Massika jumped down from the last stone, dropping the five feet to the sandy gravel and holding up her arms for her youngest. Her eldest daughter was standing beside her, quivering with excitement. No fear in that one. For her, nearly anything was better than being trapped inside the rocks for another minute. She would rather die doing something bold, than die of boredom. Or to be that creepy Mohammad’s wife. She didn’t like him one little bit and every chance he got, he tried to touch her.
“Go,” her mom whispered and they darted off, keeping to the shadows thrown by the moon when they could. They were running toward the golf course, long since dried up and turned brown for lack of water. On the other side of it were where the rich people had lived. Single family houses, not stacks and stacks of apartments. Hasif hadn’t seen any movement of the undead on the golf course or in the wealthy subdivisions adjacent to it. Maybe they could sneak through in the dark, unseen and unheard until they made it to the overflowing banks of the canal. The rich people had boats and jet skis and he hoped they could find something that would take them down to the Nile. From there, to the ocean. From there, they would figure it out. First, they had to get across hundreds of yards of open desert, and a golf course that was barely recognizable for what it used to be.
Hasif led the stumbling dead away, dashed across the sand covered road, and into the maze of short stone walls that surrounded the ruins of the Tomb of Hemiunu. He leapt to the top of one and called them to him, drawing them to the promise of fresh blood. He kept just ahead of them, running along the tops of the walls, maddeningly just out of reach from their clawing hands. When he got to the center of the warren, he dropped off the wall, crouched low and ran. He snaked his way out, leaving the keening undead lost in the maze of ruined walls, and sprinted back across the road, cutting across the shadow of the pyramid toward the golf course.
“Hasif! What are you doing?”
Angry shouts from the doorway, Fariq was there with his gun. Hasif couldn’t answer, he didn’t want the undead to hear him, so he waved in farewell. They had left a letter in the King’s chambers where his family had been staying, explaining why he was leaving. Fariq would find it and hopefully understand their departure was for the best. Some things just had to be. He knew if they stayed it would have ended up with one of them dying.
“Stop!” came the shout as he ran out of the entrance of the pyramid and the papery screams of the undead got louder.
“Bring them back!” Fariq demanded. His son’s wives were disappearing into the trees surrounding the golf course.
He raised the rifle in anger and fired at the fleeing figures.
“I said stop!” he screamed, his impotent rage unleashed, but they were already past the trees, behind the greens, and out of sight.
Hasif tried to sprint faster across the parking lot, no longer trying to run silently. When the bullets started kicking up chunks of asphalt and sand around him he ignored them. Fariq was running on the uneven stones of the pyramid, trying to get to a better location and the bullets weren’t even close. Hasif hit the tree line and kept going, putting as much distance between them as he could.
The shots rang out and echoed through the empty city, the loudest sound that had been heard for months, and the undead followed it. The keening started again, the hunger was reawakened and their aimless shuffles became ungainly runs. Falling, bumping into each other, stumbling and running, they came. Thousands. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands heard the keens and followed them. They flowed into the pyramid complex like dirty water, filling it and the hundreds of acres surrounding it. They tore down fences, stacked against walls and tumbled over, packed in like sardines against the base of the Great Pyramid. More came, more answered the keening dinner call and they started stacking up, climbing the stones, sensing the living flesh.
Fariq backed into the entrance and barred the gate, watched in horror at what he’d done. He’d started a stampede, every dead thing in the city had discovered where the only living things were, and they came. In endless numbers they came. The entrance was nearly fifty feet above the ground and by the time his wife and son had come down to see what was wrong, why the guns were being fired, the undead were reaching through the bars, the pyramid was being buried.
“We’re safe,” Fariq insisted. “They can’t get in. Let’s go back up to the chambers. Maybe they’ll go away.”
The dead kept coming.
Hasif found his family crouched in the darkness against the stone wall that separated the golf course from the road and the wealthy men’s houses. They heard the running and shuffling of the undead making their way around it, following the ungodly keening sounds of a hundred thousand dry throats. They waited in silence as the flood flowed around them, none daring to make a noise.
The sun was well over the horizon, the morning already heating up, when Hasif carefully peeked over the wall into the surrounding subdivision of stately homes. He watched for a long time, trying to spot any movement, but saw none. Fariq had doomed himself, but by trying to kill him he had unwittingly done him a great favor. Every undead thing that could move had followed the sounds of the gunfire, leaving the city empty. Hasif would have time to look for a suitable craft, to find extra fuel. He had no allusions of finding any food, all they had was what was in their light packs, but he was pleased with the way things had turned out. He hadn’t planned on Fariq trying to kill them, but since he did, he found it hard not to be a little thankful. Now he wouldn’t have to rush madly to the river and jump on the first thing they found that floated.
26
Jessie
Jessie was getting close to the high-rise the retrievers back at the ice cream shop had told him about. According to his map, it was in a valley in wine country on the Siuslaw River, near the coast. The roads were rural and he didn’t pass any of the undead or other traffic. The windows were down, the heater was on, and the tires sang on the pavement. He had the world to himself, for the moment. His mind drifted back to Tombstone, as it often did, and he remembered the fun and laughter he’d had at the roadhouse. The cowboys and ranchers were a rough bunch, but they were good people. He especially remembered the night in Sandy’s bed. How she’d caressed him, held him, and was shy about her body when they started undressing each other. She was well built, with big breasts and a little meat on her bones. A stout woman. A Corn-fed Cowgirl, she’d called herself and told him to put her down before he hurt himself when he lifted her. He didn’t and she wrapped her legs around him as they kissed deep and hard. He hadn’t even felt her hundred and forty pounds. She was light as a feather in his arms and they slow danced to climax. Jessie laying with a woman for the first time, Sandy finally letting go of her husband and kids. She cried a little, but had tried to hide it from him. They dozed, entwined in each other’s arms for a time until she woke him up with a gentle caress that grew rough and their passion lasted much longer than the first time. They used each other and nearly every square inch of the room. If the rest of the hotel hadn’t been passed out drunk, they would have been banging on the walls for them to quiet down. They broke the bed, dumped everything off the dresser, knocked down pictures, and cracked the plaster on the walls. She wasn’t a shy woman and she taught him well those few short hours they’d been together.
Jessie missed her, she’d been on his mind a lot lately. He wondered if he should have hung around in the morning to see if she was repulsed by what they’d done, by his face, or if maybe she really did care for him. Maybe he’d run up the coast for a while, then circle back around, swing by Tombstone again. See how she greeted him. That would tell him all he needed to know.
He rounded a bend and spread out before him was the valley he’d been looking for. Just like the brothers had described it, a single twelve-story building in the middle of a park-like setting next to the river. No parking lot full of cars. No electrical wires. Just a gleaming chrome and steel tower with a jungle on the roof and thousands of the undead surrounding it.
Jessie
pulled to a stop and stared through the mesh on his windshield. He sighed and hung his head for a moment, his too-long hair hanging down over his face as he came to the conclusion that it would take him days to clear that many undead away from the building. William and Darren had said they’d been here a few times, they must have lead a horde in. Or maybe some other traders had. Either way, he would have to clean up someone else’s mess. He slowly got out of the car and stretched, letting Bob sniff around a little before he let his guard down. With his dog off peeing on everything, Jessie reluctantly dug out his map and spread it on the hood. He needed to find a route where he could lead this horde away, but not on top of anyone else, and still have a clear path to get away. He’d rather just head back to Tombstone.
While he was comparing his road atlas and the more detailed state map he’d picked up at a gas station, he heard the faint sound of an engine carrying on the breeze. Without any other man-made noises, the whine of a motor could be heard for miles. He dug his binoculars out of the door pouch and started glassing the roads. He saw a U-Haul coming up the other side of the river on a narrow gravel frontage path. They stopped opposite the high-rise and two men climbed out. Jessie zoomed in and recognized the brothers with the ice cream machines.
How were they going to get across? He wondered and started looking for a boat. He noticed it then, an old-fashioned river crossing system. Big steel cables led to a series of poles on the far bank and disappeared into an opening at the base of the building. It was a large, covered boat house that had room for five or six pleasure craft. They had converted one of the moorings to accommodate a wide, flat ferry with the cables acting as a pulley system to reel the boat in. Smart, Jessie thought. Very smart indeed.
Now all he had to do was figure out how to get over there himself. A quick look at the maps showed him the nearest bridge was a good seven or eight miles away. He whistled for Bob as he stowed his gear, then spun the Merc around, heading back the way he’d come.
A half hour later he was at the ferry crossing, reading a computer printed message that had come through in a plastic tube like banks had at the teller windows. He was impressed, not only that they had electricity and computers, but they’d even included an ink pen for him to reply. What did he want? He had to think about that for a minute. He finally settled on a quick answer, told them he was an emissary from Lakota and was here to set up trade routes, take a census, and establish communications with other communities. It sounded better than your place looks pretty neat and I’d like to see it.
He could see the glint of the sun off of binoculars, knew they were checking him out. It took a long time for an answer to come, and when it did he was instructed to leave all weapons behind, a boat would be sent over momentarily. They were watching so he gave them a thumbs up, didn’t bother writing a reply. He stripped off his M-4 and two of his pistols and rolled the windows down. The bars were up, but Bob could get out if something happened and Jessie didn’t come back. He made a pretty good theft deterrent if someone was inclined to try to take his car while he was gone. While he was waiting on the little boat to come across on the pulleys, he flipped the hidden kill switches, one for the fuel pump, and the other for the coil. Then he set some water out for his dog.
“I’ll be back, boy. Hold down the fort,” he told him as he scratched behind his ears.
He was met by a group of well-groomed men as the boat pulled into the dock. This stood out in a world where most people didn’t bother to shave anymore. They were all big men, all of them held weapons unslung and ready, but not pointed at him. They all wore suits. Jessie concentrated and tuned in to the distant sights and sounds he usually tried to suppress. One of the first things he noticed was how clean and orderly everything was. Fluorescent lights brightly illuminated the receiving area, he could hear the hum of electrical machines, and saw the very ordinary daily routine of a modern office building through the windows upstairs. Men in polo shirts talking on cell phones, women in skirts carrying files through the lobby, the clicking of keyboards. The little boat he was on pulled up next to the flat ferry with the U-Haul parked on it and men in blue coveralls were busy unloading the machinery.
Jessie felt a little underdressed for the occasion. He had on his black tactical pants, with the built-in pads that hadn’t been washed in a week. Or maybe two. His jacket had dents in the aluminum shoulder panels from that tumble down some stairs somewhere in Colorado, there were dark blood stains from a pair of zombie's heads he’d had to smash with his blades from the store in Oregon, there were scars in various places from clawing hands and snapping teeth. Stabby had painted a skull and barbed wire on one of the sleeves, said it made him look punk rock, and it had a splatter of blood on it. The men stared at him, not reacting to the somewhat smelly, somewhat bedraggled-looking stranger. They were used to seeing people geared up like him. Anyone outside the protective walls of The Tower all dressed like barbarians and were always bristling with weapons. That was how you survived out there.
When Jessie stepped off the boat, one of the suited men stepped forward.
“Welcome to the Tower, sir. If you would follow us, you will be checked for infection and you will need to relinquish the rest of your weapons. We have a strict policy here for the safety of everyone.”
He turned and led the way before he was interrupted by protests and Jessie grinned, not offering any. Every trader, scavenger, and survivor that came here probably tried to hide a weapon or two from them. He’d comply. This place didn’t have his sixth sense jangling like the survivor outpost had, and he hadn’t picked up anything to alarm him with his enhanced hearing. This place seemed like everything was normal, almost as if there weren’t a thousand undead milling around outside.
“You are perfectly safe here; your weapons won’t be needed and the CEO wishes to speak with you. This isn’t the first we’ve heard of Lakota, we hear the broadcasts and stories from other traders of course, and he has questions.”
They came to a metal detector and again, Jessie had a sense of disconnect. Like the end of the world hadn’t happened at the Tower. This place really had it going on. Well dressed, professional people doing their jobs with efficiency. He was curious as to what powered the building, he hadn’t seen any water turbines to generate electricity.
“If you could place any weapons in the basket, sir, we’ll tag them and ensure you get them back when you leave.” A smiling woman extended a small plastic bin toward him.
Jessie had been watching everything, listening intently, his ears picking up conversations a floor above and beyond the doors in the lobby. Everything seemed to be as it appeared, and even though they thought their security was good, he saw weapons everywhere if he needed them. There were things his dad had taught him, improvised fighting classes from the instructors in Lakota, and lessons he’d picked up along the way that made him view the world a little differently. Two of the guards carelessly held their MP-5s, easy to strip away from them in an eye-blink. Soda cans that could be ripped in half and turned into a razor-sharp weapon in less than a second. A magazine that could be rolled and used to crush a skull. Jessie was confident in his abilities, he was pretty sure he could walk right through the guards if he had to. They were impressive to look at in their G-man suits, but only their leader seemed to be well trained. Probably a cop before the fall.
He pulled two more Glocks from the shoulder holsters, cleared the rounds from the chambers and placed them in the bin. He freed the spare magazine for each and dropped them in, as well. Two more subcompact pistols came from the small of his back and joined the others after he cleared them. Next came the knives. Two from the angled sheaths on his hips, two from his belt that hung upside down and rested against his back, two from his boots.
“Do you have another bin, ma’am?” Jessie asked politely as he reached for a set of spiked knuckle dusters that were attached to the shoulder pauldrons on his leathers. The guards couldn’t help but show their surprise as Jessie kept pulling out tools of destru
ction and implements of death, but their chief had a half smile on his face. He recognized this kid from the stories on the radio.
Two overflowing bins later, Jessie patted himself down and declared that was all of them.
“Your jacket, too, if you don’t mind,” the chief said. “The metal pieces have been sharpened, haven’t they? Each could be used as a knife.”
Jessie nodded and shrugged out of it, dropping nearly ten pounds of leather and steel on the countertop.
“It’s got me out of a sticky situation a time or two.” he said.
He pointed out a particularly dark-stained piece riveted to the sleeve. “You can see teeth marks still in it.”
The lady behind the counter made a face and slid it near the bins of weapons, using the magazine to do so.
Jessie set off the metal detector when he went through and they waved the hand wand over him. It was only the rivets and buckles of his pants and boots making them buzz. And the belt buckle that hid a carbon fiber blade sharp enough to shave with. He was escorted to a small room and told to strip to his underwear, the medic would be in shortly to check him for infectious bites.
He did.
She was.
He didn’t have any.
He came back out a few minutes later, cleared and ready to enter the lobby.
“My men will escort you up to the CEO,” the chief said. “Stop by and see me on your way out, if you don’t mind. There are a few things we’ll need to discuss.”
One of them led the way up the escalator and one fell in behind. A real escalator. Working and everything. They passed through the doors and into the bustle of a busy office building, same as it had been last year. He heard the quiet hum of machines and the ringing of telephones. The rustle of papers instead of the sounds of whetstones sharpening blades. The click of keyboards instead of bullets being shoved into magazines. Easy laughter and office gossip instead of revving engines and screams of pain. Aftershave and perfumes instead of rotting flesh and unwashed bodies. Peaceful scenes of rolling fields out of the windows, not snarling undead trying to get in.
Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus | Books 4-6 | Jessie+Scarlet Page 19
