I wanted to go north, but they forced me back south. I’d play their game for now. I wasn’t out of the fight yet though. I had the M&P .45 on my hip and its big brother, the Smith & Wesson Governor in a holster attached to the console. Not to mention the armory in the vault that stretched from the tailgate to the back of the front seats along with a few other nasty surprises. Oh, and Bo, never forget Bo, he wasn’t a large dog, but he was hell in a fight and quicker than a pissed off rattlesnake with the temperament to match.
We passed back through Alpine, Texas and continued our trek towards the Mexican border towns. We passed through empty ghost towns and blew right by the few shriveled undead we passed. My new friends kept their guns on me the whole trip, just waiting for an excuse to rain fire down on me and Bo. I bided my time, slowed down every chance I got, just to piss them off, and waited for the opportunity to turn the table on these clowns.
I’m a retriever. You can call me Rye. I’ve been called a lot worse. I’m one of those people you hire to go after the things you can’t live without but don’t want to risk your own neck for. Priceless paintings, museum pieces, grandmas fine China, the family Bible, it doesn’t matter, I’ll get it for you if you are willing to pay the price. I’m the CEO of World’s End Acquisitions and Bo is my partner and Vice CEO. We operate out of a log cabin a short drive through some of the most inhospitable terrain imaginable near Carrizozo, New Mexico.
The undead still roam this isolated country, but they aren’t the threat they once were, especially in the southwest where the weather and the scavenger animals are relentless. Although, there’s still a lot of fresh and fast ones who’ve been trapped indoors in the bigger cities where most of my retrieves end up being. Those are the best paying jobs but also the most dangerous. One bite and it’s game over. No cure, no antidote just a slow painful turn into a mindless zombie. But if it was easy, anyone could do it. As a rule though, it’s never safe to underestimate any of them. A bite on the ankle from a desiccated dried out husk of a zombie buried in the sand is just as lethal as a bite from a freshly turned one.
Bo and I were on a job to retrieve an extremely valuable set of arrowheads, known as the Livermore Collection, from the Museum of the Big Bend in Alpine, Texas. The obnoxious douche Colonel that hired me was based out of a fortified compound in Idaho, he called Valhalla. Nice place, but he didn’t strike me as a real military man and most of what came out of his mouth sounded like bullshit. Still, it was paying work and it had been a long time since I’d ventured this far south so I took the contract. It should have been a simple in and out job, but my luck never runs that way.
Everything was going to plan until these asshats ambushed me from out of nowhere. I had a sneaky suspicion that we were after the same prize. Retrievers tended to live short lives due to the nature of our work. It wasn’t uncommon for a client to hire more than one retriever for a job since most of us operated on a cash on delivery system. No retrieve, no pay. Most of the retrievers I know are good people. A bunch of loosely wired adrenaline junkies and thrill seekers, but there were quite a few shady ones out there too running the wastelands. If the zombies didn’t get you, or the bandits, or the cannibals, can’t forget those guys, then a shootout with an unscrupulous rival retriever usually ensued.
I was gonna have a word with the Colonel when I got back. I made it very plain that I only took jobs where I was the primary. I didn’t need a bunch of second stringers trying to poach my job. Of course, I didn’t mind occasionally poaching one of theirs. Don’t judge me, I told you I could be a dick sometimes.
We rolled through the gates of a fortified, ramshackle border town. It wasn’t much of a gate, probably wouldn’t stand up to an assault from a few hundred determined zombies, just an old chain link slider on a weathered rubber tire. No one manned the guns mounted on top of the crate container walls. The guards were probably getting sloshed in the cantina. I wished I was with them.
The population was sparse here, even before the outbreak. The machine guns sat solitary under their canvas tarps. Old men sat under the stoops of ragged porches, seeking respite from the blazing sun sipping warm beer, long past its expiration date. Skinny kids and skinnier dogs played in the street. Bo let out a low growl as we passed them. He didn’t like other dogs, or most people for that matter. Half the time he barely tolerated me.
The lead Raptor pulled to a stop in front of a beautiful Spanish style villa. It looked out of place considering the poverty evident in the rest of the town. The bandits kept the guns on me as they ordered me to disarm and exit the vehicle. I did, mostly. There was still the Benchmade folding knife clipped in my belt at the small of my back and a .22 derringer tucked inside my boot.
“Bo, guard.” I pointed at the back-cargo area where the felt lined case with the arrowheads rested. Bo slipped into the back and disappeared from sight.
I stepped from the Armadillo and raised my hands and got a good look at my new amigos. They were an ugly bunch. Dirty, unshaven and they stunk like three day old road kill. Not at all the dashing, roguish type like yours truly. I quickly gave them nicknames. Happy was the gunner who waved at me. Bumper Humper for the Cadillac driver. The Camaro SS guys were Hans and Franz the Nazi twins. Raptor drivers I called them Buzzard and Vulture. The ugly bastard carrying the short-barreled shotgun, Shotgun Guy. Gimme a break, its stressful having a bunch of guns pointed at your favorite person and it’s the best I could come up with at the moment.
“Guys, I think there’s a mis-.” Happy slammed his rifle butt into my stomach. I doubled over and almost barfed. I stood back up to stare down the pie plate sized barrel of a shotgun stuck in my face.
“Walk.” Shotgun Guy said gesturing towards the villa with the shotgun.
They fanned out behind me in a semicircle, guns pointed in my direction. I am never in favor of guns pointed in my direction, for the record. I prefer to do the gun pointing. Shotgun Guy jabbed me between the shoulder blades and nudged me towards the door of the villa.
“Take off your boots.” Shotgun Guy ordered.
“What?” I asked, a little confused.
“Take off your damned boots. They ain’t allowed in the house.” He jabbed me again with the shotgun.
I leaned against the door and pushed off my Tony Llama’s, saw my big toe peeking through the hole in my sock. I hoped they weren’t gonna steal them. They were my favorite pair. Ostrich skin and broke in just right. I watched as the one I nicknamed Buzzard pocketed my derringer and placed one of my boots next to his to see if they would fit. Shit, looked like a perfect fit. I heard the shuffling as they all took their shoes off too. Then I was rudely shoved through the door.
I entered the Spanish style house and I can honestly say, for once I was speechless. The interior was decorated like the inside of a Japanese samurai fan boys wet dream. A full suit of Japanese samurai armor graced the foyer. A young Hispanic girl dressed as a geisha, lowered her eyes as she walked by carrying a tray with ornate Japanese cups and a tea pitcher.
The first floor was an open floor plan, divided off with sliding doors complete with rice paper windows. More girls, in geisha dress, faces painted, and hair pinned up with ornamental pins, scurried around the room. Potted bamboo and bonsai trees stood arrayed around a small bubbling fountain in the center of the room. Japanese art adorned the walls and Oriental rugs covered the hardwood floors. All that was missing was a tiger wearing a solid gold collar. Scratch that, the big cat paced restlessly back and forth in a gilded gold cage. Soft music was piped through the speakers, reminiscent of what I’d heard in Oriental massage parlors. You know, the kind usually found near truck stops and seedier areas of big cities, back before the apocalypse. Again, don’t judge me.
My sock footed entourage directed me towards a sliding door. They hadn’t bothered to frisk me. I’m not a guy you should trust when you tell me to disarm.
A geisha darted in front of me and slid the door open smoothly on its wooden track. The sock footed thugs took up position around
the door and ushered me through. I stepped into the room and took a moment to admire the nice rug I was standing on as the door slid shut behind me. I had a customer that would pay top dollar for something like it.
“Don’t try nothing stupid.” Shotgun Guy warned me from the other side of the thin partition.
Again, I was struck speechless. Sitting on a pillow behind a low table sat the ugliest damn Mexican I’ve ever seen. He was trimming a bonsai tree with a small pair of scissors. He was decked out in a red kimono, his long greasy hair tied in a top knot. He had a pair of taped up reading glasses perched on his nose. On the table before him sat a daisho stand that held a Japanese katana and a shorter wakizashi. I took note of the chrome 1911 with the ivory grips, scrimshawed with a rising sun, lying on the pillow near his right side. A tanto was tucked into the sash of his kimono. Flickering candles gave the room a soft glow. A low shelf to his left held four human skulls. They were polished bright, and a small brass tag underneath with their names engraved identified them as retrievers. One of them I knew personally, the rest by reputation. This was not a good sign.
“Sit.” He ordered as he set the scissors to the side and eyed his work on the bonsai with a practiced eye.
I didn’t. I stared at him defiantly.
“Sit or I’ll have my men drag you out and break your kneecaps.” He didn’t look up from his bonsai.
I like my aching knees just like they are so I sat cross legged on the floor opposite the table, my eyes stealing glances at the forty-five.
“I am Pascal. You may call me...,” he paused for dramatic effect, like a bad James Bond villain. “Pascal.”
He erupted in the batshit craziest laugh I’ve ever heard, then just as quickly calmed himself. He snapped his fingers. The door slid open behind me and a geisha darted in and removed the tree.
“You are Mr. Rye,” he said. “I have heard of you.”
I’d heard of him too. He was a retriever in name only. Mostly, he was a bandit, slaver, drug dealer and smuggler. Rumor was he used retriever work to scope out his client’s towns and sold the information to other bandits. I’d heard he was eccentric, but I think that was a generous description. This guy was a few eggs short of an omelet.
“I assume the Colonel also hired you to retrieve the Livermore Collection. I always welcome a little competition, it keeps me on my toes, but you, señor, have trespassed into my territory. You should have shown proper respect and saw me before you scavenged right in my backyard.” He said as he poured us each a small cup of sake’ from a bamboo wrapped jug.
“Drink,” he urged. I watched him sip delicately from his cup. Pretty sure he wasn’t poisoning me, I shot mine like it was Mescal and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
He shook his head and refilled my cup. “Sake’ should be sipped and relished not guzzled like cheap whiskey.”
I shot mine again, just to spite him and felt the warm glow of the rice liquor spread through my body.
He chuckled to himself and didn’t bother to refill my cup. Stingy bastard. The stuff was pretty good and with the way this day was going, I could use another drink or four.
“In the future, if you wish to retrieve in my territory, you will come see me first and we will negotiate terms.” He looked at me and I swear I could see the crazy just dancing behind his heavy lizard-lidded eyes.
“You bet. Sorry for the misunderstanding. I’ll see myself out.” I had no intention of following his orders; of course, I just wanted to get away from this psycho. I went to stand up, glad to be on my way, knowing deep down it wasn’t gonna be that easy. It never was.
He placed his hand on the katana. “Sit down!” He snapped.
I eased my hand towards the Benchmade still clipped behind my back. I was itching to gut this bastard and take my chances with his boys outside.
“If I draw my sword, it will taste blood before it is resheathed.” He said softly. “And should you best me; my men will cut you down.”
I sat. Patience, Rye. Miss Campbell, my go to source for weapons and gear back in Lakota always told me my hot head and poor judgment was gonna get me killed one day. I hoped she was wrong.
He continued. “As I was saying, in the future, you will see me before working in my territory.”
“Got it,” I said. Irritation seeped into my voice.
“In the present, we must deal with the affront to my honor.” He slid the tanto from his sash and laid it on the table before him.
He snapped his finger and the door slid open again. The geisha entered and sat a scene straight out of your nightmares on the end of the table.
A zombie head sat wedged atop what looked like a big pickle jar filled with murky fluid. I couldn’t make out was bobbing in the liquid. The putrid head stunk something awful. Sagging flesh hung in folds on the cheeks. The remaining eyeball was black and lifeless, the other a nasty empty socket. It gnashed its rotting, broken teeth at me.
“I will accept the first joint of your pinky finger. I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll let you choose which hand.” He slid the tanto towards me.
I reached for it, ready to make my move, when the door slid open behind me and Shotgun Guy jabbed that Remington into the back of my skull. Damn, I was really starting to dislike these guys.
“If I refuse?” I asked him.
He gripped the hilt of his katana. “Then your skull will join the others who dared to insult me. Since you are of some reputation and were kind enough to deliver the merchandise to my front door, I offer you the honorable alternative. Take it, not many get the option.”
I gulped and tried to buy myself some time to think. Time to act and get myself out of this jam. I blurted out the first thing that popped in my head.
“Are you having some kind of identity crisis here? Geographically confused? Bat shit crazy? I mean, obviously you’re Hispanic, but you have this whole Japanese vibe going on. I mean, I’m not judging you or anything, but this shit is just weird.”
He didn’t like my lame attempt at a joke. He nodded at Shotgun Guy. Shotgun guy swatted me across the side of the head with the barrel of the shotgun. Blood filled my mouth and I felt at least a couple of teeth loosen in their sockets.
Tough crowd. I rubbed my jaw. Damn that hurt.
“Do you have another joke Mr. Rye?” He smirked over his steepled fingers, instantly reminding me of Mr. Burns from the Simpsons.
“I always have jokes,” I said through my swollen mouth. “Have you ever considered changing your name to Burrito Bushido? Maybe take your act on the road? I’m sure you’d be a big hit on the drag queen scene with that lovely silk dress and all.” I asked. Stupidly. Sometimes I just don’t know when to shut up.
This time I got the shotgun cracked over the top of my head. Ouch, that was good for at least a mild concussion, but at least I heard Shotgun Guy choke back a laugh. If I could stand the pain, I’d have these guys rolling in the floor laughing before long.
I wobbled for a few seconds, then shook it off as best I could and ignored the blood running down my cheek from my cracked noggin.
Pascal leaned forward. “You are amusing, I’ll grant you that but this is no joking matter. Do it, or I take your head.”
I picked up the tanto and laid my left hand on the table. Pascal snapped his fingers and a geisha appeared with a small brazier filled with glowing embers. A flat piece of steel glowed red in the bed of coals.
I lined up the blade with the first joint of my left pinky finger. Manic glee glistened in his eyes as his façade dropped and his crazy shined through.
“Just give me the tip señor.” He said in heavily accented English. Everyone laughed at his joke. Hell, if it wasn’t my finger about to get amputated, I’d have laughed too. Dick jokes are funny, I don’t care who you are.
I closed my eyes, held my breath and pushed the blade down hard. It was razor sharp and I barely felt it as the tip of my finger was severed. I dropped the tanto and grabbed my wounded paw to staunch the bleeding. Buzzard and V
ulture stepped forward and grabbed me, while Shotgun Guy jabbed that shotgun against my spine. They held my arm out while the geisha with the brazier cauterized the stump with the piece of cherry red metal. The feeling in my finger came back in a hurry, and I’m not ashamed to say, I howled like a run over dog as my damaged nerve endings fired on all cylinders. I almost blacked out from the pain. Only stubbornness and pride kept me from crying like a baby. That shit hurt. A lot.
They let me go and I reached for the sake’. I turned the jug up and drained the whole thing. My stomach burned with a fire that matched the burning in my hand as the potent liquor hit my system.
Pascal picked up the fingertip and tossed it into the air. For a second there, I thought he was gonna catch it in his mouth like a grape. He let it fall into his open palm, then flicked it into the open mouth of the snarling zombie head. It chewed on my dismembered digit for a few seconds, and then I heard a plop as it went down its throat into the jar below. Well, that answered my question about what was floating in the jar.
“Now, you will turn over the merchandise to me and I will ensure the good Colonel gets it and you Mr. Rye, can be on your way.” Pascal said, once again playing the warrior monk role.
Hans and Franz dragged me to my feet towards the front door. Pascal rose smoothly, patted his pickle jar zombie on the head and slid the katana into his sash.
He gestured. “After you, Mr. Rye.”
I shuffled in my sock feet towards the door. Hans and Franz flanked me, tightly gripping my arms. The Raptor boys flanked us with their submachine guns ready. Shotgun Guy kept the Remington against my spine. I was almost flattered they thought I was that dangerous. The geisha all bowed as we passed and one of them darted forward to open the outside door. I winked at her and was rewarded with a blush in her cheeks before she quickly lowered her eyes again.
We entered the yard. I looked longingly at the ‘Dillo, wishing I could get my hands on just one of my guns.
“Retrieve my merchandise.” Pascal motioned to Happy.
“I’m sure you have your vehicle booby trapped, where is the deactivation device?” Pascal asked me.
The Feral Children | Book 3 | Nomads Page 22
