31
Madame President
The train cut through the night at a steady fifty miles an hour. They didn’t slow for anything, there was no need. The tracks were cleared, all the switches were thrown in the right direction. They were making good time and she was finally starting to relax. They had escaped Atlanta. They had taken a lot more casualties than she’d hoped, but that was okay. They were going to pick up soldiers in Texas. All of her fighters had orders to get within striking distance of Lakota and wait for her orders. This plan was going to work. They had four of the traitors who had tried to fight against her forces tied up in one of the cars. They were injured, some worse than others, all of them with at least one bullet hole punched through them. They’d fought hard to keep the train, but she had hundreds of men, they only had a few. From where she’d been watching on the warehouse rooftop with the rest of the diplomats, she’d seen a couple of the enemy jump off the train, but there were so many of the undead and her soldiers pouring bullets into the area, she was sure none of them could have survived. She didn’t have to worry about any of them making contact with Lakota, they were all dead and stumbling around looking for their next victim. She’d had to stop at a siding and add more cars to her train, it was simply too crowded with everyone crammed together. The Muslim Brotherhood fighters could ride in the boxcars, it was good enough for them.
“Bring the first one out,” she said, and stood on the tiny little balcony out of the wind between two of the cars. “As a matter of fact, bring them all out and line them up,” she added. She found what she had to do distasteful. She didn’t enjoy it, but it had to be done. It was like drowning a litter of unwanted kittens. One didn’t have to enjoy a task to know it was necessary, and had to be performed regardless of its difficulty. Not that she found it difficult to do these duties. She simply didn’t enjoy it. She took no pleasure in administering torture, but it was the quickest and easiest way to get the answers she wanted. She needed to get rid of these people anyway. They were taking up space.
Her men lead the first prisoner out, carrying him between them. He was barely conscious, his head lolling and he had multiple bandages wrapped around his torso. She only looked at him for a moment and shook her head.
“Toss him. Next,” she said.
The two bearded men were a little disappointed. These filthy infidels had fought like wildcats. They had killed or wounded nearly fifty of Mohammad’s warriors, even with most of them shot in the first few seconds by the snipers. They had hoped to make them suffer a little more. They did as she said, though, and shoved the man over the railing, taking little satisfaction at the crunching sound the body made as it hit the gravel head first and tumbled off into the night.
The other prisoners swore at her and struggled feebly in their bonds, their wounds tearing open again and fresh blood darkening their bandages.
The next man they brought out was in a little better shape. He had run out of ammo and it had only taken two bullets to bring him down.
“What kind of weapons do you have in Lakota?” she asked.
“Fuck you,” he spat out, his teeth stained with blood. “Enough to kill all of you camel-humping cock suckers.”
He grunted as they punched him, aiming their blows at the gunshots, but he didn’t cry out. He had a Devil Dogs tattoo on his forearm and she knew it was some kind of military insignia. Air Force or something. She looked at him disdainfully, then back up the line. Two more men awaited to be questioned. She didn’t have to put up with this abuse so she jerked her head, telling the men to throw him off the train. They took their time, laying into him with their fists as he roared in pain and fury. He hurled black curses at them, their dog-fucking mothers and their baby-raping prophet. He was still spitting obscenities at her when he died under the wheels of the rail car.
The next man was a repeat, full of anger and righteous fury. He nearly got close enough to sink his teeth into her, going for her jugular in a rage-filled last-ditch effort lunge. When he missed, he threw himself off the train, trying to take his captors with him. His hands and legs were bound and he was bleeding from several bullet holes, but he still almost took one of them over the railing.
She was disgusted and wiped the blood spray from her cheek with a handkerchief.
“Bring the last one out,” she said, wanting to get this over with. These surviving Americans were ridiculous, they didn’t know they were beaten, didn’t know when to quit and act reasonably. Didn’t they realize she had won? This false president they had was a usurper and she would put him in his place, keep him jailed for a good, long time then hang him publicly as a traitor. She hoped these men were the worst they had, that Lakota was filled with typical, average people who knew when they were beaten. People that knew they needed a strong government to take care of them. She despised all these Constitution quoting deplorable people. She needed a town full of people that knew central leadership was the only way to go forward. A town full of men like these would be difficult to control. Not impossible, she’d break their will one way or another, just difficult. She knew she had superior numbers, her scouts had guessed at maybe four hundred people and a lot of them were women and children. She had thousands of trained fighters converging on the town, from all points of the compass. They would take over Lakota and then start concentrating on Cheyenne Mountain. She didn’t know much about it, but there had to be a way in besides the front door. Air ducts, river access… something. She’d figure it out after she controlled the rest of the country.
Jellybean stood before her, trying to mask the pain in his shoulder and the fear in his belly. One shattered from a bullet, one knowing he was going to die. He told himself he wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t grovel to this hateful witch of a woman. He would die a good death. Shakey had, and everyone knew he was just a blowhard. When it counted, though, he had stepped up. Jellybean wasn’t a hero, he knew he could never be like Gunny or Griz. Hell, they probably would have killed everyone on the train already with a toothpick or something. But he could be like Shakey, he thought. Sometimes being a hero meant you kept your mouth shut. You didn’t give the enemy information that would get your friends killed.
If he could do it, so can I, he thought.
He knew it didn’t matter what he told them, when they were done, they would throw him from the train.
He never did find his family. He had left Lakota three days after they arrived. He and a few other guys, who, with families, had made a rescue run and reconnaissance mission to check on a few of the food warehouses. They had brought back a few half-loaded trailers that were still in the docks, but none of them brought back family. All they found were broken doors and bloodstains. Jellybean had given back the big house he’d claimed. He had no need for a fenced yard and a swing set for the grandkids anymore. He’d moved into one of the apartments near Pretty Boy Floyd’s so he wouldn’t have so far to walk to hang out with others who had lost everything.
When he overheard Griz telling Hollywood he thought Gunny would probably try to sneak out of town, taking the train without waiting for the crew of volunteers, he hadn’t hesitated. He’d finished his beer and gone home to grab his gear. He’d been waiting in the dining cars with the rest of the crew when Gunny had shown up, acting annoyed at them. He smiled, despite the pain and the fear. They’d done it. They’d survived the apocalypse, rebuilt a town, established the proper government, and Old Glory still flew from the top of the courthouse. The black Muslim rag would never replace it, and this bitch would find a nice little surprise waiting for her when she got to Lakota. He doubted she knew about the raids to McAlester and she wasn’t going to find out about the weapons from him.
“How many people are in the town? What kind of weapons do you have?” she asked repeatedly. Her method of interrogation was to repeat questions and cause pain. It was all pretty simple, really, she told herself. No need to get fancy.
He didn’t think he would be able to stand much more torture, he wasn’t one of those heroes
from the movies. He had been belligerent at first, taking their punches and telling them they hit like girls, but that didn’t last. It hurt too much.
So much for taking care of my teeth all these years, he thought bitterly as he spat a mouth full of them out. Blood oozed from his smashed lips and he decided he could take a little more from them. This wasn’t so bad. He knew there was no way out, knew it would all be over soon and he’d be dead. That gave him strength.
Maybe it was better this way, he thought. At least I have time to make peace with the Good Lord.
When they started grating his shattered bones together, nearly blinding him with pain, he knew he’d tell them whatever they wanted.
“Okay…” he gasped between groans of agony, trying to fall to his knees, but held between two of them. “Okay. I’ll tell you. Just make them stop.”
“We have people watching the town,” she said. “If you lie to me, I’ll know.”
Jellybean tried to nod and kept his legs loose, making the two men support his weight. He still had a little left in him, still had one more trick. He didn’t have to try to act like a broken man, he pretty much was, and he certainly looked it with eyes already swelling shut and blood oozing from numerous cuts on his face from their blows. He weighed well over two hundred pounds and if he kept all that weight on the men supporting him, they would get tired and eventually let him kneel.
Jellybean started talking, slow and extra garbled through his broken mouth, not even trying to make the words clear.
“We have lots of guns,” he said in a defeated tone. “Tons of them, enough for almost everybody.”
She perked up at this, as did the men who had been punching on him.
“What kind?” she demanded, leaning forward a little. “Is there heavy artillery? Did you get any rocket launchers? Where did you get the machine guns?”
“Rocket launchers?” Jellybean acted confused, played dumb. “Walmart don’t sell rocket launchers. We cleaned out some Walmart’s, we got plenty of guns.”
“The machine guns!” she demanded and kicked at him. “I don’t care about hunting rifles! How many machine guns do you have?”
“We found them on some Humvees,” he said around blood in his mouth, trying to think fast. “There were five or six of them.”
They let him sink to his knees, tired of supporting him, and he knew his time on earth was nearly over.
She smiled and the men with her grinned broadly through their beards. Walmart guns and a few crew weapons from some army Hummers. They had put most of them on this train. They almost laughed. Single shot rifles, cheap shotguns, and a few machine guns with limited ammo were no match for them. She was more convinced than ever that most of the soldiers that had made it to Lakota had been on this train. They’d sent their best out to do the rescues while a few stayed behind to guard a town they thought was safe. She nodded to herself. They’d let this old man think the worst was over, give him a little break then start in on him again, see if his story changed.
Jellybean had other plans and with a surge of adrenaline-charged strength, knowing it would be his last effort, he dropped to the metal deck and rolled toward the railing, ignoring the blinding bolts of pain that rocketed through his fractured shoulder. The men who had been holding him either had to jump out of the way or get knocked off of their feet. They tried to grab him, but their hands slipped on his blood-soaked shirt and he tumbled into the space between the cars, floating for long moments in free fall, the wind whipping his gray hair and the clacking of the wheels loud on the tracks. He even had time to smell the oil and grease and hear their startled shouts before everything went black.
She stood there fuming for a moment. What the hell was wrong with these people? No matter. She was reasonably certain he had told the truth and it made sense. Of course, they would go to a Walmart and wouldn’t be too concerned about an attack from a living enemy. Their defenses were set up for brainless undead who would just walk right up to the walls and let themselves be shot. This group in Lakota would be in for a nice little surprise when they faced her. She checked her watch, wondered idly how the ministers and cabinet members and their families were doing back at the warehouses in Atlanta and decided she didn’t care. They would send the train back to get them as soon as she cleared the town.
Probably.
She would give the matter more consideration after she was firmly in control. First, she had to gather her forces and allow them time to get to Oklahoma. That would take a few days. Right now, it was time for a bit of lemon tea.
32
Jessie
Jessie didn’t know where he was going, he just aimed the car north and sped away, almost in a panic. He couldn’t go in yet, couldn’t face his dad, couldn’t see Slippery Jim every day. Jim didn’t blame him for the death of his sister and all his friends and the nuns from the orphanage, at least he said he didn’t, but he didn’t have to. Jessie blamed himself. The accusing eyes in the rearview mirror seemed distant and foggy now that he was doing something to help others, not cowering behind the walls of safety. He absent-mindedly wiped some drool from his chin. He didn’t want people to see him looking like a freak, either. His cheek muscles were ripped and torn and they were healing, but all wrong. It pulled one side of his face into a constant sneer, making it hard to close his lips. He didn’t want them to see him drooling all over himself. Hell, he couldn’t even chew food properly without some oozing out, if he wasn’t careful. He was an ugly, disgusting idiot and if it were his fate to get torn apart by the zombies, then it would be justice. If he could help a few folks, thirty or more to be exact, then maybe that would earn him a place among decent people. Then he would go back.
He wandered the backroads, meandering one way then another, always watching for the tell-tale signs of someone trapped. If there were a crowd surrounding a house, then there would be survivors. He skirted around Muskogee, he had no illusions of being a hero in a city. There were just too many of them wandering around. If he were going to help anyone, it would be out in the country, someplace he could lead the undead off and then run them down one by one. Or shoot them, but he didn’t have a whole lot of ammo. He needed to find more. More guns, too. The countryside was eerily quiet. The undead were either still trapped inside, or had slowly gathered in larger groups, always running to wherever they heard the sounds of the living.
As he was passing through the little town of Mazier, he saw a sign for a petting zoo pointing off down one of the side roads. He spun the wheel without thinking and followed the arrows. It had been a month, he doubted anything caged was still alive, but there might be a chance. He kept an eye on his mirrors, watching for followers. He really needed to upgrade some of the armor on the car, too. The makeshift junk he’d used was taking a beating every time he had to run one of them down. Both front fenders were crumpled and the bondo in the frenched headlights was cracking out on one side.
Jessie saw the little petting zoo at a homestead his old man would call a “Gentleman’s Farm.” Small, well-kept and not self-supporting. A hobby farm, probably run by a couple who had outside income to keep it going. He idled the Merc at the end of the driveway, looking for signs of life. There was a fruit and vegetable stand off to his right that still had rotting baskets of melons and squash on the table. A flock of chickens pecked and scratched at the ground around them, going after the insects that were drawn to the abundant food supply. There were no undead here, but he could see the remnants of a horde that had passed through. Trampled flower garden, bits of clothes and a few odd shoes. A couple of bicycles with broken spokes lying on the ground near the porch. He saw the remains of a pair of dogs and wondered how they died. They were broken in odd angles, but it was impossible to tell if the crusty blood covering them was their own or from their attacks on the zombies trying to get in the house. There were a few drying husks with big holes in their heads, that used to be human, lying on the porch. They were slowly rotting in the Oklahoma sun. The front door was standing open
, the decorative window in it smashed out. Beyond the house, there was an old Ford 8N tractor in an open shed with a few implements beside it. A hay fork, a brush hog, and a grader blade, along with a fifty-five-gallon drum that had a hand pump in it. Jessie would bet a bag of tootsie rolls that was gas for the tractor. Good. He could use a fill-up.
The Zombie Road Omnibus Page 84
