Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus | Books 4-6 | Jessie+Scarlet

by Simpson, David A.

  Captain Macon was intrigued. “If anyone can figure it out, the people here can,” he said. “It’s what they do. And,” he added slyly. “I’m pretty sure Horowitz would be a lot more open to trade if you had something he didn’t.”

  28

  Jessie

  Jessie made his way down to the ocean and hung out on the beach for a day; bundled against the weather, tossing sticks for Bob and looking for seashells. There was a cargo ship anchored off shore and there were people on it. It looked like living people, hard to tell from the distance, even with his binoculars. He built a fire from driftwood that night to let them know there were survivors onshore just in case they didn’t. He figured the crew was small and had plenty to eat from the contents of the containers. Surely more than one of them was filled with tons of rice or cans of soup. It rained a lot off the coast of Oregon so water wasn’t an issue. They had probably anchored at sea when the world went mad and if they never took a lifeboat ashore, may assume everyone was dead. No one had showed up by morning so he wrapped a greeting note with the radio frequencies in plastic. He told them how to contact Lakota and drew out a crude map with a few safe towns on it they could visit. As an afterthought, he added the Cimarron valley Hutterite community and scribbled “handsome devils looking for wives” then added a smiley face. He left it nailed to a stake near the remains of his fire and tossed in a few of the coins. If they’d seen the bonfire, maybe they’d come in a day or two. Maybe they were playing it safe, worried about an ambush. He waved, just in case they were watching, then idled the Mercury off the beach to get back to work.

  He meandered through the empty lands, occasionally finding survivors, occasionally clearing a small town by leading the shuffling mobs slowly down the road and taking them out with his .22. He heard reports on the radio about the train operations Lakota was conducting, leading massive hundred thousand strong hordes out of the cities and into the desert. The scorching heat dehydrated them so severely, within weeks they were nearly mummified and barely able to move. It didn’t take long after that until their brains baked dry and they died their second death.

  Captain Wilson had returned from his mission to blow all the bridges crossing the Mississippi so the hundred million undead from the East Coast wouldn’t swarm the Midwest in numbers that couldn’t be stopped. The Rockies acted as a natural barrier from the hundred million zombies in the West Coast cities. Slowly but steadily, the Central States were being cleared of the vast hordes of milling undead. There were still millions, but the fledgling new government thought they were containable. That the fortified towns and settlements would be able to withstand wandering attacks long enough for help to arrive. Everyone was learning how to operate the ham radios and modify CBs to transmit long distances. Traders kept everyone informed of any big herds they saw in their travels, although everyone knew to stay away from the cities. Still too many undead milling around for anyone but the bravest, or craziest, retrievers to mess with.

  Jessie made his way back across the Cascades and into Eastern Washington State. He still occasionally came across people who had survived. Small settlements of hard men and women doing well for themselves by scavenging. He saw evidence of Casey’s Raiders, too. Burned out and shot up fortified buildings. Stories from encampments that had fought them off, the group of cannibals who had sharpened their teeth and wore grisly trophies of finger bones as necklaces. Jessie knew why they did the things they did, even if he didn’t understand how they could be like that. There was no one to stop them. To them, they were living in their own utopia. They could do whatever they wanted. Rob, steal, kill, rape, and pillage. They probably likened themselves to Vikings or Huns, if they thought about it at all. They were doing what wicked men had always done, throughout history, when there was no fear of repercussions. When there were no hard men that would hunt them down. When they were the most powerful tribe in the land. Casey’s Raiders had swallowed up all the smaller bands. The outlaw biker gangs, the black inner-city gangs that had managed to fight their way out, the Mexican and Chinese gangs had all joined the bigger army. By themselves, they weren’t strong enough, they were just gangs of bandits. Together, they were an army and believed in their insane leader who had started it all by eating the heart of his vanquished enemy. Casey loomed larger than life in every retelling of his story among his followers.

  The next time Jessie saw them, he’d seen the smoke of a fire billowing up into the sky a mile or so east of the county road he was on. He found a driveway that cut back through the gently rolling hills a little farther down the road and noticed a lot of fresh tire tracks on the dirt drive. He could hear the revving of engines and the sounds of gunfire off in the distance. He drove his Merc another quarter mile down the road, then ran through the barbed wire fence to tuck in behind another small knoll. He grabbed his Mosin out of its padded case in the trunk, pocketed a box of shells, and ran up the hill. Off in the distance he could see the source of the smoke, a farmstead had been fenced with hundreds of strands of barbed wire to keep intruders out, whether alive or dead. One of the barns was burning bright. Driving around the perimeter was a handful of cars and motorcycles, stirring up dust and tearing up the tilled soil of the gardens. They were firing randomly at the house, not really trying to hit anything, just their idea of having fun.

  “Idiots,” Jessie said and told Bob to be quiet. He was growling deeply in his throat. He lay down on top of the hill and popped the covers off the scope Griz had fitted on the World War 2 Russian rifle. The Mosin was some eighty years old, but it was still a great sniper rifle. It was rugged like the AK-47, another Russian gun, and could take the abuse of bouncing around the back of his car for months on end. He was less than a quarter mile away, hidden in the tall weeds, and the scope pulled the raider’s faces in close enough for him to see clearly. He probably couldn’t hit one of the moving targets, so he looked for one that wasn’t. Most of them were racing around and doing donuts, firing off random shots, and basically just waiting until the fire jumped to the main house and drove the occupants out into the open. There were two cars parked near the front gate and men were standing behind them, out of the line of fire from shooters in the house. They were passing a fifth back and forth. Four men were in a loose formation, hiding behind their trunks and enjoying the show. Jessie moved about five feet to his left and lined up his shot. He aimed center mass at the back of a blonde man and squeezed the trigger as he was reaching for the whiskey. The bullet ripped through his chest and buried itself into the dark man passing him the bottle.

  Two for the price of one, Jessie thought and shifted the scope to the next marauder, sliding the bolt fast and efficient, chambering another round. The rifle cracked again and another man toppled over, clutching his chest. The last raider looked in the direction of the gunfire and turned to run, but he caught a bullet in his side. The round tore through the leather jacket, shattered a rib on the way in and took chunks of both lungs out of the hole in his other side. He died unnoticed by his friends in their trucks, struggling for air, and drowning in his own blood.

  “That was the easy shots,” he told Bob. “Now it gets tricky.”

  The roaring of the engines and the wild gunfire from the Raiders masked the crack of his rifle and Jessie took out the motor of a pickup truck when it turned around the backside of the house. He had a few seconds for a straight on shot and sent the big bullet in to the grill. Steam billowed up from the hole punched through the radiator on its way to the block. The truck instantly lost power, although it limped along misfiring badly for another dozen yards. The occupants aimed both their guns at the house and emptied their magazines, thinking someone inside had gotten a lucky shot. Jessie took out the passenger first, catching him in the upper chest. The driver turned with a shocked look on his face and Jessie plastered most of it all over the back window when the bullet caved in his skull and pulled a long stream of blood and brains out of the hole in the back of his head.

  He cycled the bolt again, ejecting th
e last casing, and grabbed a stripper clip, loading five more rounds in a fluid motion. One of the trucks had seen the muzzle flash, his buddies head explode, and was charging toward him, all gunfire aimed at the top of the little knoll. Jessie rolled quickly over the berm and ran in a low crouch toward his car, Bob right by his side. They figured he would run. They would be behind him and would have the advantage. If they had a machine gun, they’d stop him in a matter of seconds.

  He did the opposite.

  He hit the starter, slammed first gear, and aimed right for them. The ground was smooth, with gently rolling hills and covered with nearly waist high prairie grass. Jessie caught big air as he crested the small rise at the same time as the lead truck, his tires leaving black marks across his hood. He saw the look of surprise on the bearded man’s face as he instinctively jerked hard on the steering wheel. Jessie smiled when the man’s truck careened down the hill, the front wheels turned all the way, and started tumbling end over end at the sudden attempted change of direction.

  A line of bullets punched through the wire mesh and stitched through the windshield of the Mercury, making neat little holes. Jessie ducked below the line of sight and shifted gears, picking up speed. The last two trucks shot by him and he pulled the handbrake, slinging the back of the car around, and gave gas again. The motor roared and kicked up long rooster tails of dirt churned up from the aggressive tread. Now Jessie was at their back, and just like in every car combat game he’d played, he now had the advantage. The trucks tried to run, they cleared the last grassy hill and hit the road, pedals to the floor. Jessie almost felt sorry for them. He shifted into third, pulled the pin holding the M-60 in position and stuck his hand out of the window to bring it round to a shooting position. He armed the nitrous, thumbed the shifter button, and the car launched forward, lifting the front end high on its springs. He banged forward and was dead on their ass, then lit them up, sending a hundred rounds into the back of the cab. The bullet-riddled truck kept the speed up, somewhere near eighty, but started making its way over to the shoulder. Once the wheels left the pavement, everything happened fast. It crashed down through the shallow ditch, came up the other side, and continued climbing a small hill. It crested going at least seventy and flew through the air, dirt flying out behind it. It was a magnificent jump, they flew high and far. The landing looked like it hurt, though. The truck slammed nose first into the side of another knoll and crumpled in on itself as Jessie flew by, lining his sights up on the last pickup. Hands suddenly flew out the window, waving wildly at him, and it started to slow down, pulling to the side of the road.

  Jessie hesitated, finger on the trigger, tempted to cut them down anyway. They’d just been trying to kill people at the house, why should they expect any mercy? Would they have shown any? Would they have killed the farmers and laughed? Broke their arm, shot them in the shoulder, busted their ribs, kicked in their face, shot their dog and…

  Jessie stopped projecting and eased his finger off the trigger. These weren’t the men who had beaten him nearly to death. Different, but the same. He tightened his grip on the 60 again and almost squeezed as he came to a stop behind them, his motor quietly burbling as they carefully opened their doors. They got out of each side of the cab, hands held high, both talking over each other, profusely apologizing.

  They hadn’t stopped because they were sorry. Jessie knew. They were only sorry he’d gotten in behind them and they didn’t have a chance. They were spewing the same old story. Same old lies. They weren’t like those other men, they had been forced into joining or they would have been killed. They were just waiting for a chance to escape.

  Jessie shut off the engine and stepped out of the car, his metal and leather jangling in sudden stillness. The wind rippled the tall grass all around them and the sky was an impossibly beautiful blue. It was too nice of a day to die.

  “You’re him,” one of them said, recognition dawning on his face when he saw the scarred boy, the big dog quietly growling by his side. “We’ve heard the stories about you on the radio.”

  Jessie looked at them, at the comfortable way the pistols were tucked in their belts, at the way they kept a distance between themselves so he couldn’t shoot them both quickly. He listened to their hurried story as they spilled it out, tumbling over each other, how they’d been forced to help the Raiders. How their own families had been killed by those savages. How they were glad he’d found them. He watched their hands slowly lower. They were feeling safe. The Road Angel didn’t kill people. He saved people.

  Jessie knew the man half hidden by the truck would go for his gun first, he saw it in his eyes, the fake smile and the way one hand crept lower as his muscles tensed. Jessie still hadn’t said a word, just let the men babble on. His hands were empty, his leather worn and blood stained, his pistols slung low. The wind tousled his hair and carried Bob’s slow snarl away. He watched and waited. The driver was starting to relax, getting into his story, recounting how they were farmers and how these bandits had taken them away from their home and how they had no choice. Join or die. He talked with his hands, gesticulating and pointing, drawing the eye, and all the time his buddy inched his closer to his belt. But they were sure glad the Road Angel had saved them. They would have a good story to tell to their wives when they made it back home.

  “Yes, sir,” the talkative man said and stretched out his hand, walking toward him. “My name is Corey, it sure is a pleasure to meet you.”

  The man behind the truck telegraphed his intention before he moved and Jessie put two in his chest before he could pull the gun free. Bob crouched low, ready to spring and Jessie quietly said: “Stay.”

  The man stood there, a few feet away, hand still outstretched.

  “I didn’t even see you move,” he whispered. He’d missed his chance to draw while the kid was preoccupied.

  “Thought you said your wife was dead,” Jessie said and slowly pivoted the gun to point in the man’s face, smoke curling from the barrel.

  “Thought the Raiders killed her.”

  The man swallowed dryly, his eyes huge, and couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Jessie heard the sound of an engine behind him and with a fast glance, saw it was the pickup that had been parked inside the fence, near the burning barn. It stopped and doors opened. He heard hurrying footsteps and the wheezing of an old man.

  “Thought you might need some help running these rabbits to ground,” he said, “but it looks like you’re almost finished with the job.”

  “Almost,” Jessie agreed. “They get any of you?”

  “My hired hand got hit, but Ma’s fixing him up. He’ll be okay. Fire did some damage, though. Bastards torched my horses.”

  “What you gonna do with him?” the second man asked, an angry grip on his hunting rifle.

  “Nothing. He didn’t wrong me,” Jessie said and holstered his Glock. “Do you have any law in these parts?”

  “The law of my gun,” the old man declared and raised his, pulling both triggers of the antique scattergun.

  The double boom sent the driver flying backward. He slammed against the truck and slid to the ground, leaving a long red streak. Most of his belly and guts were splashed out on the pavement.

  “That’s the only lesson sumbitches like that will ever learn,” the old man said and spat, breaking down the smoking double barrel and reloading.

  Jessie caught movement out of the corner of his eye on a nearby knoll and spun instantly, knocking the old man away and pulling both pistols as he dropped to a knee. Only the breeze blowing the prairie grass. But it had been something else, he knew. Maybe a rabbit. Maybe a mule deer. Maybe his hyperactive senses playing tricks on him.

  “Damn, son,” the old man complained as he picked himself up. “Where’d you learn how to move like that?”

  Jessie glanced at Bob, he had his ears pricked, also staring at the hill. Jessie reached out, listening for things he normally blocked out, and heard it. The sigh of leather on leather, the slightest wh
isper of boots on soft earth. He sprang up and ran for the hilltop. Another one of the gang was there and he was about to get away. He heard the bike rev to life as he crested the top, guns ready to spit lead, and saw her straddling it. A girl in tight riding leathers sat on a sleek sports bike with a giant oversized muffler, not the grisly, trophy adorned bikes the Raiders preferred. This one looked like a custom-built Ninja or something. Her visor was up and they locked eyes for a second as she slid a long machete into a sheath. Green emeralds in a pale face. Sharp features, almost elven, he thought. A long, black braid spilled from her helmet. She flipped the visor down, bent low over the handlebars and the bike shot out of the grassland, onto the road, gathering speed. He heard her shift rapidly through the gears and by the time he was back down to the pavement, she was already out of sight and the sound was fading fast.

  “You’ll never catch that one,” the old man said. “That machine’s too fast.”

  Jessie stood staring for a long time, hazy, barely remembered images of a golden-haired girl dancing at the edge of his mind. Things he didn’t know he’d forgotten were trying to click into place. She had gotten him out of the prison. He’d asked her if she was an angel. She’d put him in the trunk of her car and had been angry at him. Or maybe she was afraid. They had to hurry. She’d given him the icy blue vials of miracle drugs. It was like trying to see through fog, like a misty fever dream. It was so hazy, he could only remember snatches of things. Just bits and pieces, until he kind of woke up in a hospital bed in Lakota. The memories tried to come together, things that had puzzled him tried to make sense but there were still pieces missing. It wasn’t the same girl, it couldn’t be, but just seeing her, a girl alone in the wild, had unlocked some of those memories. He remembered her in silhouette, bent over him with the setting sun behind her. Her yellow hair glowing like a halo, her face hidden in shadow. Shouting, her words angry as she threw the vials at him.