Sheriff Collins drummed her fingers on her desk. The guards had just changed for the night shift and Phil had reported some kids making off with a can of ammo. She’d find them in the morning before they hurt themselves. She had a pretty good idea who it was. There was a ‘secret’ club of tweenagers who were playing army. They thought they were going to be useful when the battles came.
She liked those kinds of problems. She liked little incidents she could fix. She liked her job and the people liked her, but she was facing her first real law enforcement challenge, a decision that was weighing heavy on her. She had a prisoner in the basement, the alleged pedophile also accused of negligent homicide in the death of two inmates he refused to help. Refused to even give them water. He had watched them die of thirst without lifting a finger.
Allegedly, she reminded herself.
He was also accused of repeatedly raping an underage girl nearly forty times, a student where he taught. She hadn’t survived the zombie uprising, so she couldn’t testify. Not that Collins thought the man was innocent of the charges, the files she found were pretty conclusive. There were medical reports, the girl's sworn statements and even the teacher declaring it was consensual when he thought Gunny might let him go free. Silly man, she thought. You would have been better off telling him you were a bank robber. He probably would have laughed about that as he opened your cell.
She’d taken statements from the starving men who had been in the adjoining cells. Their stories all corroborated the basic facts. He’d let two men die, whose only crimes were public drunkenness. They had come out of Pretty Boy Floyds at one in the morning singing bawdy Irish limericks. He couldn’t be bothered to toss them water soaked rags. All the other prisoners had survived. Dehydrated, near starvation, but alive. Dutch was the most adamant about man-bun, as he called him, getting what he deserved. The men who died were his friends, the same guys he’d been drinking with the night he got arrested for disturbing the peace. They were wildcatters in town to have a little fun. They hadn’t meant any harm and Dutch wasn’t even mad at the guy he’d been fighting. He was just blowing off a little steam. He had gotten a lot of people riled up about the prisoner in the basement. Man-bun was taking up valuable resources, eating precious food and breathing up good oxygen.
Her dilemma was what to do with him. She couldn’t just take him out and shoot him like they wanted. He hadn’t had a trial. He hadn’t had his day in court. She wasn’t Judge Roy Bean or Judge Dredd. She couldn’t be judge, jury, and executioner. It would set a bad precedent, turning the judicial clock back a hundred years, back to wild west times when a sheriff had the authority to hang a known criminal. Anger was building, though. For some reason he had become the cause celebre. The hatred of the Muslims, the grief from their losses, and the fear of an uncertain future was stirring the town to a boiling point. They seemed to think if they got rid of the murdering baby rapist, things would get better. They were in no mood to mollycoddle criminals. She wished Gunny would have just shot him. Cobb had told her to let the mob have him, it would be what he deserved, but she couldn’t do it. She wasn’t going to have mob justice in her town. What was next? Lynchings? Tar and feather? Burn somebody at the stake?
There needed to be a trial, then it would be legal, even if it was just for show. The verdict was already a foregone conclusion, he was guilty as sin, and he’d never get an impartial jury. Not in this town, and there wasn’t another one. Maybe the Hutterites, but she had the feeling that they might want to stone him to death. Or try to reform him with hard work and penitent prayers.
She sighed as the front door opened and looked up into Dutch’s haggard face. She stood, staring him down. He was still gaunt from his weeks-long starvation diet, but that didn’t dampen his simmering anger one bit. He had dozens of grim-faced men and women behind him. They filled the office and spread out into the street. She wasn’t going to talk them down, not tonight. They weren’t yelling for justice. They weren’t carrying candles for the victims. They weren’t drunk or belligerent.
“Ma’am,” he said. “We know how you feel, but that scum ain’t living another day.”
Deputy McBride stood beside her, his hand resting on his gun. If she refused, people were about to get hurt and it would put her in the unenviable position of having to defend the bastard just to uphold the law. The law that really didn’t apply in these new times. That scumbag was going to tear her town apart, cause deep rifts that would weaken them when they needed to be their strongest. She was the only judicial system they had. The people had voted her Sheriff and it was official. They didn’t have any judges to interpret the law, they didn’t have any lawyers to argue the law. There was only her. The enforcer of the law. There was no more hiding, no more cowardice. He was guilty of a capital offense and there were witnesses.
She looked out over the crowd. Many of them she considered friends. She wouldn’t let them do it. Couldn’t let them do her job.
“It’s not your place to enforce the law,” she said and held up a hand at the quiet, angry murmurs. “It’s mine. Deputy McBride, bring up the prisoner.” She handed him the keys and handcuffs from her belt.
They were silent, and more people crowded in. It wasn’t a hungry spectacle, it was a dark duty they meant to see done. She had no charity for cold-blooded killers, but that’s exactly what they’d become if she let them administer street justice.
When he reached the top of the steps, the little man started struggling and protesting once he saw the mob. They started shouting, building up their courage to do what they came to do, and someone in the crowd hit him, drawing blood.
“ENOUGH!” Collins roared. “You are not the law! Let him through!”
The crowd settled some, but they were edgy. They wanted something done about him. They wanted justice and didn’t care if it came from a mob. The crowd parted, grudgingly, and McBride dragged the sobbing man over to the Sheriff.
He cowered next to her, trying to hide, seeking her protection.
She pulled a rope out of the top drawer of her desk. It had been prepared for over a week, knotted and noosed, because she knew she would eventually have to use it. She hadn’t planned on today, but today it was. She handed it to Dutch and pointed at one of the open beams. The little man blubbered and denied doing anything wrong, he was only trying to stay alive himself. He hadn’t meant for the men to die. He hadn’t meant to hurt the girl. He was sorry. He would change. He didn’t want to die.
Dutch tied the rope off then stood back, his face turning pale. Everyone else was feeling a little sick, too. This had to happen. It was right that it was happening. He deserved it.
But it was hard to watch.
“Get on the chair,” Collins ordered him and, crying, he complied.
She placed the noose around his neck then stood back.
“By the power vested in me from the people of Lakota, I have judged you to be guilty of two counts of negligent homicide and thirty-seven counts of statutory rape. I sentence you to death by hanging, to be carried out immediately. Do you have any last words?”
He stood on the chair, his bun askew, tears rolling down his face, and snot dangling from the end of his nose. He was trying to control his blubbering and finally managed an anguished plea for mercy.
“She wanted it!” he nearly screamed. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“May God have mercy on your soul,” Collins said over his protests and kicked the chair out from under him. He fell with a jerk, the rope cutting off his words. He kicked his feet and struggled to breathe. The fall hadn’t been far enough to snap his neck. He was turning blue, spinning as he kicked. He deserved a death, but not a cruel one. She reached over, wrapped her arms around his legs, lifted him high then dropped her full weight on the rope. His neck popped loudly, his struggles ceased and she moved away quickly, her shirt already damp with his piss.
The fury of the crowd let out in a rush, like the air from a balloon and many of them had the grace to look abashed, even
a little shocked, at the swiftness of it all.
The body swung in a slow circle as feet were shuffled and hushed voices told each other it was justice. He had it coming.
They were right, he did.
It was still an ugly sight.
37
Gunny
It was late, the radio was playing some heavy metal noise because Scratch was the DJ, but they kept it on anyway. Griz grumbled ceaselessly about the crappy music selection and how he was going to smash Scratch’s iPod as soon as he got back, but he wouldn’t turn it off or put in one of the many country CDs that were in the truck. It was just too good to hear his voice, listen to his goofy patter, and hear the little bits of news from home. He was obviously feeling better if the SS Sisters had felt he was well enough to sit at the station. He was a terrible radio host, though. He talked with his mouth full, ate potato chips and crunched them into the microphone, and laughed at his own jokes. Sometimes he forgot to turn off his mic and sang along with the music, if you could call it that. Every song sounded the same, and it all sounded like a bunch of monkeys beating on tin cans to Griz. There had been a ‘tradio radio’ show, as Bastille had called it, earlier in the evening when the operator had been on duty. People were calling in and offering things they had for trade, or letting others know what their particular skills were if anyone needed repairs. The town was settling in nicely, putting the past behind them and looking forward to the future. Pretty soon, they’d be paying taxes again, Griz complained as he pulled a candy bar from the little backpack he’d found in the truck. He’d stuffed anything of use he scrounged from the cabinets in it. Just in case they wound up on foot again.
Gunny couldn’t believe his ears when they heard the first of the Disfigured Road Angel reports. Bastille had to turn every little thing into a big production, and he’d latched onto the latest survivors trickling in. He’d done interviews, collected their stories of the scarred young man rescuing them, or giving them directions to the last American City. He had come up with some ridiculous bumper music and the stupid name, but even with his annoyance, Gunny was eager to hear each story.
Jessie had gone off on his own to help people.
It was reckless, irresponsible, and foolhardy. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in his boy. Many of the survivors owed their lives to him and told their stories at Bastille’s gentle prodding. A few of them broke down and cried as they told the story of the scarred young man and his dog. “He was an Angel who fought like a demon against those things,” one lady had said. “He saved us all, but he had such haunted eyes, it nearly broke my heart.” She was a talker and Bastille ate it up. Soon he was taking phone calls from every young girl in Lakota, and some not so young, who wanted to wish Jessie well and they were thinking of him and praying for him and they hoped he would make it back safely. And soon.
“Looks like he’s got his own fan club,” Griz laughed.
“Yeah, that ass Bastille just can’t help himself,” Gunny said. “He’s acting like it’s ratings week and he’s afraid his show is going to get canceled.”
Gunny decided as soon as they returned, he’d get on the radio and tell Jessie he needed to come in, they needed him in Lakota. If there was a Lakota to come back to, that is. If they lost, if the Muslims somehow prevailed, he would tell Carson to blow the town off the map. He’d call fire in on his own position, if it came to that.
It was nearly pitch-black outside as they were nearing the bridge crossing the Mississippi River, just outside of Helena, Arkansas. They’d been charging down the back roads, leaving trails of chasing zombies in their wake all day, hopefully confusing them every time they took a turn. They only had one headlight working, the other had been smashed out when they had to plow through a cluster of the undead at a crossroads in Alabama. They couldn’t stop, not in an unarmored truck. If a horde found them, they could easily break in. They had to keep moving and Griz was hunched over the wheel, trying to see as far as he could down the road. They were only going about forty and he was still outrunning the headlight, having to dodge around abandoned cars at the last second when they loomed up out of the dark. They got occasional moonlight, but it was an overcast November night and the clouds were scuttling across the sky, anticipating a storm.
The bridge on route 49 was one of the most rural crossings along the whole twenty-three-hundred-mile-long river. From its headwaters in Minnesota to the delta in Louisiana at the end of route 23, before it ended at the ocean, most crossings were in a city. The only thing on the eastern side of the river, before crossing into Arkansas, was the Casino and hotel right on the water. It was the last exit before the narrow cantilever bridge that stretched for nearly a mile over the muddy water.
Griz cursed as the first drops of rain started to fall and squinted, trying to see as far as he could across the bridge before they committed. It was long and narrow, and if it was completely clogged up with wrecks, they’d be backing all the way out and heading south to find another bridge. They were at the point of no return; the concrete barriers were starting and ran the entire length of it, leaving them just two narrow lanes all the way across. Gunny had his window down with his head out, trying to see past the dirty windshield. Off to his right, at the casino, he heard the first roars of the undead. They’d spotted the diesel, seen the single headlight dancing through the night, and they were surging toward the fresh meat.
“We’ve got company coming from the hotel,” he said, ducking back inside and quickly armoring up, zipping up his jacket and pulling on the thin gloves. “Must be a pretty good-sized crowd, I heard them screaming over the exhaust.”
“I can’t see shit,” Griz said. “Hold on, I’m just gonna bust our way through if it’s blocked. If this thing can hold together long enough to get us to the other side, there’s a little truck stop just off the main drag.”
“The Y-Camp,” Gunny said. “Yeah. Should be another truck in the parking lot there if you break this one. Hammer down, brother. We ain’t going backward, they’re already behind us.” He was watching the parking lot of the casino empty out in the patchy light of the moon. There were hundreds of them streaming onto the road, a few of them fast, but most of them stumbling along, falling and getting back up. A month and a half out in the sun had taken its toll on them. Gunny tightened his seat belt, remembering Tiny’s last moments, and checked Griz to make sure he had his on and tight.
He did and it was.
There were a few cars on the bridge, but they were easy enough to dodge around. They were high in the air now, but still over solid land, the treetops even with the road. They went under the first of the green-painted back spans and started across the water. The moon slid back out from behind one of the clouds and gave them a chance to see something besides what was illuminated by the headlight. Silhouetted in the moon glow, they saw the girders of the bridge ahead of them were twisted out of shape. They were pointing at wrong angles, broken and bent, with most of them aiming down river. Griz was halfway around another abandoned car and hit the brakes. He brought the tractor to a barking halt, trying to take in what they were looking at. Half the bridge was missing. The concrete and steel were broken and twisted and the center span was gone entirely.
“Great, just frickin’ great,” he said and slammed into reverse, leaving the air splitter in high range.
He needed speed.
He floored it and eased out on the clutch, the big diesel shuddering from being in the tall gears until it got rolling. It picked up speed fast as the first of the runners were launching at them, at the rolling rubber of the tandems. It was impossible to see anything out of the mirrors in the darkness, so he did what a lot of old-timers do. He popped his seat belt, opened the door, and stepped one foot out on the battery box, the other keeping the go pedal mashed. He could see where the cars were now and dodged them as the truck continued to plow down the vanguard of the horde. Griz fought to maintain control as the semi bounced over the bodies, or sent them spinning off into the girders.
Some of them spotted the fresh meat and were jumping straight for him. He knocked them aside with one hand as he steered with the other. They screamed and leapt and he punched at them, deflecting their scrabbling arms out of the way, sending them tumbling. The motor was bellowing its own diesel-powered roar that drowned out the sounds of breaking bones and spraying liquids from torn open bodies.
They still had at least a quarter mile to go before they were beyond the concrete walls and could spin around. A quarter mile of narrow two-lane dotted with cars, and hundreds of keening and leaping undead still streaming onto it. A woman in filthy shorts and a shredded t-shirt slammed into Griz, managed to wrap her arms around his waist, and started trying to bite through his flannel shirt. She got a mouthful and started ragging it left and right, her claws dug into him and he yelled in fright and revulsion. He threw himself back in the cab so he wouldn’t be drug off the truck.
Gunny jumped over and grabbed her head, plunging both thumbs into her eyes, squirting them down her cheeks. He sunk his fingers deep into the underside of her jaw, gripping the bone and trying to jerk it free from her face. The dried skin tore easily and he ripped the sinew and muscle apart with a violent shake, the shooters gloves on his hands protecting them from her teeth. It came free and her tongue flopped out, draping like an ugly infected necktie. He wrapped his fist around her jawbone, the jagged ends extending past his knuckles, then rabbit punched her twice, splashing the contents of her head all over Griz’s lap. There was a screeching sound of rubber on pavement and the rig bounced violently as it tried to climb up the concrete barriers. Gunny was thrown back against the passenger seat as Griz turned the wheel, but the truck was already rolling up the wall and tilting at a precarious angle. There was a grating sound of metal and the battery box ripped free as the fuel tank was crushed and started splashing everything with diesel. Griz nearly fell out of the door, his feet scraping against the concrete. He grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, hanging on for dear life and trying not to get his legs torn off. The truck was completely out of control and careened into a line of abandoned cars. Gunny was still trying to drag Griz back in the cab, when he went flying backward into the bunk with the impact. The dead woman disappeared into the twisting metal and breaking concrete as the door rebounded, slammed hard against Griz’s legs, and the glass shattered.
Zombie Road III: Rage on the Rails Page 23
