Judgement

by Eric A. Shelman

  Garland had cut his dirty blond hair into a spiky jobby with shaved sides, and had given up the overalls for jeans and a tee shirt. I’d almost call him handsome, but I don’t drive on that side of the road.

  He ran up, a big smile on his face, and clapped me on the shoulder. I smiled and clapped him back. “Gun store run,” I said. “I know you know how to do that.”

  “It’ll be different this time,” he said with a wink.

  “Fuckin’ better be,” I said.

  Lilly called out, “Irene! C’mon, girl.”

  Irene Callahan stepped forward. She was a petite redhead, maybe weighed 95 pounds, but I’m a terrible judge of pretty much everything. She’d been afraid to hold a gun of any kind, but when she saw the Nacogdoche kids plinking away with the .22 lever-actions, she got interested.

  Then she got good. Girl must have 20/10 vision or something, because she could raise the barrel and fire in a single motion, nailing her target most every time.

  Lilly took Irene along because of the troubles she had in the active shooter house. Irene tended to kill too many innocents, which meant she needed a situation where it was less likely she’d actually encounter breathers. It was our experience that there weren’t many left out in the wide world. As I think I indicated before, as Indian as Red Cloud sounded, I figured a name was just a name.

  There was definitely some overlap in the skills to be learned on the tasks we’d scheduled, but they weren’t as important as the training itself.

  Lilly brought it up, and it made sense. She said any training would be more effective if the situation that created it was realistic. In other words, nobody runs into trouble sitting in their living room – if they have a good marriage, anyway. You typically gotta head out somewhere to run into misfortune. Maybe on the way to the pharmacy, or the grocery store. Could be the gun shop, or to the QuickLube to get your oil changed. Real-world scenarios, Lilly called ‘em.

  Of the four tasks we fabricated for this particular training mission, three were focused heavily on our needs once we hit the road. One was for the needs of regular people. Sanity-saving based products. Books and videos.

  There was a bookstore, which I guess isn’t surprising in a town with not much to do. It was called Moonstone Bookstore and Emporium. I was curious as to what the emporium kept in stock, but it stood to reason that Micky and his team would figure that out and get whatever made sense.

  The reason Micky was going there was because there was small electronics store right around the corner, and he wanted to grab more of the two-way radios and anything else he deemed worthwhile.

  Next on the list was drugs, and Lilly was gonna handle that. We never looked at any pharmacy sideways, and they were always filled with everything else people needed, not even including drugs. No worries, though; Georgie gave Lil one hell of a list of medicines to snag.

  But yeah, there were myriad other goodies at pretty much every CVS, Rexall or Walgreens. Candy, cough syrup, eye drops, rubbing alcohol, gauze pads, paper tape, regular tape, pens, pencils, glue, erasers, rulers, paper, you name it.

  Yeah, school was gonna happen. If we made it off the reservation, we didn’t need to come back to a town full of illiterate sharpshooters, much as we might not notice at first.

  Ha ha … I just read what I wrote up there. Most folks would say I was off the reservation a long, long time ago.

  But I digress.

  I was heading farther than the rest of the teams. Oddly enough, there were no gun stores in Red Cloud, so I had to haul my group 34 miles further southwest of that town to another Podunk spot on the map called Smith Center. Population under 1,000, which wasn’t gonna get any complaints from me.

  There was a place called Shellito’s Gun Store that I hoped like hell hadn’t been overrun and ransacked already. Plus, Shellito’s made me think of an Al Pacino flick, so I kinda hoped it didn’t turn into a shootout.

  Conveniently, and maybe just a little crazily, right beside Shellito’s was Creekside Liquor. I wasn’t too sure those should be next door to one another, and to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have been surprised if a strip club and an elementary school finished out the strip mall. I’d just chalk it up to lazy coordination on the part of the Smith Center Planning Division.

  Seriously, it’s none of my business; I was just glad it wasn’t a dry county, what with it being Kansas and all. Tons of Kansas counties were severely lacking in the alcohol department.

  Last was more vehicles. Danny was all set to lead his crew on that task. Small pickups, to be exact. We could fill the backs with even more supplies. Once they got the trucks, they’d head over to the sporting goods store and load up on every sleeping bag they could find, along with camp stoves, propane bottles, flashlights, solar-powered shit, you name it.

  I promised everyone we’d ride up with them before cutting southwest to Smith Center, because it was our first trip north and we might need all the manpower we could muster. We didn’t know what we’d encounter; could be roadblocks like the Nacogdoche set up, but with worse consequences. We had to be ready for anything.

  Shit. Is manpower even PC anymore? The beauty is, it don’t even matter now.

  I know – you’re wondering why I’m special. Well, suffice it to say I’m bringing the best shooters with me, so I could afford to drive thirty-some-odd miles into unknown territory – out of my way, mind you – with master plinkers in my vehicle.

  We finished collecting our teams, said our goodbyes to those staying behind, and hit the road. I kissed Georgie and just gave everyone else I cared for a nod. That took longer than I thought, because I was really getting attached to a lot of good folks.

  Guess what we were all carrying? Everyone – to a man and woman … lever-action .22 rifles. Various brands, but one was the same as the next, almost. Fast to load, fast to shoot and accurate.

  Oh, we still had the heavy firepower for other situations, and the guards still had shotguns, AK-47s and AR-15s by their sides. We weren’t stupid. We were just getting smarter.

  The young‘uns from the Nacogdoche Tribe had taught us well. They were a nomadic tribe that deserved a home. History had screwed them forty ways from Sunday, and while I found their story sad, I also found it inspiring.

  They had come together and embraced who they were a century before. The original tribe’s members could not have been any tougher, smarter or amazing than them.

  You’ll find out in this chronicle what they mean to all of us.

  Ω

  We took four of the Nacogdoche Toyotas because they were well-maintained and good for haulin’ people and gear. The seats in the back let everyone keep a good eye out, and when Garland and I glanced over our shoulders, we found our crew of four standing up and scanning the horizon.

  We were second in the line of cars, but we drove on paved roads, so we weren’t subject to dust clouds.

  After the third time Garland reached for the radio, turned it on and found nothing but static, I finally asked, “Why you keep doin’ that?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” he said, an embarrassed smile on his face. “Why do I still flip on light switches when I walk into my place back in town?”

  Like Georgie and I had done, and a few others, Garland had cleared a small place just south of the school. Others were content to find mattresses and set them up in the gymnasium using the privacy blankets, but I’m going to take comfort when I can get it, where I can find it.

  Georgie agreed. So, apparently, did Garland Hunter.

  “You think it’s gonna fire up again ever?” he asked.

  “I suppose anything’s possible.”

  “Gotta be some places set up to broadcast information out after somethin’ like this happens.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “You know, I just keep thinkin’ to myself, everybody gets their shit together – you know, preppers and stuff – and they think they’re ready. They fuckin’ know they’re ready, because that’s all you ever hear ‘em talk about, how ready they are.�
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  I paused for a second, trying to organize my thoughts. Garland got it first.

  “You’re never ready for somethin’ like this,” he said. “No matter how much you think you are. Hell, before this shit went down, I mighta even wished for somethin’ to happen, just to make things interestin’. Now it’s here, and I’d give anything to be bored again.”

  I thought of his last bit of excitement. “You miss Billie Jo?” I asked, turnin’ toward him.

  “Crazy as that bitch was, kinda. At least she was with me, for what I’m worth.”

  “Buddy, you look in the mirror after your beauty makeover? I seen a couple of those town ladies eyein’ you. I think it was your mullet cut and the overalls sent ‘em packin’.”

  Garland blushed as pink as a farm-raised salmon. I laughed. “Hey, see what’s on the radio.”

  Damned if he didn’t reach up and try the knob again. He smacked it back off and punched me in the arm, laughing out loud.

  Turns out as much of a hick as folks might think he was, Garland’s laugh could’ve come from a banker, a lawyer or a diplomat. It was deeply toned and real, and I’m pretty sure it came from his most cheerful spot.

  It was right about then that the rest of us lost any capacity for laughs.

  Boy, did we hit a horde. It reminded me of the one Georgie and I had to avoid inside the CVS back in the Florida Panhandle, which was just before we met Garland and Billie Jo, if you recall.

  That was a day.

  Speaking of the day we encountered Chester, the killer zombie alligator, who eventually took Billie Jo’s leg off and assured her descent into a flesh-eating zombie, something I’ve talked about before preceded the horde.

  It’s when I radioed, “Everybody, keep an eye out. We got hair tumbleweeds.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” Micky came back on the radio. “Saw them all across the country on our way here.”

  “That’s a lot of hair,” chimed in Lilly. “I can practically smell the Herbal Essence.”

  The area around us was as flat as the proverbial pancake, with rows of neglected crops on both sides, separated by random stands of trees. The hair tumbleweeds here were enormous, and we saw several sizable balls caught on the barbed wire fences that separated the fields from the highway.

  Others rolled across distant fields, and yet more were caught by the wind and bounced off our northward-moving vehicles.

  “Let’s find a place we can pull together and make a plan,” I said.

  It wasn’t another mile before we came across a small farm on the west side of US-281.

  We all pulled into a circle, our driver’s sides toward the center. Windows down, we instructed everyone in the beds of the Toyotas to stand up and keep watch.

  “This shit’s eerie,” said Danny. “Gotta be a huge horde somewhere.”

  “Impossible to know which way it blew in from,” said Lilly. “Could be from anywhere.”

  “Georgie and I saw a giant horde, and maybe only a quarter of this many hair tumbleweeds,” I said.

  “They’re more like tumbleweaves,” said Danny.

  “Tumbleweaves?” asked Lilly, a smirk in her voice. “You just come up with that?”

  “Yep. That crap sure ain’t weeds.”

  Someone slapped their hand hard on the back of the cab, and all around us, we heard a dozen or more .22 rifle levers chime out their little double clicks.

  Tank, the nickname for one of the older Nacogdoche kids, was out of the bed and in the middle of our circle, providing an update.

  Tank was about nineteen years old and mature for his age. I have no idea when he started working out, but the kid was just about three inches shorter than me, with arms twice the size of mine.

  “Horde of maybe two hundred moving from the west,” he said. “Must’ve heard our engines. They’re about five minutes out unless they speed up.”

  We all instinctively looked around. “Dead west, or are they north of us?” I asked. “Any way around ‘em?”

  “Maybe,” Tank nodded. “Our best shot is to get back on the road now – and I mean right now – and drive the pickups north for all they’re worth.”

  “Is south an option?” asked Lilly.

  A look of disappointment crossed Tank’s eyes before he answered. “Yes. But it would mean abandoning our mission.”

  “Don’t worry kid,” said Micky. “We got twenty good shots here. Two hundred zombies, ten clean shots each, we’re golden.”

  “Tank, get back in your truck!” I shouted, then raised my finger and twirled it in the air. “Let’s get back on the road to Red Cloud. We’ll lead.”

  With that, I fired the engine and cranked it hard right, spinning it around and chirping the tires as I bounced back onto the highway.

  Yeah, yeah. I forgot I had people in the back. Luckily, they were all harnessed in, pivoting on their poles.

  The dust cloud that appeared on our left, moving across the vast field of dying crops was ominous.

  I guess the horde had been more like three minutes out, and we’d burned another two before we finally put the pedals to the metal and spun out of that little farm.

  Luckily, there was a three-strand barbed wire fence on the west side of the highway. The deterrent fencing was attached to weathered 4 x 4 posts, some of which were missing, and others leaning sharply toward the highway.

  This meant it would definitely not stop them.

  I floored the gas pedal, taking that pickup to its limits. The engine wound high but its mechanical whine reflected the excellent maintenance and care it had received from the Nacogdoche mechanics. There was no hint of coming mechanical failure.

  I kept one eye ahead and another on the rearview mirror, making sure the vehicles behind us kept up. It wasn’t necessary, because Garland sat sideways in his seat, his .22 rifle locked and loaded, doing the same thing.

  When the dozens and dozens of bodies reached the fence just twenty feet to our left, their arms clawing the air in front of them, they got hung up on the pointed barbs. Their moans and keens created a cacophony of terrifying sounds that I’m sure more folks than just me heard in their dreams.

  Somehow, their cries from a demented afterlife rose above the whine of the engines, and it grated on my nerves.

  I heard several whistles, followed by a steady pop! pop! pop! pop! that continued on as the horde broke through the fence and began scrabbling across the road.

  I grabbed the radio. “Stop! Stop! They’re pourin’ into the road ahead!”

  There had to have been far more than 200 of them, because the tumbleweaves that Danny had so aptly named had increased, and as they blew into and around us, I felt as though we might be surrounded if we didn’t take them down – and fast.

  We stopped the vehicles, and as we’d practiced, formed a circle of sorts. It was becoming second-nature, and I can tell you, we had discussed it and practiced it before hitting the road for Red Cloud, Nebraska.

  “Platform!” shouted Garland.

  He was right. I unfastened my seatbelt and jumped out at the same time as he did, and we both reached up over the top of the cab.

  Knowing what was happening, Tina Crum, one of our crewmembers in the back, reached up and slid two latches, releasing the pivot joints. This allowed me and Garland to flip over the diamond mesh platforms attached to the reinforced cab framework.

  Once down, the shooting platform extended beyond the edges of the truck, maybe a foot-and-a-half on both sides. Garland and I grabbed our bags of ammo and the .22 lever-actions and scrambled up.

  From then on, it was lever-fire-lever-fire.

  Ragged faces pushed into and through the barbed wire, their deteriorating skin tearing away from muscle and bone as they refused to die.

  Several made it right to the trucks, and we fired down at the tops of their heads, blowing their brains down into their skull cavities and watching them crumple in a heap beside the tires. Yet others made it past our initial shots and slammed into the sides of th
e circle of vehicles, unable to make it into the center of our protective zone.

  As I fired alongside Garland, I managed to see out of my peripheral vision what I could only call Whack-A-Mole in the bed of our truck. I’d hear the fighters behind us yell, “Loading!” before sliding down their stabilizing posts and onto one knee, expertly replenishing their ammo.

  As they were trained, they made sure to do this in an alternate pattern so that not all of them were depleted at once, and not everyone was down in reload position simultaneously. This meant they were poppin’ up just as another one dropped down.

  I know, I know. You’re asking yourself what if they ran out of ammo before the other was done reloading. It happened a few times, which is why there’s eight aluminum baseball bats clipped to the inside walls of the bed. Pop! Clang! Clang! Pop! Pop! Pop! Clang! were the sounds of the fight.

  With a few thuds in-between. That’d be the zombies hitting the asphalt and dirt.

  The .22 brass was ringing off the platform and the truck’s bed as the reliable rifles continued to do the deed we needed done. Before long, we saw the end of the horde, and I think every one of us was relieved. I, for one, had begun to think we’d bitten off more than we could chew. I know that’s an unfortunate turn of phrase for the zombie apocalypse, but hey – it’s all I got.

  The pops and clangs had begun to slow, and I saw some of our fighters in the other trucks retire their weapons, conceding to the others so into their work they hadn’t noticed it was almost done.

  When the last pop sounded, it was Tina Crum who held up two of the aluminum bats and clanged them together twice. She called, “Five miles! Drive! Now!”

  Without argument, everyone in the backs of the trucks dropped down to collect the brass shells. They’d leave the ones on the road.

  Garland and I flipped the platform back into driving position and jumped back inside the cab of the truck. With a double-toot of the horn, we alerted the passengers behind us we were taking off.

  Tina’s command was a standard rule for the Nacogdoche. If they were in a gun battle, the moment it was over, they hauled ass a minimum of five miles from that spot. The noise from the guns would inevitably draw them to the location of our shootout.