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

by Simpson, David A.

  Jessie was supposed to take one every day, not let it sit and ferment for months. By the time she returned the following week to the labs, Stevens had already abandoned the old formula and had synthesized a better version. One that didn’t have the possible adverse effects for rare blood types. No wonder she was healing so slowly, most of her Pink injections were probably fighting against the Blue, reacting like it’s a foreign invader. Little blood cell battles throughout her body. She sighed. It would be fine in the end, she had a lot more of the Pink in her system and it was strong. It would just take her a little longer to get back on her feet again. Meanwhile, they were safe, had food and water and apparently weren’t going to try to kill each other.

  “You want something to drink?” she asked. “They have a liquor cabinet.”

  “It’s nine o’clock in the morning.” Jessie said.

  “So. You got big plans for the day?”

  “Bring the whole bottle.” he said. “and when you pass out, I’m going to draw pictures on your face.”

  “Is that so?” she asked. “We’ll see about that, laughing boy.”

  She brought out the entire contents of the cabinet. There was quite a selection, a variety of bottles that were mostly full and all of them strong. Scotch, rye, Tennessee Whiskey, tequila, some rum and vodka. Placed among the bottles was a black magic marker. Permanent ink. She didn’t bother pouring shots, she filled pint mason jars to the rim with a challenge in her eyes.

  Jessie raised his jar to hers, they clinked them and it was on. A serious game of drinking and the stakes were high. The loser who passed out first would wake up with dick pics all over their face.

  49

  Gunny

  They had a large following of the undead chasing after the noise through the outskirts of Mexicali. The streets ahead were mostly clear so Gunny kept hitting it hard, forging a path through the abandoned cars, potholes and occasional undead crawler. By the time the zeds reacted to them tearing through the dusty roads of the border town, the last car was flying by. Bridget was seat belted tight in Hollywood’s Cadillac, calling the streets over the radio. Gunny tried to follow the directions when he could but the town was getting crazy. Sometimes the roads were completely jammed with cars and he’d have to make a sharp turn to get around them. The town was typical of most he’d been through south of the border. It was laid out in a grid so getting around jams without getting lost wasn’t difficult. Most of the houses had fences around the yards and bars over the windows like any neighborhood with high crime and he could only guess how many were dead inside their homes: safe from the zombies but surrounded and starved. They were blasting their way up to the border, trying to get across the Rio Grande and back in the States. It was a choke point though and they were worried about raiders. It wouldn’t take much; one or two men could lead in hordes to make undead roadblocks. They weren’t in the semi-trucks, they couldn’t mow down thousands and keep going.

  Gunny hit the brakes and cut down a narrow alley, circling around a smashup blocking the intersection

  “Getting close!” Bridget hollered into the mic so she could be heard over the roaring of the engines, turbos spooling up and the whine of super chargers. “When you get to the end of these side streets, turn left. The crossing is maybe a half mile down.”

  They had come south days ago some forty or fifty miles away from the crossing near Yuma. That path into Mexico had been long abandoned and the bridge across the river was mostly clear, easy to wind their way through. Casey had cut them off from that exit and the crossing in Mexicali was a different story. Gunny slid around the last corner on the sand covered street and saw it would be hopeless. Cars were jammed tight all the way to the pinch point, the concrete barriers ensuring no one could get out of line.

  “Plan B.” he said and cut into a parking lot to get turned around. They had to keep moving, couldn’t let the horde catch up. It was running as fast as it could with dried out muscles and long dead bones that had been baking in the unforgiving sun for months. The first of them was reaching for cars and the fresh meat inside when Gunny bounced him off the brush guard of his Chevy. He grabbed another gear and glanced over to the dust cloud far to the south. Casey was getting close; the fuel stop had cost them nearly fifteen minutes. They had a few miles of four lane before they got to the next border crossing, the one farther out from town, the one he figured Casey’s men would be waiting for them if he’d sent men on fast bikes. He saw trouble when he came around a bend and opened it up. He spotted an ambush a dozen blocks down, the horde gathered around it and flowing into the street gave it away. It was a flat roofed house with the undead surrounding it, keening to get inside. Gunny slammed the go pedal to the floor and the car leapt ahead just as the bullets started tearing through them. Machine gunners on the roof. Bullets stitched holes in his windshield and through the top of his car as he blasted by them. The men turned and followed with their AK’s, blowing more holes in the rear window and deck lid. They cursed and reloaded quickly, most of their rounds missing and chewing up the asphalt. Scratch was the last in the line of cars and he slowed as Stabby hung out the window with his M-4. The men were standing on the edge of the roof, both reloaded and getting ready to light up Hollywood’s Cadillac when Stabby pulled the trigger. Some of his magazines were loaded with tracer bullets, one every fifth round, and he just guided the streaking red beams of light into the bodies. They danced, dropped their weapons then fell into the awaiting arms of the hungry horde below. Scratch steered around the mob, flat footed it and caught up with the rest.

  Bridget keyed the mic. “Next river crossing is coming up in a few miles.” she said, trying to remain calm. “the map is showing two roads in, if the first is jammed, a little way past it is another.”

  Gunny didn’t have time to answer as he cut down another sand covered side street, avoiding a gridlocked section of the road. The undead were coming from all sides now, not just chasing them from behind. They couldn’t get trapped, they didn’t have time for a gun battle, Casey’s men were coming for them. Coming for them by the hundreds. Men on motorcycles moving fast and cutting off all the avenues of escape. Men who knew they had them surrounded and outnumbered, all they had to do was run them to ground. They’d catch them when they came to an unpassable road or they’d continue the chase until they ran out of fuel. Either way, they were going to catch them.

  Gunny gritted his teeth, cursed under his breath and spun into another alley to avoid an undead crowd of hundreds reaching out for him as they stumbled down the street. The houses were tight together, metal fences with concertina wire or stucco walls surrounding most of them. No way to cut though yards or knock down flimsy wooden fences like he could in the States. The situation was getting desperate, something as simple as a stalled truck blocking the path and they’d be over run.

  Wind whistled through the holes in his windshield and smoke was coming from under the hood. It smelled like oil, one of the bullets must have hit a valve cover. He hoped that’s all it was, not anything serious like a gunshot hose going to the remote filters.

  Should have lined the hood with Kevlar, not just the fenders and doors, he thought and floored it, putting distance between him and the horde. The rest of his crew were right on his tail, power sliding through curves, the growl of engines echoing off the buildings. He cut up a side street, trying to get back to the main road, the one that led to the crossing. He hoped it wasn’t gridlocked and hoped they’d make it before any of Casey’s goons had time to get gunners positions set up. They couldn’t fight, they didn’t have time. They couldn’t stop moving, they’d be mobbed. They couldn’t keep running, they were too easy to track. The sun-bleached houses flew by, garbage and tumble weeds in the streets was crushed or blown away.

  Gunny saw the border wall ahead of him and wished there was some way to smash through it, sacrifice his 55 so the other cars could get through. There was no way, it was steel beams set closely together. A big rig wouldn’t be able to knock it down. B
esides, there was still the Rio Grande to get across. He cut the wheel, slid back on the main road again and made for the crossing. They were getting close and they’d lost a lot of the zeds in the maze of backroads. Gunny could see the signs coming up, warning him of the turn only lanes and ‘no fruits or vegetables allowed’. The roads were finally clear and they flat footed the machines, leaving the horde far behind.

  He grabbed the mic dangling from the rear-view mirror on its bungee cord strap. “The road looks clear but I can’t see the crossing. Could be a trap. Wait here, I’ll check it out.”

  Gunny turned in to the half mile long access road and punched it, flying past the concrete barriers and a line of cars, many with their doors standing open. He saw the horde of undead surrounding the check station as he rounded a bend and saw the muzzle flash of gunfire from the roof. All lanes were blocked, cars haphazardly shoved across the road in the narrowest section at the bridge. Gunny cut the wheel and bounced over the curb, ducking in behind some government building. He sat, safe from the bullets and wracked his brain, trying to think of a way out. Smoke curled up from under his hood and the rat motor idled rough but the temperature was holding steady at two hundred. The electric fans were working overtime and the oil pressure gauge was still showing twenty-five pounds. The tri-five had some more go left in her but he didn’t know which way to run. Casey’s men had gotten ahead of them, they would be at all the crossings. It didn’t matter to them if they were trapped by hordes, he was sure they had enough supplies with them to last a few days. All they had to do was stop the Lakota crew from getting across and they’d be rescued later on. Gunny glanced at his gas gauge, still three quarters. All the river crossings were out of the question, he was sure every one of them was manned just like this one. They couldn’t hide and wait things out, the horde would find them, surround them and Casey’s men would spot them.

  “Bridget.” he said over the radio “Is there a marina due south? I’m thinking we can get past the Raiders, they have to be spread out pretty thin. Maybe we can surprise them, run right past them before they can get organized and start shooting at us.”

  “Checking.” she said and the radio went quiet.

  “I took a bullet in the radiator.” Scratch said. “It’s steaming and I’ll never make it a hundred miles. We’re going to have to abandon the car.”

  “They all have radio’s and they’d see us coming from the dust cloud. They’d be on our ass within minutes.” Griz said. “Maybe we can get out in the country a little way, get in front of the hordes and swim across the Rio, get back to the States at least.”

  “Then we’re on foot.” Gunny said. “Any car we found on the other side would have a dead battery. It might take us hours to find something we could hotwire and get running, meanwhile they’re running a search pattern. Casey must have some military guys with him, he’s not smart enough to pull this off by himself.”

  “Yeah,” Hollywood said. “Or cartel guys. A lot of them had experience finding people not wanting to be found. Either way, boss man, we need to move. I’ve got a huge freaking horde coming up behind me.”

  “There’s an airport just outside of town!” Bridget cut in, excited. “We can fly out!”

  “Still have the dead battery problem.” Hollywood said.

  “We can jump a plane with the cars if it is, anyone know how to fly one?” Gunny asked.

  There was silence as he dropped it in gear, cut across the parking lot and sped back down the road, away from the border and away from the bullets.

  “Stabby.” Gunny said. “Get on the ham to Lakota. Get Carl on the radio and tell him to guide you through it. The kid knew how to operate a train just from playing video games, he said he did a lot of flight sims, too.”

  “On it, mate.” he said, not bothering to argue. They were out of options.

  “Lead the way, Hollywood. Make it fast, I’ll bring up the rear.” Gunny said as he cut through a sand covered parking lot, dodged around the lead runners from the horde and started chasing after his team.

  50

  Gunny

  Hollywood ran through the chain link gate, bouncing it off his bull bar and breaking the lock. Scratch was right on his tail, a huge cloud of overheated steam pouring from under his hood. Gunny slammed on his brakes just inside the fence and jumped out, grabbed the bent gate and pushed it closed. He cut off a good ten feet of his siphon hose, looped it through the bars and tied it in a hurried granny knot. They had out run the horde but it would find them, they had five minutes, maybe a little longer to figure something out. The airport was small, just a single paved runway, a couple of dirt roads beside it and a few airplanes tethered near some hangars at the far end by a squat tower and snack bar. It appeared secure, though. The fences surrounding it were still up, although the piles of tumbleweeds and plastic bags were stacked high on the side the faced the desert.

  The others were already at the hanger, looking for the most promising plane they might have a chance at flying. Gunny eased down the access road, trying not to blow the motor. His oil pressure was down to ten at idle. Too little in the pan and what was there was too hot. He saw dust clouds from speeding cars far off the south, the men at the crossing must have radioed them, told them to cut the crew off at the next bridge across the river. They were running hard for the Yuma station, at least the Lakota crew only had to worry about zombies for the time being. The gate would hold for a little while, until the main body of thousands stumbled in. Nothing would stand up against that and it wouldn’t be long before Casey’s men found them once they realized the Yuma crossing was a bust.

  Gunny grabbed his guns and hustled into the hangar, ignoring the pawing hands and hungry faces in the windows of the little pilots lounge and canteen. Scratch was describing the three airplanes inside to Carl as everyone unloaded gear, just waiting to see which death trap they would be piling into.

  There was a sleek Learjet dominating most of the space and he hoped it was the one they’d be taking, it was roomy enough for all of them and their equipment. Hell, with a jet, they could be home in a few hours.

  “No way. You have zero chance.” he heard Carl over the radio. “What else is there?”

  “What’s going on?” Gunny asked

  “The planes outside are junk.” Griz replied, grabbing extra guns out of his Dodge. “Carl said we can’t take the jet, said it’s too complicated.”

  Scratch yelled out the other airplanes to Stabby who relayed to Carl what kind they were.

  “That one!” Stabby called out after a moment, pointing to a red and white Cessna 210 with Air Tours painted on the side. They ran over and started tossing in gear as Stabby and Scratch scrawled down notes as fast as they could. Carl was trying to remember all the important things he’d learned from the countless hours he’d spent flying the same airplane on his computer. They had the external speaker on as they both tried to understand what he was saying, each grabbing the mic to ask something that didn’t make sense. Both boys had spent a lot of time playing video games, flying all manner of aircraft but not like Carl had. He’d been into sims that were as real as it got with flight sticks and pedals and multiple monitors. The boys played button mashers with unlimited ammo and missiles.

  “There’s no keys!” Bridget yelled from the cockpit and they looked around the hangar, trying to spot a key box or an office where they might be.

  “Check the sun visor!” Gunny yelled and sprinted to the door towards the front, Mexicali Air Tours and Skydiving stenciled on the glass. Griz continued piling in the weapons and extra ammo as Hollywood ran to slide the bay doors open.

  “They’re stacking up fast!” he yelled. “That gate won’t hold much longer!”

  They could see them, they had a clear view across the field to the moaning husks pressing against the bent and twisted gate, only held in place with a length of rubber hose.

  “Got ‘em!” Gunny yelled and ran for the plane, tossing them to Bridget as she stacked the gear, making room for more
.

  “You can do it.” they heard Carl reassure the boys. “It’s an easy plane, it’s a trainer plane. Just make sure you’re not overloaded, it can only carry about a thousand pounds, less if it’s old and worn out.”

  Gunny and Griz stopped tossing in ammo and looked at each other then at the stack of guns, backpacks, bugout bags and bullets. They looked around at the six of them and did fast math.

  “Unload it.” Gunny said and they started tossing things back out.

  “Get it started!” Hollywood yelled, they’re coming!”

  He shouldered his rifle and took aim at the first of the zeds that squeezed through the widening gap. There were only a few now but when the makeshift latch broke, there would be hundreds keening towards them. The airplane wasn’t like a car, it couldn’t take any abuse. Hitting even one of the runners might ground them permanently.

  Stabby threw himself in the pilot’s seat and tried to remember everything Carl had said, Scratch was still listening and trying to write things down. There was a dashboard full of gauges, knobs and levers and two steering wheels. He didn’t know what most of them did, there hadn’t been time to ask.

  “Prime the pump, set the throttle… Which one is the elevator thingy?” he yelled over at Scratch as he remembered to enrich the fuel.

  “They’re coming!” Hollywood yelled again over his constant gunfire. “Get it started or we’re gonna have to make a break for it!”

  Bridget ran for his Cadillac, fired it up and squalled the tires spinning it around on the concrete. She shoved a CD in, cranked it all the way up, threw her go bag on the gas pedal then rolled out the door as the car shot across the parking lot towards the other end of the runway. Michael Jackson started asking Annie if she was okay as it picked up speed, the motor racing in first gear. The horde pouring through the gate turned to follow. Hollywood stopped firing, stopped drawing attention to the hanger and ran to meet the two that were reaching for Bridget. He started to shout a warning and aim his pistols but she rolled to her feet and smoothly sliced one open belly button to sternum. Her blade found the other one’s eye socket as she hopped out of the path of the first one, tripping over his spilled guts. His feet tangled and his face broke his fall. She plunged her other blade into the back of his head. Yellowish brain matter and black blood sprayed up, splashing her with gore. Hollywood grabbed Bridget’s clean hand to help her up then turned to watch his Cadillac lead the undead on a merry chase. They watched it roll through a shallow ditch and turn a little but it kept racing away from them, still leading the stumbling dead running after it.