Zombie Road II: Bloodbath on the Blacktop

by David Simpson

  Sara handed him an antibacterial wipe. “They need to rewrite their Koran. Take out a few dozen lines about killing everybody.” Gunny finished cleaning the blood off of his face and hands and tossed the alcohol wipe in the trash.

  “Yeah.” he said, “They need to join the 21st century.”

  Stacy sighed, looking at the horror laying all around her, nearly immune to it after just a few days. “Too late now.” She said “In another decade, we’ll all be back in the stone age,” then started towards Scratch with her wipes.

  Gunny glanced towards the store. There were no shots fired so it must have been clear.

  The tanks were full, Shakey and Hot Rod were putting the hoses away. Tommy had been watching the temperature gauge and it was starting to come down. The water level inside must be fine, he surmised. It hadn’t gotten hot enough to boil off. Gunny looked up at the kid staring at them and smiled, gave him a half wave. He didn’t trust him yet. The kid might have a suicide belt on or a hand grenade just out of sight. He’d lost friends over in the sandbox to children younger than this. But until he showed himself to be a radicalized nut job, he’d give him the benefit of the doubt. But with his hand on his gun.

  Cobb was poking around, looking at the spent brass laying on the ground, at the cover taken off one of the fuel pumps and the inverter laying broken on the concrete island.

  “Looks like they stopped to refuel and got taken by surprise.” He growled, an unlit Lucky in his mouth. “Pretty ingenious way of doing it, too. See that inverter? They could run electricity directly to the pump with that, bypass the switches inside the store and fuel up like normal.”

  There was an up-armored SUV near the store, the driver door still open. He pointed to it. “That was probably the escort. And I betcha this was the first time they had to refuel. A crowd of them things probably followed them in from every farm they passed in the last twenty miles. When the runners showed up, they weren’t ready. Got taken by surprise. Bunch of amateurs.” He spat.

  Right then they heard a few shots from near the back of the convoy and Cobb just looked at Gunny with a knowing grin.

  Gunny motioned for the kid to roll down the window. He did and Gunny asked in his half-remembered and poorly articulated Farsi if he was okay.

  The kid just stared at him. “Of course he’s not okay.” He thought to himself. “He had watched everybody that was with him get slaughtered, come back to life and then try to get at him as he was trapped in a truck for the past day or so.”

  The kid looked confused. “I’m American.” He said.

  It turned out the boy didn’t know a whole lot about what was going on. Or claimed he didn’t. His father had suddenly drug them out of their home in Kansas City and took the whole family to a Mosque. They had camped out there for nearly a month in the living quarters. The kid insisted he didn’t know anything but he couldn’t make eye contact with them when they asked specific questions. Like how long had he known about the zombie virus. Or if he was aware of how they spread it to everyone. Other families started showing up a week ago and the place got crowded then they barred all the doors and closed the gates to the parking lot. Two days ago his father and some other men had taken him with them to do a “Great Service for Allah” as they put it. At first he was afraid they were going on a suicide mission but his father had been a professor at the University teaching nuclear science. Much too important for something like that. He had ridden in the sleeper most of the time, a little afraid of the bearded men and the way his father was now acting, praying five times a day when before, he only prayed when they went to the Mosque. He knew they were going to California to get rid of the rods but he didn’t know what they were going to do with them. He knew they were saving this country from becoming a nuclear wasteland so his people could come over here. He didn’t seem like a “radical little raghead” as Griz quietly said to Gunny after they finished talking to him. But he sure knew enough to know what had happened, why it happened and what the next step of the plan was. And he didn’t seem all that sorry about it.

  They were still sitting in the cafe, talking quietly. The kid was still eating junk food, beef jerky and drinking a warm Gatorade. Sara had checked him out, declared him “just a little dehydrated” and lined up some drinks on the table, told him to finish them off.

  Cobb and Griz came in with a handful of maps and papers they had gotten out of the two vehicles. Shakey had a locked briefcase and sat it on the table then started prying the latches open with a screwdriver. Most of the people from the convoy were inside the cafe having drinks and snacks, using the restroom or stocking up on cheap cigars. Lars cleaned out the cash register and added the bills to his growing money roll. Only the guys and gals on guard duty were still out in the midday sun. Griz, Gunny and a few of the others spoke a little Farsi but none of them could decipher the notes. Speaking a few phases and reading the exotic lines and scrolls of the language were two entirely different things. But the map was marked. Their route and fuel stops were laid out and it ended at a cove about a hundred miles south of Monterey in California.

  “Looks like they were running back roads like we are to avoid the cities.” Gunny said. “And that” he tapped the cove below Monterey with his finger “Is where they were heading to.”

  “Well, now we know the answer to what they’re doing with the rods.” Griz said. “Looks like they were going to be put on a boat, probably transported to something a little bigger out at sea. From there, who knows? Take them back to fire their own nuclear plants in Iran or wherever?”

  “So now what?” Cobb asked. “We’re stuck with a truck full of rods that need constant supervision.”

  “Maybe not.” Shakey said. He had gotten the locks popped on the briefcase and was sorting through the contents.

  “I think I know a way…” he trailed off.

  Chapter 8

  702 Miles to Go

  Day 8

  Shakey had been thinking about his time stamped life a lot in the past few days. He didn’t have long to live without the insulin he needed to inject daily for his diabetes. He knew he could start eating better, exercising more and everything else the doctors had been telling him for the past 20 years but he also knew that even if he really tried, in the end he would die a miserable death. He was long since divorced and had never had kids. He knew he hadn’t been the greatest guy in the world. Maybe even an asshole to a lot of people over the years. Facing certain death in the not too distant future had a way of making you introspective. His glory years hadn’t been high school, they had been the time he had served in the Army. He had been a supply sergeant. Not the most glorious job but he was proud of his service, it was the one good and selfless thing he had done with his life. He hadn’t gone out and actually fought the bad guys in Iraq but he had made sure his boys had everything they needed. He had been there in the early days of the war and many of the things they required were woefully hard to get. By hook or by crook, he got everything they asked for. He took care of them. He requisitioned body armor and absolutely would not take no for an answer. He bartered with other supply sergeants for things they couldn’t get through normal channels. He utilized the underground local economy to get things Uncle Sam couldn’t. Now maybe, just maybe, he could do one last good thing. Could save some lives. Could be remembered as a hero, not some loser who died a slow ignominious death by slipping into a coma. Or worse, crapping all over himself and dying screaming in pain.

  “We’re waiting, Einstein.” Cobb said in his gruff voice.

  Shakey looked up from the briefcase he was rifling through.

  “You find something in there?” Griz asked.

  They were all staring at him. “Uh, no. Maybe you can make sense of it.” He said and pushed the case over to Cadillac Jack. “I was thinking, maybe I could run the truck out to the rendezvous point.”

  “You crazy?” Scratch said. “It’s a suicide mission. You think the Hajji’s are just gonna let you drive away after you deliver the tanke
r?”

  “Probably not.” Shakey replied. He was calm, not his usual fiery self when confronted. “But it’s gotta be done unless you want to just leave it here and turn this whole area into a radioactive wasteland.”

  A number of voices jumped in protesting the idea, saying there must be a better way.

  Gunny looked up from the briefcase Jack was going through. More crap he couldn’t read for the most part. Before he could speak, to shoot the idea down, Stacey caught his eye from where she was standing and gave a single nod of her head. He shut his mouth and considered, thinking about what little he knew of Shakey’s condition and how much more she must know to be telling him to let him go. He looked over at Cobb and Griz, raised his eyebrows a little in question. He wondered if they knew the little ‘secret’ Shakey had been trying to keep from everyone. Griz gave a nod also and Cobb grimaced but raised his voice to override everyone else.

  “Tommy, get busy fixing up an extra fuel tank on that rig. Somebody double check my math, figure out how much diesel he’s gonna need to get there. No fuel stops. Too dangerous by himself.”

  It was settled.

  Tommy motioned to his mechanics and they headed for the doors to get started as Shakey really began to let it sink in what he had just volunteered to do. Everyone came to the table and said a few words to him, some told him it was a brave and noble thing. The vets asked him to consider options, maybe leave it on the road at the cove and let them find it. Maybe he could slip off in the dark and make his way back. This was a new feeling for him. He’d never had so many people look at him and talk to him with such respect.

  Jack had dumped the last of the contents out of the briefcase and was tearing the lining out, looking for anything else that may have been hidden.

  Sara followed the mechanics out, telling them if they were going to break out the welders and other tools, she had a few things that needed to be done to her bike.

  Cobb doubled up the guard since they were going to be here a while making noise and everyone else either hung out in the little store or checked over their trucks, making sure everything was in good working order. In this new world, a breakdown meant you lost your truck at the very least. Maybe even your life.

  The new reality of things was still hard to get used to. Anything anyone wanted in the store was free for the taking. Money meant nothing. Lars and the boys had taken to lighting up their fifty cent cigars with twenty dollar bills. Scratch had said he was saving up his hundreds so he could wipe his butt with them, just to say he had. Stacey had laughed and told him if he got paper cuts or some oozing pus filled infection from dirty money, don’t come to her for treatment. That put an end to that idea.

  Gunny caged a paper and some tobacco from Cadillac Jack as they stood outside with the rest of the smokers. Stacey, living up to her SS Sisters name, had run them all out of the store.

  He’d never developed a taste for store boughts but still picked up a pouch of Drum and some papers every once in a while. He didn’t smoke much when he was driving but if he went camping or had a few extra bucks to lose at the poker table, he would usually buy some. He liked the flavor of pure tobacco without the chemicals and when you smoked a hand rolled, you actually had to stop what you were doing and enjoy it. It was almost a little ceremony with him, hearkening all the way back to his youth and working in the tobacco fields back home in Eastern Kentucky. You didn’t just shake one out of the pack, stick it in your mouth, light it and go on with what you were doing. You stopped. You took a break. Stepped back from what you were working on and relaxed for a few minutes.

  “Something ain’t right.” Jack said as popped his Zippo for Gunny.

  “Ya think?” Scratch said, blowing smoke rings with his cigarillo.

  Jack ignored him. “The paperwork in the briefcase points to involvement with people here in the States. Government types. There are keycodes to get in the secure areas of the power plants.”

  “A lot of Muslims in the government now.” Gunny said. “I wouldn’t doubt most of them were involved. Like Manchurian Candidates, just biding their time until they got word the mission was a go.”

  “Yeah, you may be right. But there are some notes in there and some of the names definitely aren’t your typical Arabic names.”

  “Hey, Jack” Scratch said, now blowing rings inside of rings. “How come you still have that Bulldog on the hood of your truck?”

  “What?” the old man asked. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s a Mack.”

  “I heard there was a new law. They don’t want two assholes staring at each other anymore.”

  As the boys cracked up and Scratch laughed at his own joke, Wire Bender came hurrying up to the small group.

  “Talked to Cheyenne Mountain.” He said without preamble. “They had a bunch of questions about the nuke truck. Now they’re worried about some of the other teams making the same mistake and getting themselves killed.”

  “Definitely a concern.” Gunny said. “It would suck to have meltdowns all over the place because they were too damn dumb to get the job done.”

  “Yeah. But they’ve figured out the main frequency they’re using to communicate. Open channel, off the shelf equipment apparently.”

  “You’d think they would have better security.” Packrat said.

  “Why?” answered Jack. “They think everybody is dead. And radio’s they can pick up from any decent electronics shop are easier to get and don’t raise eyebrows. More dependable too, probably.”

  “So what are they going to do? They going to radio them and tell them what the deal is with those things never giving up?” Gunny cut in, getting back to what was important.

  “Nope. We are.” He said. “They’re afraid if they do it, it’ll sound fake. Their systems broadcast too strong and clear. I’m going to set my ham radio on their freq and crank the booster all the way up. Then you pretend to have a conversation telling me about how the zombies never give up and all that. They’ll hear it and let all their teams know that are already out in the field.”

  “That’ll work.” Packrat said in his all-knowing way. “The old bait and switch. Only let them hear one side talking. They’ll think you’ve got a better radio than whoever you’re talking to, that’s why they don’t hear him. And you better make sure nobody else has their radio’s on if you're gonna max out the wattage. It’ll melt everybody circuit boards down.”

  They ignored him as they headed for Jack’s old truck idling in the parking lot.

  “How will we know if they’ll even pick it up? Did Carson triangulate? Does he know where their Headquarters are?” Gunny asked.

  “Yep, it’s in Lincoln, Nebraska.” Wire Bender said. “I gotta be careful when you transmit so it doesn’t come in to clear. I’m gonna run you through a dirty filter. They’re only about 300 miles away. Gotta make it sound like they’re picking you up on a bounce.”

  As they gathered around Jack’s twin stack Mack they decided to play it straight, not put on a big production of acting like they were being overrun by followers and firing off some rounds to add to the authenticity. Gunny simply hailed him over the radio and after waiting a few seconds for the imaginary answer, he told him about what he’d ‘just’ found out. They never stop following if there is a straight path. Even after ten or fifteen miles, they kept coming. When he had relayed the relevant information with breaks, acting like he was listening to a reply, he slowly brought the mic farther and farther away from his mouth. Wire Bender fiddled with the power rheostat, turning it up and down as Gunny talked about the swamps and barely avoiding running over a big alligator. He was trying to make it sound like they were a great distance away in Florida or Louisiana and the signal was fading in and out for the benefit of the Muslims listening in. Hopefully they would think they just got lucky to overhear the transmission at all.

  They waited a few minutes, not sure if it had been picked up, considering how they would do it again if they needed to. Cadillac Jacks old truck had been completely taken over with
all of Wire Benders equipment. He had mounted three different CB’s, two Ham radios, power boosters and linears and power cables and antenna wires and all manner of electronics. The truck was never shut off for long, Jack was afraid the batteries would be drained dead if he did.

  NORAD came over on the secure Ham that was set up on the bunk bed.

  “Whiskey Bravo Seven”

  “Go for Whiskey Bravo Seven.” Cadillac Jack replied

  “John has a long mustache. I say again, John has a long mustache.” Came the voice over the radio.

  “Affirmative.” was all Jack said and he had a big grin on his face.

  “Well, you gonna tell us what John and his mustache mean?” asked Scratch

  Gunny and Griz couldn’t help it, they were cracking up, laughing too hard to answer.

  “You gave them that code didn’t you Wire Bender?” Griz finally asked.

  “Don’t tell me. The chair would have been against the wall if the answer was ‘no’.” Said Lars. “You reckon the General knows?”

  “Knows what?” Scratch asked, miffed that he was the only one not in on the joke.

  “It’s from that movie Red Dawn.” Lars said. “It’s a code they used. Pretty fitting, I’d say.”

  “It’s from an old Michigan Militia shortwave radio show, too.” Griz said. “Militias were big right after Waco and Ruby Ridge. Mark from Michigan used to open his show up with that.”

  “It’s really older than that.” Cadillac Jack added. “It’s from World War 2 and that actual code was sent out to the French Resistance to let them know about D-Day.”

  “Whatever, old timers.” Scratch said. “But it means the Muzzies got the message, right?”

  “Yep, they got it. I betcha they were burning up the other channels they use letting their guys know.” Gunny said.