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

by Simpson, David A.

  “Wanna do a Ben Wilson?” Gunny asked, knowing they didn’t have much of a choice. They were limited on ammo, the only liquids available were a few beers and they would be found if they tried to hide.

  “A who?” Stabby asked

  “Army guy. Korea.” Griz answered. “Killed a bunch of commies with an entrenching tool. Out numbered and out gunned, he ran right at them. Threw them in a panic, took them out in the confusion.”

  “I saw John Wayne do that.” Hollywood said, remembering one the videos he’d seen as a kid. “He rode straight at ‘em, blasting away with the reins in his teeth.”

  “Does it really work?” Stabby asked, “I mean, there’s loads of them and only a few of us.”

  “Yeah, it works.” Scratch said. “I heard the story about some guys in Iraq, a few army dudes and a couple of contractors went in all gun’s a blazin’ and rescued some Marines who’d been surrounded by like a hundred haji’s. Never underestimate the element of surprise, our instructor told us.”

  Gunny and Griz raised eyebrows at each other, surprised the story that officially never happened had been taught in classes.

  “Pair up.” Gunny said “Find a good ambush spot. The old mining equipment will make good cover, we can stay hidden from view, hopefully until a lot of the trucks bunch up. The more of Casey’s goons there are, the easier it will be.”

  It seemed counter intuitive to Bridget and Stabby, wouldn’t it be better to go after just one car? Wouldn’t it be easier to ambush just one vehicle?

  They hustled back down the hillside and slid in among the rusting hulks of old dump trucks, boring machines and flaking iron remains of unidentifiable equipment. The raiders were close, the lead elements already nearing the outskirts of the spread-out buildings. The sun was already beating down, the temperatures climbing fast in the cloudless pale sky. They watched the dust clouds travel all the way to the mountain on both sides of them then merge and come towards the mining town.

  “That’s good.” Gunny said. “They’ll meet here, probably spread out and start searching all the buildings. They’re falling right into our trap.”

  Griz chuckled at the looks on some of the others faces, cracked open a warm, stale beer and got himself ready. He knew it was a long shot but Gunny had the others believing it was a done deal. All they had to do was create a little chaos, big clouds of dust and gunfire everywhere. The raiders would be shooting at each other while they made their escape in the confusion. Confidence counted in matters like this. If you believed you could do it, there was a chance that you actually could.

  “Remember.” Gunny said. “It’s going to get crazy, don’t shoot each other. We’ll all steal trucks, create as much mayhem as you can then head north west, follow the mountain range. We’re surrounded by highways and towns, we can’t be more than thirty or forty miles from the hardball. Once we hit asphalt, we’ll head up towards Quartzite. Radio’s on channel 31 if they have CB’s.” He grabbed the end of a rusting cable from some sort of derrick and ran across the road to slip in between two ancient cannibalized bulldozers.

  They spread out, got quiet, hunkered down and waited for more vehicles to show. A couple of motorcycles that made it first were buzzing up and down the few roads looking for signs but they wouldn’t have been able to see anything unless the crew had a blazing fire and maybe a few flags flying. They were on dirt bikes and were kicking up trails of dust that hung in the air. One of them flew by them on the right, looking for people hiding in the shadows. He buzzed away and more dust clouds kept coming, more engines adding their roar to the early morning stillness. Heat hazes were already shimmering in the distance and the plumes of dirt were closing in around them. Someone had seen their footprints, knew this was the most logical place to hide and now they were closing the trap. The little band from Lakota had slipped out of their grasp before but not this time. This time Casey had them. This time he would make them pay. This time he would teach them a lesson.

  They waited, crouched and hidden, as the rest of the vehicles came roaring into town. Gunny had hoped for this, had gambled their lives on it, that Casey’s men would be undisciplined and have no sense of battlefield tactics. They were big and mean and scary and were used to full on attacks, winning battles by their sheer numbers and disregard for anyone they happened to kill. Indiscriminate fire power from thirty guns aimed at some rancher’s defenses usually brought them down quickly. Ramming a truck through a gate at eighty miles an hour then flooding a fortified town with dozens of men firing at everything that moved brought them to heel. This fight would be even easier, there were no walls to breach.

  The cars, trucks and bikes came in fast, as they usually did when attacking a town, but this one was different. The buildings weren’t clustered together, no fences to keep the battlefield contained and there was old mining junk spread out all over. There were dilapidated campers and RV’s, old metal buildings and abandoned equipment everywhere.

  Trucks stopped and men piled out, started searching. It was unorganized and haphazard but there were enough of them, more than enough, to check every nook and cranny. The next bike that came zooming down the path, Gunny stood and whipped the cable up from the dirt. It caught the man in the chest, sending him tumbling off the motorcycle. Griz sunk a blade through his skull before he’d even stopped sliding. Before he had time to draw a breath and scream. Gunny stripped him of his Uzi, slung it around his neck and ran for the still idling bike laying on it’s side, back tire spinning. He revved the motor and took off, looking for targets. He was starting the chaos. The battle had begun.

  Hollywood and Bridget had slipped inside a pair of falling down sheds opposite each other on one of the paths.

  “Use your charms on the next truck.” Hollywood stage whispered from the shadows. Get him to stop and I’ll take care of business.”

  She nodded, calmed her nerves and ran over a dozen different gun katas that would work for this situation. Hollywood had taught her well with his unusual method of weapons drills using martial arts techniques adapted for firearms. She’d trained hard and she no longer had to think about the proper application of bunkai. They were instinct now. Second nature. Her fingers knew the ways of war, her hands knew how to fight.

  Bridget tucked her guns in the waistband at her back, pushed out her boobs, stood in the road between the sheds and stuck her thumb out when a Raider truck spotted her. There were cat calls from both men in the cab as he pulled up, smiling his sharp fanged smile. It barely had time to turn to surprise before her guns were in her fists, two twins talking, spitting little bits of lead through their grinning faces. Hollywood dragged a body out of the passenger side as she opened the door and let the raider with half a head crumple to the dirt.

  “Thought I was supposed to take care of business.” Hollywood grumbled at her.

  “Too slow, grandpa.” she told him.

  Scratch and Stabby ducked under the rusting hulk of some kind of digging machine that was worn out and discarded before they were born. The roar of engines was all round them, the dust being kicked up was getting thick and causing both of them to pull their shemaghs up over their nose and mouth. They could hear a couple of men yelling and clanging on things the next path over, searching the buildings. They had an old barrel ready to roll out in front of the next truck to stop it so they could spring their ambush but none came down the alley. They flew past on both ends as the boys waited, the raiders on foot getting closer as they methodically searched every hiding place.

  “This ain’t gonna work.” Scratch said. “They’re going to find us before we can get a car. We need to take out those two quiet-like. With blades.”

  He was worried if they started firing their guns and didn’t have a car to get away, the other raiders in the area would come running, maybe surround them.

  Stabby just nodded, he’d never been in close quarters combat against people, never had to kill a real live human being. The zombies were easy, they were already dead and came right at you. He
nervously checked the blades strapped to his arms, the wolverine style claws he used to wear when he was onstage with his band. They’d killed plenty of the undead, spilled a lot of black, rotting blood, but sinking them into a man was something entirely different.

  “Hey, you good, bro?” Scratch asked quietly, seeing his apprehension.

  “Yeah. I’ve never tried to kill anyone before. Not anyone alive, anyway.” he replied, a little above a whisper.

  “Me neither.” Scratch admitted. “With guns, sure, but not with a knife. Think it’ll be messy?”

  Stabby grimaced. Yeah, it was gonna be messy. They spotted the men from their hiding spot as they crossed the road. Typical raiders with finger bone necklaces, spikes on their armor and nail studded bats in their hands. Both had pistols but they were hunting with their clubs. They wanted to hurt someone, not shoot them dead. They stayed near each other but not close, usually on opposite sides of junk piles or sheds. They wouldn’t be able to take them both by surprise.

  “Get ready.” Scratch said. “I’m going to do a Gunny.”

  “What?” Stabby asked “What’s that? What’s a Gunny? What are going to do?”

  “Something stupid.” Scratch answered, “Stay hidden and get ready.”

  He grabbed the cooler and dragged it out behind the tracks of a derelict machine then sat on it, his back towards the men, and popped open a beer. They banged on the walls of a rusted tin building, kicked over a dented table and stopped when they saw him.

  “Hot out here already, ain’t it?” he declared, raising his voice to be heard over the gunning of engines and whine of the dirt bikes. Dust swirled in the air and the raiders exchanged a look.

  “Got some cold ones, if you want.” Scratch said and took a drink of the warm beer.

  “Is that you, Pauly?” the one with face paint and sharpened teeth asked. “Thought you was up north.”

  They both half lowered their clubs, not sure what was going on. It couldn’t be one of the Lakota gang they were hunting but neither one of them recognized him.

  Scratch turned to face them, keeping his spiked metal arm out of their sight.

  “Nah, I’m new. I came in from Texas. You guys want a Coors?” he stood to open the cooler. “They call me Tater.”

  He pulled a hot beer out and extended it to the man farthest away from Stabby. As soon as he grabbed it he knew things weren’t as they seemed. First off, the beer wasn’t cold at all and second, he had a steel spike flying right for his face. The man tried to turn his head at the last second and Scratch grunted with the effort as he drove the sharpened rebar through his cheekbone and out the other side of his head, just above the ear. The bones made an ugly crunching, breaking sound as he punched through them, not at all like the softened skulls of the dead. The other raider had time raise his club before the triple claws from Stabby slammed through the greasy dreadlocks and came out of his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He stiffened for a second before dropping to the sand, his head sliding cleanly from the blades.

  The boys stared at what they’d done for a moment before grabbing the bodies and dragging them inside a tin shack. They didn’t feel remorse, it was kill or be killed, but it might bother them a little later on, when they had time to remember their first kill when they were close enough to see the whites of their eyes.

  “We still need a truck.” Scratch said and they went back to their hiding spot by the barrel to wait.

  The roar of the machines was all around them, they could hear occasional gunfire, the dust was thick in the air and sooner or later, something would come down the alley.

  One did a few minutes later, a jacked-up Chevy with bars on the windows. Scratch rolled the barrel out and the truck stopped.

  “That’s your plan?” Griz yelled out the window at them. “Roll a barrel out in the path? I would have lit you up as soon as I saw it!”

  “Worked though, didn’t it?” Scratch said scrambling into the cab behind Stabby. “We knew we’d get some idiot to stop.”

  Griz ignored the jibe and stomped the gas when he was only halfway in, making him yelp and grab on so he wouldn’t get dumped out. The tires flung dirt and sand, adding to the cloud already hanging over the area and he joined in the chaos. The raiders were celebrating and yelling to each other over the radios. They knew the Lakota crew was here. They knew they’d find them and drag them out of their hidey holes. They were enjoying the party, doing their part to strike terror into the hearts of the hunted. Engines revved, guns were fired into the air and more men joined the search on the ground with studded baseball bats or long knives in each hand. There was going to be a barbeque tonight! There was no way they’d slip through their grasp again.

  58

  Casey

  Casey sat in his idling Mustang on the outskirts of the old mining town, air conditioner on high, just watching his men surround then converge in great, billowing clouds of dust. The jerks from Lakota were here, they had to be. His men had seen the plane fly over then crash miles out into a valley between two mountain ranges. He felt cheated. He wanted them alive. He wanted to make them pay. Within hours they had found the wreckage but there were no bodies. He sent his best men back along the flight path and just like he suspected, they found the buried parachutes. The wind had blown the loose sand away and they’d spotted a flapping corner from a canopy. His men brought him maps. Detailed tourist maps and state maps. He’d spread them out on the hood of his car, chomped on his cigar and listened to his war chiefs, men who’d been in the military or men like him who had been good at keeping a few steps ahead of the law. Men who’d been on the run for years and knew a thing or two about disappearing. The scout team had found the footprints heading due north, towards the small mountain range and the ghost town at the foot of it. He’d sent his fastest cars down the roads to circle the mountain and box them in. The men spread out across the desert with binoculars and telescopes and were waiting for them to show themselves. They could see for miles in the flat terrain, they would see them making their way down. If somehow they had found a car here in the valley, they would have seen the dust trail it kicked up. No, his chiefs assured him, if they didn’t have maps, they had probably seen the town from the airplane and were headed to it. They couldn’t have much water, if any. It was the likeliest place to find some and maybe even a vehicle. It was also the most direct path out of the desert and back to a road.

  Casey enjoyed the planning stages, enjoyed the delicious feeling of the ultimate hunt and knowing he had them surrounded. Hunting humans was a great sport, he’d have to implement it once they got settled in. Maybe some gladiatorial fighting with the stinking zombies. He’d come up with some other games, that creepy bitch Edmunds probably knew a few more. Maybe he’d hold the Casey Olympics every year, use people that tried to resist his rule. Make a show of it. He’d keep the people entertained like the Romans did in all those movies. All he had to do was flush those clowns out from where ever they were hiding and make sure his men didn’t kill them.

  They were wily bastards, though. They may have left a false trail then struck off out in the wilds so he’d been careful. Had spread his men out for miles in both directions and made their way slowly through the valley. There was no place to hide, it was sand and scrub brush. The occasional cactus or dry river bed was the only thing that broke up the hazy, flat landscape. He had time. He had them cornered like the rats they were. He wanted to savor this victory so he planned carefully. He couldn’t wait to have ol’ Mr. do-as-I-say-or-else trussed up like a pig and begging for mercy. Your days of being the president are over, he thought, it’s my time now.

  They waited until dawn to start the search and it had taken them hours to cover the miles but now he had them trapped. Casey chomped on his big cigar and let his men run wild. They’d find them, they’d discover their hiding place. If they didn’t drag them out soon, he’d call the men off, have everyone line up and slowly walk the town in a methodical search, checking every nook and cranny, just like his
military men suggested. They kept saying “do a police call.” Dumb name for it but whatever. They used a lot of weird words that didn’t make any sense.

  He sat on the hood and waited, his radio tuned to the command channel, smoking his cigar and taking pride in his army. All his. A year ago, he had nothing, was serving time for armed robbery. Now he commanded a thousand soldiers. He had twice that many women and kids and gimps that were the support teams: His cooks and supply truck drivers and all the others. His slaves.

  “We found a couple of our guys stuffed under an old bulldozer.” a voice came over the radio, interrupting his happy gloating.

  He’d expected a few deaths on his side. He knew the assholes from Lakota wouldn’t go down without a fight, but they’d killed his men and nobody had seen? Did that mean they were in one of those cars driving around, hiding in plain sight? Were they pulling a fast one? He jumped up, a sudden pang of fear racing through him. What if they looking for him? Was that asshole Gunny coming for him?

  He looked around nervously then suddenly felt very exposed. What if they were hiding up in the mountains? What if they could see him and had the cross hairs trained on him? He moved behind the car, putting it between him and the town and grabbed the binoculars. He scanned the mountain, looking for a glint of glass from a scope or a shape that didn’t quite blend in.

  “Who’s that?” one of his guards asked and pointed in the distance.

  Casey saw it then. A dust trail already disappearing on the horizon. They were getting away! He spit out the cigar and grabbed the microphone, getting ready to scream at his men to get them, to chase them down but what if it was a decoy. What if that was only a few of them and the rest were hiding? He pounded his fist against the roof in frustration. What was he supposed to do? He was frozen with indecision. His carefully laid out plans were falling apart. He needed to send half his men after them, the others had to stay and search. His face was red with anger, his billy goat beard quivered in rage. He’d been out smarted and he knew it. He grabbed the mic and roared into it, telling his men they were getting away.