He sighed and continued to the kitchen, which was untouched. The path of the undead was clear enough to follow by the greasy marks on the walls from their bloating bodies and the clumps of hair or puddles of blood they left as they fought viciously in the attack. He pictured it, saw how it happened. They came through the front door, flowing like a river, and followed the family up the stairs. Jessie was sure he’d find a smashed in bathroom or bedroom door when he went up. A few more bodies of the undead with their heads blown off and maybe one of the family who was torn up too badly to reanimate. He’d also find the guns they’d used in their last stand. They’d be empty, but he’d probably find more shells if he looked. He tried to put it out of his head and started opening cupboards to see if there was anything he wanted to take. They didn’t have much in the canned goods selection, they ate a lot out of their garden. No kinds of meats, either. Not even ravioli. Either they were vegetarians, or bought all their meat fresh. He wasn’t about to open the freezer to find out. He did find a box of chocolate ho-ho’s though and stared out of the window at the peaceful afternoon as he ate one, chewing it slowly and savoring the flavor.
He left the box on the table, along with a good can opener and a few other things he wanted to take, then cleared his head. Time to go upstairs and find the guns. He glanced at the family portrait again, hoping he wouldn’t see any of them laying in a pool of dried gore and headed for the stairs. He had to step over another body on the landing, its head half missing and brown chunks still decorating the wall behind it. This had been a running battle, the dad probably going up the stairs behind his family, yelling for them to run.
To lock themselves away.
To hide.
It hadn’t done any good, there were no survivors here. He got to the top and looked down the hallway for a shattered door and didn’t see one, just smeared walls, shreds of clothes and still more discarded shoes. The mob had been here for a while to make this much of a mess.
Master bath, then, he thought and walked toward the back of the house and the main bedroom. That was their last stand. That’s where he’d find the gun, covered in crusty blood. He heard a thump overhead and looked up just in time to see the trap door to the attic swing down and two bodies come tumbling out, landing on the carpeted floor behind him. He spun, but the boy-thing was fast recovering from the fall and screamed as it leaped for him. Jessie was trying to get his rifle around, it was still dangling uselessly on the sling, when the raging little ball player slammed into him. Its gnashing teeth were chomping at his face, spittle and hate spewing out at him. The kid was light, not even forty pounds in his decaying state, but he was still quick and vicious. Jessie was knocked back against a door and fell through it, both of them landing on the floor. Two more bodies fell gracelessly out of the attic and landed hard in the hallway, knocking the mom-thing flat again as she was trying to stand on broken ankles.
Jessie shoved the little demon off and flung him into a dresser, knocking it over, sending little league trophies flying. He rolled away from the dad-thing as it came leaping through the door, falling on the spot he’d barely just left. The little girl-thing was as fast as her brother, and the missing chunks of flesh from her shoulder didn’t slow her feet one bit. She stumbled over her dad in the mad rush for fresh blood, and Jessie tried to pull his gun around again, but the sling was tangled and he didn’t have time to bring it to bear before the roaring boy was leaping across the bed at him, fingers clawing for eyeballs. Jessie managed to deflect him mid-leap and slam his face into the wall, his head breaking through the plaster. The little girl-thing was scrabbling on all fours, teeth chomping for his ankle and Jessie kicked her square in the nose, crunching it and breaking two of his toes. The Vans he still wore offered little protection from blunt force impact. He yelped and threw himself backward on the bed, trying to roll off the other side, and got a stabbing pain in his back as he landed on the rifle. He ignored it and the reaching hands of the dad-thing, his blackened eyes and snarling mouth hungry for blood. A Louisville Slugger was proudly displayed on the wall, dozens of signatures from teammates on it, and Jessie grabbed for it desperately. He caught the little princess in mid-scream with a barely swung bunt, but it was enough to knock her back into the other two, who had regained their feet. Her nose was flattened and the desperate swing of the bat had broken her jaw and cheekbone. All three of them rushed at him, three hungry mouths working in a fury, screaming in triumph and hunger. Jessie had nowhere to go, he was against the wall, so he swung for the stands aiming for the boy’s head. It burst off of his shoulders, painting the room in a shower of black and gray chunks, leaving the face to collapse in on itself without any bones to hold it in place. He wasn’t fast enough to bring the bat back around, though. He was a goner. The princess dove for his belly, she was going to rip him wide open as the dad sprang at him, teeth gnashing to tear into his face. He never heard the dog, it never made a sound, but he saw a blur of black and tan fur slam into the dad-thing, dozens of teeth sinking into the extended neck and knocking it to the floor. Jessie managed to block and spin away from the broken-mouthed girl’s dive into his guts. He cried out and went over backward again, tripping over the flailing man and the dog savagely tearing at its throats, ripping out stringy hunks and going back in for another bite. The dog was merciless, ragging one chunk at a time until it tore loose, then going back in for more. The undead thing clawed and raked at him, but there was a crunch of neck bone and it quit moving, only its jaws still snapping at nothing.
Jessie grabbed a handful of greasy princess hair and pulled her off of him, all thirty pounds of her. She raked her fingernails through his skin, leaving furrows and drawing blood on both sides of his ribs as he swung her against the toppled-over chest of drawers. She screamed in rage as she slammed into it and tried to turn to attack him again, but Jessie grabbed one of her legs. She had her sneakers on tight, double knotted so they wouldn’t come untied, and he jumped to his feet and swung her at the wall. He heard her arms break over the sound of crunching plaster and still she screamed at him, trying to snap her teeth and only slicing off bits of her tongue. He heard another shriek behind him and the mom-thing was clawing her way toward him, scrambling as fast as she could on legs broken from her fall, and a back broken from her children landing on top of her. Jessie was breathing hard in fear and exertion, still dangling the struggling girl from her ankle as she tried to bite him with her wrecked mouth. The mom was coming closer, jaws snapping, black eyes locked on his, ignoring her broken and screaming daughter. Jessie swung her again, thirty pounds of writhing, angry, hunger. His first blow knocked the mom over and broke more bones of her baby girl, the collarbone shattered and poked through the skin of her shoulder. The child ignored her useless arm and grabbed at him with the other, her mouth still shredding the remains of her tongue, her voice still screaming as loud as she could.
“SHUT UP!” Jessie screamed right back, at both the mom and the girl.
“SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” he roared, the monster in his head delighting in the carnage, the wolf howling at the moon. He swung the wriggling body again at the woman struggling to get to him and more bones broke. Jessie stumbled, the pain of his broken toes shooting through him like daggers, his arms shaking from the exertion of swinging the struggling dead weight. The mom-thing had both arms shattered, but was still coming toward him, still gnashing her teeth, still keening and shrieking. Jessie repositioned his hands, grabbing the little girl by her blood slick neck and her squishy crotch, fecal matter forcing out of her panties and covering his hand. He brought her high above his head, then slammed her down on his knee like he’d seen done on a hundred different wrestling shows. She broke like a toothpick, her back snapping and she nearly folded double on herself. He shoved her away and rolled back to the other side of the bed, finally gaining a few seconds to untangle his sling. He brought the gun up and took a second to aim right between the woman’s eyes before he pulled the trigger. The dog yelped at the explosion and stopped
trying to tear the man's head entirely off. Jessie shifted his aim to the girl who was lying in a puddle of her brother's brains. She was nearly helpless. Broken arms, broken mouth, broken back. He put a bullet through the side of her head and her brains splashed out to join her brother’s. He looked at his hand gripping the shroud of the M-4 and nearly gagged. It was covered in shit from the girl. He grimaced, almost threw up and quickly started wiping his hand on the bedspread. It was so gross and smelled worse than the split open heads. Jessie grabbed his gun and ran out of the house, holding the rail down the stairs and hobbling as fast as he could. He walked on his heel across the yard, trying to protect his injured toes, and headed straight for the car. If the screaming of those undead things didn’t draw in any zombies nearby, the gunshots could be heard for miles. He knew they ran in huge hordes now, not just ones and twos. He had to get moving. He whistled for the dog and it came bounding over. It hopped in fast, like it was afraid there wouldn’t be a second invitation. Jessie jumped in after him, automatically adjusting his pistol around the seat belt latch.
What a dumbass, he told himself. He had forgotten he had the pistol. He nearly died trying to bring the rifle up and he had a freaking pistol the whole time. Stupid, he chastised himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Jessie fired up the car and wheeled it around, scattering the chickens as he headed for the open road.
I thought you weren’t going to make any more stupid mistakes, he thought as he grabbed third gear, still heading north. Then: I forgot the Ho-Ho’s.
He laughed, shook his head and wiped a bit of drool from his chin.
Something smelled and he looked at his hand, at the smudges of brown still on it. Maybe he didn’t want those Ho-Ho’s after all.
33
Casey
Casey sat in the prison cafeteria, smoking a Marlboro. There were dozens of his guys with him, most had either been rejected by the women, or weren’t interested. The Amazonian Princess had made it real clear that there would be no raping going on, but a lot of her girls were just as hungry for a man as the boys were for them. The guys who didn’t partner up instantly had brought in some food and were having a different kind of party. There were laughter and jokes and as the couples trickled back in from their half hour of fun, there would be cheers and high fives, catcalls, and demands of details. As more couples sauntered in, the party kicked into high gear with raunchy jokes, happy men, and mostly satisfied women. The booze flowed freely, the food was good and everyone felt safe for the first time in a long time.
Lucinda came back in with Gumbo, all smiles with a pleasant little glow about her. She’d needed the distraction, something to get Cindy out of her head, a little fun to forget her lover’s beaten and swollen face. The bastard that had done it was now rotting in the yard, a dozen shank wounds in him, but that didn’t bring her back. She smacked Gumbo on the ass and told him to fetch her something to eat. He was all grins, too. The big Cajun, who could probably pass as the Honey Island Swamp Monster on a foggy morning, obliged and lumbered off for the kitchen. She spotted Casey and came over, sitting next to him and throwing her feet up on the table.
“I can’t understand half the things he says with that accent, but a girl does love her a French talking man,” she said “And Lawdy, they grow ‘em big down in the bayou.”
There were a few hoots at this and she poured herself a shot from the bottle on the table.
“You got a plan, Hero?” she asked him after she downed it. “You got somewhere to go, is there any place safe, that has food?”
Casey had been sitting in the hard, plastic chair for the past hour, sipping on whiskey, smoking his Marlboros and formulating a whole new plan. A few of the girls had approached him, only because he was the leader and it would be good to be noticed by him, but he’d sent them packing. His unpleasant demeanor and dark scowl made them glad he wasn’t interested. He looked like the kind of man who was only happy if he was hurting you.
He’d been working on a plan, trying to come up with somewhere to go, someplace to live. He was still going to set up an empire, make all the other walled towns pay tribute and taxes to him, but he needed a headquarters. He didn’t want to be like Genghis Kahn, staying in the open, always on the move and living a nomadic life. That was too dangerous with all the undead wandering around. He needed a strong base. An impenetrable castle. He needed a central command that was better and stronger than everyone else. He needed Lakota. He’d been there long enough to know how good they had it, and if he could take it, that would cement his authority. He could give a little payback to that jumped up bitch deputy Collins, too. He might just keep her in a cell and play with her for a while. Keep her alive for months. That would be his idea of a good time.
A plan was coming together, one that included a little bit of subterfuge. The townspeople knew him, but the rest of these people were all new faces. Now that they had the women, it would be easy to pass themselves off as refugees. They’d come up with a story of how all these good men and women had been trapped somewhere together, had heard the broadcast on the radio, and had come to the promised land. They only needed to get three or four couples in the gate. They could kill the guards on the inside and open them up, letting the rest of them swarm in and take out any resistance. Easy, simple, and nearly foolproof. He’d have the best town in the country, they’d kill most of the soldiers and the rest of the people would fall in line. He’d take all their guns and there would be nothing they could do about it. They’d all cower and do as they were told, or he’d make an example out of them. He’d teach them a lesson. In a few months, it would all seem normal. Hell, people could get used to anything. He’d be like that fat little North Korean guy with the bad haircut. He ran his country like he wanted, killed whoever he wanted, and look how loyal his people were. It was going to be the same way here. Casey the Cannibal was going to be large and in charge and if you gave him any lip, well, he might just have your lips on his dinner plate. Fried and sautéed in mushroom sauce.
He turned to look at Lucinda, her grin faltering when she saw the dark sneer on his face. That evil smile. She looked around the room and noticed a few other things, now that she wasn’t just overjoyed at the rescue, the food, the whiskey, and the excellent bonk she’d had. None of her girls had their guns. They were all leaning against walls, laying forgotten on tables, or still in their cells. All of the men were packing, all of them had pistols in waistbands or rifles right beside them.
As she looked around at the still laughing and smiling group, a small jolt of fear went through her. They’d been played. Their guard was down because everything seemed so good, and now they were helpless against these men.
“My name is Casey. Not Hero,” he said to her, “and get your feet off of my table.”
She said nothing, her mind racing, trying to come up with a plan of her own, a way out of the trap they had walked right into. Her eyes darted around the room and she noticed men at every exit, innocently leaning against it, still smiling. Except all of them were armed, none of them held glasses of whiskey or had their hands filled with food.
“I see that you see,” Casey said conversationally as she dropped her feet and sat up in her chair.
She was afraid, but she didn’t let it show. They were truly helpless. She didn’t even have her shank. She couldn’t find it when they were getting dressed, and didn’t think she’d need it anyway, so hadn’t looked too hard. Had Gumbo hid it from her? Had she mistaken him for a big, gentle, dummy when all along he’d been setting her up?
Slowly the girls started noticing something was wrong and looked around. The men were no longer laughing with them. They were standing off a little, hands resting on weapons. The talking stopped, the toasting came to an end, the sounds of silverware on plates ceased.
The room got quiet.
As the men had crowded through the gate, eager to get in and meet the ladies, Casey had whispered his plan to Pounder, Gumbo, and few of the others. They had quietly spread the word and all had been
waiting for the signal. They didn’t know what it was supposed to be, but this had to be it. It just seemed the right time. The girls had been separated from their weapons and they were feeling comfortable. They were as vulnerable as they were ever likely to get.
All eyes were on the two leaders. Casey relaxed and confident. Lucinda trying to be cool, but knowing she’d been outfoxed, her eyes still darting and looking for a way out.
“You see how easy it was?” he asked the room. “You see how guile beats brute force?” The few women who were a little slow on the uptake quickly understood. The Muslims had come in like raging bulls, they were going to take what they wanted. Now all of them were dead and rotting in the corner of the prison yard. Casey and his men had come in with gifts and smooth talk. The women had given them what they wanted freely and without a fight. Now they were… what, exactly, they didn’t know. Slaves? Prisoners?
“We want nothing from you,” Casey said, trying to ease the building tension. “This was just to show you that my plan will work.”
The men blocking the doors and fingering their weapons left their positions and headed for the kitchen for food. Gumbo sat a tray down in front of Lucinda and smiled sheepishly at her. Her shank was next to a bowl of chicken and rice.
Zombie Road III: Rage on the Rails Page 20
