He whined softly as he searched his olfactory memory for the reassuring scent of his brother.

  Many times, he’d padded away silently in the night to distance himself from the pack. They weren’t like him. The only other like him was gone. It didn’t matter where he wandered off to, within half a day he would hear the grunts or barks as they followed his trail. His distinctive scent and his droppings were clear signs for them to follow. The carrion birds that followed the Savage Ones for their scraps would always mark his path.

  The tribe of children and their animals was easy to follow even though the breeze was at their backs. The animal waste that littered the road and the pungent smell of wolf urine on highway signs led the way. The last vestiges of their fires told where they’d camped, and it was easy to pick out their individual scents where they’d lain for the night.

  Tonight, he would leave the pack for g
ood. There would be a challenge first though. There was always a challenge for the position as Alpha. His instincts told him he was weakening. The pains that coursed through his body warned him that he was past his prime. It was only a matter of time before he was the one that filled the bellies of the others. The canine that followed too closely, the one who was laying his own stream of urine anywhere Diablo did would challenge him soon. He too would fall.

  He felt the temperature dropping. Darkness would fall soon. It was time. Diablo would control the encounter, instead of waiting to be attacked when he sought a place to bed down. He had no desire to be Alpha of this strange pack. Had no desire for any of their ilk. They followed him because he found the food. Diablo tore through the stinking ones with a rapturous pleasure, killed for the sheer joy of it and left his kills behind to be devoured by the rest. That murderous nature and their overwhelming numbers gave them advantages that the smaller animals didn’t have on their own. He mated with the females when the urge took him, but nothing came of their unions. He was unique and alone in the world. He growled low in his chest and stopped his lilting gait when he felt the breath of the challenger on his backside.

  Diablo turned in the road and faced his opponent. The big canine met him with a growl of its own. The dog was large, but not as large as him. The fur stood up on Diablo’s neck, drool ran from his massive jaws. He lowered his head and body to present a smaller target for the other beast. He lulled his opponent into thinking he was afraid. They began to circle one another with vicious growls and barking laughs. The dog attacked first. He darted in and seized Diablo by the throat, sensing an easy kill. Diablo let him. His neck was too thick and the fur too dense for the smaller beast to seriously hurt him. The dog’s stubby jaws lacked the size to reach something vital. With a twist of his head Diablo flung the smaller animal away. It tumbled and leapt back to its feet. Diablo lowered his body again and barked his laughing bark. The dog attacked again, feinted and went for the shoulder that troubled Diablo. The smell of dried blood and traces of infection were weakness it could exploit. Diablo darted out of reach and bit down on the dog’s side. Fangs laid the skin on the dog’s ribs open to the bone and it yelped in pain, and then attacked once more. The hot asphalt soaked up the blood offering as they circled each other. Diablo was faster and more vicious, he leapt forward at the dog, anxious to end the encounter. He’d never been a pampered pet of man like the inferior creature in front of him. Men had only hurt him and burned any sense of loyalty for their species out of him with their cruelty. He shredded the dog’s ear and opened a gash in its forehead. Blood ran into the dog’s eyes from the wound and it attacked once more. The limited visibility of blood-filled eyes caused it to snap its jaws on empty air. Diablo bowled the dog over and seized it by the throat. He shook his head back and forth until the skin gave. Muscles and veins parted. He ripped them loose and swallowed them down. Blood showered him from the severed arteries. The dog struggled, then weakened, then ceased fighting as its life blood pumped out. Diablo grabbed the dead dog by the neck and growled at the others that were creeping forward. He wouldn’t share this kill. There would be no scraps for them to fight over. He dragged the dog down into the ditch and into the culvert that ran beneath the road as the frenzied Savage Ones began to tear into the weaker members of their pack. They would feed too. Cats, raccoons and opossums fled from the jaws of the larger dogs, coyotes and feral hogs. Soon, more blood ran into cracked asphalt as those too slow or weak to prevail were rendered into gnawed bones and scattered bits of fur.