Tony picked up the rifle I’d used last night—the rifle I’d killed a man with—and headed for the doors. His look outside lasted a grand total of five seconds. “There’s a couple wandering the streets. Easy shots, but I don’t want to draw more. I’ll pop them with one of the silenced guns when we get out. But I bet more are coming.” He frowned. “They looked a little...singed.”
I got to my feet. “Were they coming from Astra?”
“Must’ve been. Just trying to get away from the fire, I guess. I did hear what sounded like a sportbike, but…hell, I don’t know.” Rather than carry on with that train of thought, he helped Dax load the saddlebags, and I pulled on my jacket.
When we were ready to leave, Tony called us into a small circle near the bike. “Elderwood’s a good ways off. We didn’t cover much ground last night. Even when the streets are clear—which isn’t often—there’s ash piled two feet deep in places, and I don’t know what kind of shit we’re going to run into. We might be looking at a week on the road. Shorter, if we can find the path Hammond cleared. Longer if we’re...detained.”
“Detained,” Dax repeated.
“Say we run into folks like the Ventras who mean to cause us harm.” Tony made a big show of inspecting his pistol. “I want to make sure we’re all on the same page here.”
I sighed. “Then stop making big speeches and just talk.”
He winked at me. Dammit, letting him take charge had gone straight to his head.
“This is not the world we knew. We’ve been figuring that out slowly, but now...now we know. Those men would have killed us last night. They would’ve been sloppy about it, but they would’ve done it. We need to be ready for that. Yeah, Dax, there’s a few good people out there, but too many lousy ones, and none of them are going to let you talk your way out of things. I know Vibeke’s up to it, but Dax, can you shoot first?”
I’m up to shooting first? Of all the things I never thought I’d be good at...
Dax looked quite resentful at being put on the spot. “People are basically good.”
“Sure they are. But people will also do whatever they have to for survival. We are a team. You, me, Vibeke, the dog. That’s our gang. Maybe we’ll find the Elderwood shelter and part ways, but we have to get there first, and to do that, I need to know you’ve got my back.”
I reached down and felt the cold metal of my holstered pistol. Could I shoot first again, if I had to?
Tony must have seen the look on my face. “Don’t get cold feet on me now, Vibby.”
“What do you want me to say?” Dax asked. “That I can go ahead and be evil?”
“It’s got nothing to do with evil. Or good, for that matter. The world’s changed. Things we did before...they don’t matter now. We have clean slates, all of us, but it’s up to us to make our way. We got dead men on one side of us, and bad men on the other. Who do you shoot first?”
Dax didn’t answer.
“The bad men,” I ventured. “They move faster.”
“The lady’s correct.” He got up in Dax’s face. “So can you do it?”
Dax let out a huge sigh, and his head drooped down with it. “Yeah...yeah, I can do it.”
Tony didn’t press him further. He did look sideways at me, though, one eyebrow arched. I shrugged. “I shot first last night, didn’t I?”
Before we left, Tony and I put down the two ghouls loitering around the building. They went down without a struggle, but the thick smudge in the distance told me there were plenty more on the way. “Are they getting faster?”
“Doubt it.” Tony helped me aboard the bike. I sat sandwiched between him and Dax, though thankfully neither of them had the balls to make any crude jokes about it. “But they keep walking when we need to rest.”
Evie whined from her luggage rack. “Sorry, puppy,” I said. “I don’t like it, either.”
Tony turned on the bike and revved the motor. The Road King’s engine cut on strongly, and I choked down a relieved sigh. At least we’ve still got that going for us.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” Tony instructed, wheeling us out into what passed for the street. “This bike doesn’t have a stealth mode. People can hear us.”
Shoot first. I repeated the mantra. Shoot first. It might keep you alive.
The Road King edged down the street, woefully slow for a motorcycle, but faster than we could have walked on foot. We left the dead men behind, heading into what had once been the jewel of the Midlands Cluster—now a veritable no man’s land.
Tony revved the engine. “We’re out, folks. I have a feeling this place’ll be crawling by nightfall.”
SEVEN DAYS LATER...
We limped up to the gate with a busted bike and a filthy golden retriever. I’m pretty sure the guards let us through the massive fence because we looked so damned pathetic.
“Trouble with your bike?” the lead guard asked.
“Don’t,” I said. “He’s sensitive about it.”
He only gave us a cursory examination before handing us over for processing. “Prior occupations, please.”
“Reporter,” I said.
“Same,” Tony said. “Kid over there was a musician.”
The guard peered at us, his eyebrows arching. “Great. You guys do anything useful?”
“I know firearms, she was an EMT, and he…” Tony hesitated when he came to Dax. “Boy Scout.”
“Good. We need more field medics.” He nodded at me. “Doctor Samuels will be happy to see you.”
Since when is an EMT a field medic? I didn’t voice that thought. The man had a gun—it might be best to defer to him.
“Does your commanding officer know there’s a damned biker gang about three miles away?” Tony asked. “Because there is.”
“And they’re assholes,” Dax added.
“Were they on Suzukis?” A familiar-looking soldier in clean fatigues approached us. “A few have caused us a fair amount of trouble. We’ve been trying to keep tabs on them, but their bikes are easier to adapt to the conditions than the tanks, and some goon has galvanized them.” Hammond stopped short when he got a good look at us. “Well, I’ll be damned. You made it.”
I stared at his bandaged hands. Last time I’d seen him, they’d been oozing pus and blood. Now they were professionally wrapped with clean linen. “So did you.”
Hammond held out his hand. “Welcome to Elderwood Refugee Camp.”
Tony edged away. “I swear you got bit.”
“I did. Some of my men, too. Some died…a few didn’t, myself included. Got myself a field promotion.” He shrugged. “Play the cards you’re dealt, I guess. You three look…relatively unscathed.” He sniffed the air. “Don’t smell too pretty, though.”
That was a nice way to put it. Showers were a distant memory. I’m sure we reeked.
“Come on. I’ll get you to a tent before processing. Jones will have my head if I bring in more unwashed urchins.”
He beckoned us forward. After a few seconds, I followed him.
“Vibeke…”
I swung around to glare at Tony. “I want a shower and I want food. And they have both, and look, he’s not zombified. Now shut up and follow the man.”
Hammond chuckled when the men obediently fell into step behind me. “We’ve got eight thousand people here, last I checked. More trickle in from time to time. We saw the fires from Astra…is it…”
“Burnt to a crisp? Yep.” Tony was already looking around for exits. I wanted to smack him.
Hammond cleared his throat. “And…was that your doing?”
Tony allowed himself a short, sharp laugh. “I wish. The Ventras tried to smoke out the zombies. Smoked us out, instead.”
“We call them revenants here,” Hammond said. “The term zombie just seems to get people arguing.”
The dead were walking and the living were arguing about terminology. Sure, I could see where that might be a problem.
A lieutenant fell into step beside Hammond, and the two were quickly in de
ep discussion. I heard at least a few references to those damn bikers and something about brigands terrorizing what remained of the freeways.
Well, at least they were quick about things.
Tony snagged my hand, making me slow down. “This is too easy.”
“Shut up, man,” Dax mumbled. “Don’t jinx it for us.”
“It’s too easy…”
“Maybe the hard part’s over.” I had to talk around the layer of grit in my throat. “Maybe now we get to survive and live happily ever after and rebuild society.”
Tony laughed aloud. “I dig you, Vibeke, but you always were too damned optimistic.”
Stay Tuned...
The post-apocalyptic hijinks continue in DEATH AND BIKER GANGS, due out in 2012.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
When I started writing the first version of what evolved into Grave New World, I had the good fortune to be doing some work for a motorcycle magazine. The editors there—a group of good-natured bikers—patiently answered my questions about motorcycles and zombies and how much weight a Road King could carry (“A dog...that seems like a really bad idea? You aren't going to try this, are you?”).
On that note, please do not attempt to duplicate the stunt the characters pull off with the Road King. It made for a damn funny visual, but it is not actually feasible. Don't do it.
Anyway, none of this would have happened if I hadn’t picked up that gig. Cheers to the bikers, wherever they are.
It wasn’t just the bikers that helped me out with this, though. I’ve had quite a support network, one I am deeply thankful for.
I want to send a round of beers to Becks and Ry, who guided me through possible medical scenarios, helped me out with scientific situations, and generally provided witty commentary that I promptly stole for dialogue (just kidding…I asked them first).
A round of applause for Steven Novak, who created the fantastic new cover art, saving future readers from the vaguely skeletal figure I tried to concoct on the original cover. Sorry about that, guys.
The book would be a real mess if not for my editor, who cleaned things up and made it generally legible. Cheers, m’dear!
Last but not least, I want to thank my family. They haven’t exactly embraced my affection for zombies, but they do seem to accept it. Now that’s love.
About the Author
S.P. Blackmore is a freelance writer in Southern California. Check out www.spblackmore.com for news, short stories, and an occasionally entertaining blog.
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
SEVEN DAYS LATER...
Grave New World Page 13
