Judgement

by Eric A. Shelman

  Pacing back and forth, I glanced toward the south and saw a kid in a hat that looked like the one David Carradine wore in that old TV series Kung Fu. Henry Repeating Arms .22 rifle on his shoulder, he gave me a wave.

  Them damned Nacogdoche Indians were steady and disciplined. I, for one, was eager for as many of those kids to come to NoCal to find that Indian as wanted to go.

  If I knew them like I thought I did, they would all volunteer.

  Georgina came out, smiled, and I fell in beside her, snagging her by the arm. “Hey,” I said.

  She looked concerned. “What?”

  “I didn’t hear you flush.”

  “Being a lady, I’m hoping you didn’t hear more than that.”

  “Your kerplops were properly discreet.”

  She shook her head, but I saw the smile.

  “Let’s find some of the Nacogdoche kids and start breakfast. Today’s gonna be a big day on the range. Rode wants to leave on Monday, so we have three days.”

  Ω

  CHAPTER TWO

  Henomawi Reservation

  It took two days to completely search the reservation. Since then, Magi and Climbing Fox had gone from two fighters to twenty-eight. It was not near enough, but with the number of skinwalkers they had picked up along the way, the uninfected numbers could be lower and still take on a larger group of the living.

  The now skin and mud-paste covered tribe members, moving slowly from a lack of food and water, had been cowering in their homes when they were found, most of them dehydrated and weak.

  It did not matter. With the mud mixture protecting them from the skinwalkers, Silver Bolt was confident they would have the time they needed to regain their strength.

  Climbing Fox was morose; he didn’t speak, and hardly helped the others. Silver Bolt was sure he was sulking, brooding like a child. The rest of the tribe noticed, too. Many seemed to have come to despise him for his silence and lack of leadership.

  Magi did not share with the rest of the tribe that he had taken the mantle from Wattana. Nor did he tell them the elder had disgraced them by using magic he did not understand, resulting in these consequences that now touched every soul on the entire planet.

  No, Magi Silver Bolt decided he needed to demonstrate his ability to lead the Henomawan people before letting them catch on that he was already doing it. Some realizations needed to come from within; not without.

  Wattana was an old man, but he was still quite fit and strong – a couple of times in the beginning when Silver Bolt had struck him in anger, he realized he needed to be at the ready in case the elder struck back. Magi knew that Climbing Fox did not like to be told what to do, and he had no way of knowing how Wattana would respond to physical violence against him.

  But the old shaman seemed to understand and accept that Silver Bolt led them now. And as much as Magi still blamed him for Angeni Dancing Rain’s death, it was clear the people still believed it was Wattana who led them – even if he was mostly silent, and harbored several bruises on his face.

  Also with them, shambling along behind and beside them, were at least two hundred skinwalkers. They kept the slow pace, ignoring the coated humanity walking alongside them.

  The walkers were comprised of many from outside the reservation; the guard gate had been compromised early on, so shamblers had been staggering past the small shacks, into the community.

  There were also many of the gray-skinned men and women with bite marks crowding together. The smell worsened each and every day, as it became clear they were continuing to rot, despite their ability to move.

  “They push too close,” muttered Wattana. “I cannot breathe.”

  Silver Bolt, walking at the head of their group, turned to glare at him. Wattana glared back but said nothing.

  Magi did not like it when others spoke out loud; he wasn’t certain if the skinwalkers would begin to understand the sounds meant that someone wasn’t like them.

  Once one figured it out, how many might eventually understand? He was not yet certain how they functioned or how their dead brains worked. Magi feared that like babies, over time, they would learn more of their own capabilities.

  God, he hoped they were born with all they had.

  The ancient text gave no information on the things created by the mystical, horrible words that changed the world. The words Wattana had spoken that fateful night were the tool, not the manual.

  Trial and error.

  Silver Bolt mused at the words. The old method of learning things. Trial. Error. Reverse them and get what had begun it all.

  Climbing Fox Wattana’s error began the trial of all humankind.

  Without a word, Magi turned and started up a sidewalk toward a house. He reached the door and turned the knob, pushing it inward.

  Wattana had moved to the position directly behind him. It was at Magi’s insistence. He would not turn and run away. He had not told the former chief what the paste consisted of, therefore he could not re-create it.

  He could not leave and remain safe. Magi had a feeling Wattana realized he was at his mercy.

  The living humans behind Wattana all pushed through the door. When they were almost all inside, Magi shoved his way through the crowd to the door, knocking the skinwalkers backward, causing them to stagger and stumble into one another long enough for him to close the door.

  Turning, he said, “Find a place to stretch out and rest. We are almost done here. I realize the day is not yet halfway through yet, but many of you are too weak to carry on.”

  “Carry on where?” asked Wattana. “We have gathered all of the survivors here. We are outnumbered ten, fifteen-to-one by those creatures. Do you really think we can keep them at bay forever?”

  “With my paste, yes!” said Magi. “Of course. But I will warn you now that if you try to poison their hopes by denigrating me, I will kill you. This fight is bigger than you or me or even our tribe.”

  “Where do we go next?”

  “We seek more of our own.”

  “Our own what? The living?”

  “Your spell, or curse, or whatever it was. Its translation said that those with the blood of the land would not change.”

  Wattana nodded. “Yes. I took it to mean those with native blood would not change. But there are many out there I once knew who are now skinwalkers.”

  Magi Silver Bolt furrowed his brow. “No. You were right. If you look at them – really look at them – you will see that each of them was bitten. It was not your magic that changed them. It was the infection from a bite.”

  Wattana’s eyes became far away and he appeared to be considering the younger Indian’s words. He nodded and looked at Magi. “That rings true. If it is not disproved, we will be safe. When do we require a recoating of the mud?”

  Silver Bolt looked down at the Igloo, which they had assigned one of the stronger young men to carry. He shook his head. “I don’t know yet. I know how to make more, though, so we should use it liberally. I don’t want a feeding frenzy tearing us apart before we even gather our army.”

  “And this army,” said Wattana. “Who is it to fight? Who are we to fight?”

  Magi stared at Wattana. “Haven’t you understood anything we’ve done? Why I don’t care if the skinwalkers follow? Why I encourage it?”

  “We are one thin layer away from being sustenance for them,” reasoned Wattana. “If anything changes, we will all die.” He whispered this last part.

  “As much as I would like to tell you to forge out on your own, something within me will not allow it. And as much as I believe there is nothing you can do to reverse this evil you’ve unleashed, I am not yet fully convinced. That’s the only reason I didn’t just leave you behind and let the white men kill you.”

  “They are, all of them, our people. Not Henomawan, but Cherokee, Hopi, Sioux and Apache. They are Miwok and Wintun and Cahuilla. So it goes for those now hunting me.”

  Magi thought about Wattana’s words for a moment. The old man was right. Whoe
ver was out there, by decree of the words Wattana had spoken by the fire that night, was one of them; a native of this land.

  He looked at Wattana. “It does not mean you have a kinship with them. You killed many they loved. They may not wish to kill you, though they might do it without blinking if they discover you can do nothing to reverse what you’ve done.”

  Wattana suddenly looked very tired. His legs seemed to buckle beneath him, and he steadied himself on the wall of the hallway. He slid down and sat.

  “Are you all right?”

  Wattana nodded. “I need rest. I will be ready to do whatever you say tomorrow.”

  “You will rise early and study the texts again,” said Magi. “You must not give up. I will sit up with the book tonight. Try to translate more into English.”

  Wattana nodded, his eyes closed. The others had also settled down, exhausted.

  Magi did not insist on a bed. Instead, he went to a small, wooden chair, pulled it out and sat at the faded kitchen table. He turned on the light, almost surprised it was still working, and began to scratch his translations into the margin of the old book.

  Little by little. Step by step. It would either lead them to safety, or it would lead them nowhere.

  Either way, there would be battles ahead. Even with a massive horde of the undead skinwalkers, he needed weapons and ammunition.

  The other side would surely have more than their share.

  Ω

  Two or three days turned into too many weeks, but at least they were productive weeks. The city of Lebanon, Kansas had become our entire world, along with the small towns and cities around it.

  The west side of the football field became the firing range, with a host of targets set up on the east side. Measured lines were painted on the grass so shooters knew how far they were from their targets, and we got busy makin’ sure anyone who said they were willing to fight actually could.

  A small house with little furniture in it was staged as an active shooter training house. It had been Carla Solis’ idea, the matriarch of the Nacogdoche Tribe. Turns out she had a mechanical engineering degree and a good bit of experience. When I told her about Garland’s gator harness, she got on him right away, bringing him in on the design and fabrication of the targets.

  They utilized a series of wind-up spring mechanisms and some solenoids, motion detectors and relays that ran off batteries recharged by solar panels mounted on the roof. They used all this technology and expertise to create an interactive zombie house.

  As you entered each room, one or more zombies or uninfected people popped up in front of you. If the person was pointing a gun, the object was still to shoot to kill.

  If it was a zombie, absolutely. Only headshots would take it down, and if you didn’t hit it, it would slide forward on a track – fast.

  Just as an aside, let me tell you that aspect of the design was exhilarating. It worked like a charm and it really simulated the pressure of a real zombie heading straight for you.

  But sometimes the gun was a broom, or instead of a .45 automatic in their hands, it was maybe a cup of coffee or a ball cap.

  Man, I had a good time in there. Me and Danny would go against one another, and that bastard always won.

  There were other, more harrowing tests, though. It was dangerous but necessary in Micky Rode’s opinion, and I tended to agree.

  There’s nothing like encountering a zombie in the wild to really get your juices flowing and your senses tuned. It’s way different than a plywood pop-up, and there was always the chance you’d come across uninfecteds, too.

  It was coming up on two months since the start of this mess, and I was getting antsy to leave on our search for the Indian shaman. Georgie was on board, but Terry and Roxy said they wanted to stay back in Lebanon if that was okay. They promised to look after Liam, who had gotten very close to Garland, but still seemed to look at all of us as his family.

  Georgie was okay with Roxy and Terry staying behind, not only because of Liam, but because it just seemed safer to stay behind. We were heading into the unknown.

  There was one condition, though; Georgie was adamant that if her daughter was going to sit it out, she had to take over Carla’s training sessions.

  It seemed like a good arrangement; Carla and Jimmy were joining our posse to find Wattana, and where they went, the kids followed – minus a few. The Nacogdoche elders had agreed to let a team of eight kids remain in Lebanon.

  I could tell the kids who had to stay weren’t all too happy about it. I was there when Jimmy told them, writing either ATTACK or DEFEND on slips of paper and letting each draw one out of a hat. He then started at the beginning of the line of kids, having them unfold their assignments.

  When it was over, looking at the excited and depressed faces, I said, “Give me a sec, would you?”

  All their faces turned up from the papers they held. Attentive and listening.

  “Okay. I know some of y’all ain’t all too happy right now, but I am, and let me tell you why. Every one of you is perfectly capable of contributing to the mission we’re about to take on. Young as some of you are, I’ve never seen any hesitation to do what’s needed, and I’ve never detected an ounce of panic in your faces.

  “Now, that might’ve made me kinda sad before all this. You’re kids, and I’ve always believed kids should be allowed to be kids. Those of you who won’t be travelin’ with us, just know we’re relyin’ on you to keep everyone else here safe. Your value is equal to those takin’ to the road. Know that.

  “Last thing. My sister, Lilly has a belief that everything happens for a reason. I disagree with her a lot, but with that, she’ll get no argument from me. There’s an old saying that when one door closes, another opens. You stayin’ here is that open door. It’s how it was meant to be. You are doin’ the job that fate assigned you to do. If Lilly’s right, we’re all gonna be fine.”

  Jimmy looked at me and nodded. He stepped forward, facing the kids, who all sat cross-legged in front of us. “Youth of the Nacogdoche Tribe. You now have your assigned duties. Those of you coming with us will need to be strong and fit, both in mind and body. Begin regular jogs around the track to build your stamina. Until we leave, get out on the shooting range every day, or fine-tune your skills in the active shooter house. If we all do this, we will still be alive when it is all over.”

  Every head nodded. None of their eyes held regret or sadness, and I was duly impressed. These kids were greater warriors than I was, and far greater than half of the current population of Lebanon, Kansas.

  Now, while we seemed to have stalled out in Lebanon, Kansas for a while, there were good reasons for it; we had to be ready. There were way too many dead out there to think it would be any kind of cakewalk.

  That said, I need to recall a training and supply trip we took a ways north to Red Cloud, Nebraska. Red Cloud sounded to me like a town that might have a heavy Native American population, but at the same time, I doubted Indians pore over maps looking for towns with names they might give to their newborn sons.

  Still, it probably wasn’t a good idea to head into any strange town with guns-a-blazin’. Until we learned more about what kind of survivors were there, we’d go in stealth, and ramp-up our aggression as the situation became clearer.

  Lots of folks wanted to come along, but I was focused on those who weren’t quite up to snuff, so we agreed the Nacogdoche kids and elders would stay behind, except for Jimmy. Carla was runnin’ the active shooter house, so she was content to help folks learn their skills there.

  On our list was to hit the gun shops in Red Cloud first, grab all the guns and ammo we could, and then use some of it on the just over 1,000 folks that once lived there. It was the best kind of interactive zombie fighting training you could get.

  Before we get into what happened on our trip to find Climbing Fox Wattana of the Henomawi Indian Tribe, here’s the tale of the Red Cloud supply run.

  Ω

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Road
to Red Cloud, Nebraska

  “Everyone got a radio? Hold ‘em up!” I yelled.

  There were twenty trainees. They were the ones Micky, Lilly, Danny and I felt had potential and just needed some more practical experience before joinin’ us on the trip to California.

  “Okay, good. Now, we’re gonna split up into four groups of six. This ain’t a schoolyard pick, so don’t get antsy or offended if you’re not picked first. This is a pick based on which skill-sets we think you need to work on.”

  Lilly stepped forward. “When Danny, Micky, Cole or I call your name, you come and stand by whoever said it. We’ll also ride in the vehicles as a group. We’ll be in teams, just like we plan to be when we get out on the road to California. Defined roles, assigned tasks.” She looked at Danny and nodded.

  “Lilly’s sayin’ we’re not tossing you to the wolves by any means. We’re preparin’ you for the kind of confrontations you can expect out there. We know a lot of you stayed in your houses until Micky’s caravan came by, so you didn’t have a lot of face time with the dead. We’ve had more than our share, so listen to us. You’ll not only learn valuable skills, more importantly, you’ll stay alive.”

  With a final nod to Micky, Danny turned to give a smile to Lilly.

  “Everyone, this is the final trip out before we go on the mission you all agreed to when you joined us. I have to admit, I wasn’t sure about you a couple weeks ago. I almost gave up on the idea of finding Wattana. But I’ve seen all of you grow. On the range and in the zombie house, you’ve all come a long way. Make it through today, and you’ll be damned ready. So, let me hear it. Are you ready?”

  He cupped a hand to his ear.

  The twenty pupils raised their rifles and whooped and hollered.

  “Good!” I shouted over them. That said, I pointed to a man whose face was turned down, as though he was sure this was a schoolyard pick, and he’d be dead last. “Garland! Come on up here.”