Road to Riches: Deadline: Book 1 (Zombie Road)

by Wesley R. Norris

  I hung out for an hour with the kids. Got my ass handed to me playing video games and filled my belly with pizza and ice cream. My watch showed it was time to meet my contact at the bar, so I said my farewells.

  “You guys keep an eye out for anyone that seems out of place and stay in the walls, for now anyway. There’s trouble brewing and I don’t want you caught up in it.” I wasn’t sure if Carter would make a move against a bunch of children, it could be disastrous if it was traced back to the Tower, but I felt better about warning them. They all popped off with smart ass comments and big talk. Kids being kids, invincible in their own minds.

  Lizzie cut me off at the door. “Give me that list. We’ll take care of it.”

  I handed her the list and ruffled her hair. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  “We’ll leave it in the Armadillo after dark, after everyone else is gone to bed. I assume you’ll be busy smooching Caitlin by then.” She added with a mischievous grin.

  “You assume correctly.” She giggled when I made a kissy face at her.

  I winked at her and pecked her on the cheek, grabbed my hat and headed out the door. I didn’t bother telling her the Armadillo was locked up. It wouldn’t matter to these hooligans anyway. I’d find her just like I left her, and my supplies would be inside by morning.

  5

  Wild Card

  Lakota, OK

  I headed for one of the finest establishments in the entire world, Naomi’s Old Goat Saloon. It’s one of those places where a man can feel at home after a long day of work. It wasn’t really a place where my type hung out. Naomi catered more to the men and women who worked in the rebuild effort. Occasionally, a few bounty hunters and retrievers frequented Naomi’s because of her cooking, but the usual crowd was mostly locals based out of Lakota.

  It’s true that those of us who roam the badlands are the rock stars of the apocalypse, but we don’t really fit in with the normal people. Sure, whenever there’s a shortage of anesthesia or hydrocodone pills in a town, and there’s plenty in a hospital somewhere full of trapped undead, we are the first people they look for, but after the job is done, the people in authority prefer us to move on, out of sight, out of mind, until the next time we are needed. The Old Goat never turned away a thirsty stranger, but you could feel the stares on the back of your head. Men watched through hooded eyes, trying to see what made you different from them, wondering if the stories were true that seemed to spread like wildfire about those of us in the trade. Women were attracted to the dangerous lifestyle and devil may care attitudes of the men who would venture out of the safety of the walls to risk their lives for a fist full of gold. Throw in too much alcohol and big talk from a drifting retriever trying to impress a plumber’s wife and you had a recipe for trouble. Naomi didn’t tolerate trouble in her bar and being banned from ever eating her spicy chicken wings again was not a life I wanted to contemplate.

  Bastille’s talk radio show was responsible for spreading most of the negative hype surrounding retrievers. Many jobs weren’t even that hard if you had your head in the game. He had a flair for adding his own twist to a story with the truth being optional. Personally, I’d never met the man, but he was good for business, so I vowed to drink at least one beer of many in his honor.

  I’d run into my fair share of trouble here, but usually that was just a misunderstanding. Out of respect for Naomi, I kept my gun holstered when I frequented her place. She was okay with a bare-knuckled dustup now and then to settle a dispute, but she drew the line at gunplay. Still, I never passed up the opportunity to stop in and wash away the road dust when I was in town.

  I pushed through the door and took in the aroma of sawdust and fresh cut flowers. The sawdust wasn’t spread across the floor to soak up blood and puke like in many other places, but from the skill saws of the workers remodeling her office. It was her palace, and she was the Queen. Some part of the building was under renovation every time I came through. The place was always spotless, clean enough to eat off the floor, just ask Bo. I detected the subtle, but delicious aroma of something cooking in the kitchen. I loved this place, and it was good to be back. The beer was cold, and the food was second to none.

  Roughnecks, rednecks and polished types in their suits and ties were gathered around the pool table to shoot the breeze as they washed away the stress of rebuilding the world with a cold beer. A couple of them acknowledged me with a wave, a couple of more shot dirty looks in my direction.

  Everybody was somebody at Naomi’s. A lot of class prejudices had died along with the rest of the world and whatever skill a person possessed was in demand. People appreciated the hard work of the welders and the mechanics. Doctors and truck drivers stood around pool tables drinking whiskey and swapping lies. Tall wine glasses were raised in toasts at a table occupied by a pair of female college professors, the mail delivery lady and the cute little diesel mechanic from Tommy’s garage that kept the big trucks repaired so they could haul livestock and produce between the settlements. Things did tend to get a little rowdy late at night sometimes when live music was played and the hard liquor was consumed by the bottle instead of the shot, but Nay Nay ruled the joint with an iron fist and if she threw you out, you weren’t coming back.

  The legends tell us that when Naomi Stewart, one of the first to arrive in the fortified town, opened the doors for business it was simply named Naomi’s Saloon. After a heated confrontation with Old Man Cobb concerning the levels of raucous noise and fist fights going on under her roof when old Mrs. Crawford down the street was trying to sleep, she just stood there and stared the crusty old Marine down and told him that folks needed a place to blow off some steam. She couldn’t fight, couldn’t drive a tractor trailer, or build a fortified wall, but she could damn well give those boys and girls a place to unwind and thank you very much, she’d police the joint herself. After a crowd drawing stare down that was the main topic of the morning radio show, Cobb just grunted and walked away. The next morning, Naomi climbed a ladder with a bucket of blood red paint and rechristened the joint as the Old Goat. According to Bastille’s radio show, Cobb answered his request for an interview to discuss the matter with “No comment” and refused to discuss it any further.

  I strolled up to the long polished oak bar and took a stool. Naomi walked over to me and held her hand out, palm up. I slapped it. She was a tall, fit African American lady of indeterminate age. One of the bar girls had told me that Naomi, or Nay Nay to her friends, was over seventy. If it was true, she didn’t look it. To her annoyance and my amusement, I usually made a game of trying to guess her age.

  “I don’t want you to give me five you arrogant jackass, I want you to put some money in it to cover your long overdue tab and the damages you caused the last time you graced me with your presence. These chairs ain’t cheap.” She crossed her arms and glowered at me.

  My bad. Things did tend to get a little rowdy in here sometimes and I had a right to defend myself. Surely any sane person would prefer me breaking a couple of chairs over some drunken miscreants back than punching forty-five caliber holes in her loyal customers and fine establishment.

  “Nay Nay, you know I didn’t start that mess. I was minding my own business until he took offense at me mistaking his ugly girlfriend for a man. I shouldn’t be responsible for more than half of the damages. I’m a little tight right now and a lotta thirsty. Can we discuss this over a cold beer?” I gave her my best sad puppy eyes. “Maybe a plate of wings.”

  She harrumphed and slid me a frosty bottle of beer, shouted at the cook to drop a couple dozen wings with the Nuclear Option. I looked at the label on the beer and noticed it was a local brew, Lakota Gold. I’d never tried this brand, but it was cold, and I was thirsty, so I took a long pull. It was good, damned good. The world might be filled with a few billion undead and life may have reverted back to the nineteenth century almost overnight, but when a man could sit in a place like the Old Goat and get a freshly brewed ice-cold beer to wash away the road dust, along with a p
late full of perfectly seasoned chicken wings so hot they’d blister your tongue, the problems outside the walls didn’t seem so bad. Sentimental fool? Yes, I am.

  “I think I’ll have another plus one for that wormy little bastard in the corner.” I added.

  Naomi slid me a pair of the local brews. “You really try my patience sometimes boy.”

  “You know I love you right?” I turned up the remainder of my first beer, drained the bottle and belched.

  She popped me upside the head with an open palm. “I know your mama raised you better. Get out of here before I put you to washing dishes. Lord knows a little honest work would do you some good.”

  “Ow.” I rubbed the spot where she smacked me. She drew her hand back for another go. I decided to live to fight another day and muttered an apology.

  “Hey asshole, you’re late! I want my pistol back you cheating bastard!” I heard shouting from the back of the bar. I turned and saw Lance McCullough proclaiming I was number one in his book with both hands. I returned his salute, scooped up the drinks and headed his way.

  I knew he was here when I’d seen his 1973 Chevrolet crew cab dually pickup truck sitting in the parking lot. When he wasn’t on the job, he was prone to overindulging at the card tables and a meeting at noon was mighty early in the day for him to be upright and mobile. I was glad I wouldn’t have to drag him out of whatever hole he’d spent the night in and pump him full of coffee to get him coherent.

  I’d spared an appreciative glance at the truck, though I would never admit it to him. His ego was big enough already, nearly on par with my own. Even before the extensive mods and armoring the thing was a tank. Our vehicles were our lifeline in the badlands, and you could tell a lot about a person from their rides. Chrome from the big 454 cubic inch engine glinted in the sun through the blower hole in the hood. Heavy gauge steel reinforced front and rear bumpers, diamond plate auxiliary fuel tanks, a bed mounted machine gun and aggressive knobby tires to hug the ground made it a formidable machine. It was an old school ride, built back in the days when trucks were made from Detroit steel by proud American auto workers. No computers, plastic or aluminum body panels, little to no electronics, just a good old combination of iron, combustion and torque.

  McCullough wasn’t a big guy, unless you measured him on the attitude scale. Lean and wiry with long dark hair and a beard flecked with stray grays. Jeans worn over run down in the heel Justin Roper boots, plaid shirts and ball caps with logos from parts houses and tractor dealerships were his uniform of choice. He was quick with a laugh, usually at one of his own bad jokes. A little loose lipped when he had too much to drink and ready to fight at the drop of a hat. He reclined casually in the bench seat, sipping whiskey from the glass in his right hand, the remnants of a bloody rare steak and baked potato on the plate in front of him. His side salad sat untouched.

  His left hand never strayed far from the tricked out 1911 worn low on his hip. I had its twin locked in my gun vault. Everyone knows you can’t trust a lefty, but the unlucky ones found out too late that he could shoot equally well with either hand. I also knew that his shirttail covered a big bellied Bowie knife riding horizontally in an alligator hide sheath, just in case he met someone who needed gutting. He was handy with a gun, but he was scary with a knife.

  We weren’t enemies, but we weren’t really friends either. We competed for the same jobs, played cards and lied to each other, punched people in the face together and punched each other in the face on occasion. He was honest though and if he gave you his word, you could count on him when the shit hit the fan.

  I slid him the beer and watched as he tossed back the rest of his whiskey. He set the empty highball glass aside and took a long pull from the frosted bottle. “Can’t let this get warm now, can we? That’s alcohol abuse.” He burst out in laughter. “What can I do to you, Rye? I heard about some top-secret excursion into Hell you signed on for. Pissing your pants over those millions of zombies across the river yet? Need ole Uncle Lance to hold your hand and slap some sense into that thick head of yours?”

  “Top secret my ass, that news got here before I did. Apparently, there are multiple buyers and only one prize, that’s where you come in. I need some people to watch my back trail and run interference. See me to the river ferry at least. I’ll take my chances on my own once I cross. Carter, the asshole from the Tower who hired me, hinted that he’s got people lined up to slow the other team down. I assume that I can expect the same thing.” I decided to shoot straight with him and lay out the facts. He had an expansive network of people who owed him favors and had contacts in nearly every settlement. I needed him, so I told him everything, except the threat against Caitlin.

  The wings arrived as I finished giving him the lowdown. I gestured at the plate of battered and fried perfection for him to help himself. The smell emanating from them made my nose run and my eyes water. Just the way I liked them.

  “No, thanks, I prefer not to set my asshole on fire. Don’t know how you stomach those things.” He shook his head in disbelief as I bit into the fiery wonders.

  “Good, more for me.” I moaned around a delicious bite of chicken. “You heard of a retriever named Rick Shepard?”

  “Nothing verifiable. I overheard a Shepard being mentioned when I was in Valhalla playing cards at the Great Mead Hall. All I could find out was that he’s some ex spook or special forces dude on permanent retainer to some reclusive outfit in Canada.” He turned up his beer and drained it, then smacked his lips. He signaled the waitress for another round.

  “So, what’s the prize?” He leaned in and asked conspiratorially.

  “Hardware and some manuals, some kind of tech. Nothing I give a shit about. They want it awful bad though, so it must be important. I don’t really care what it is, just tell me what, where and when and be ready to give me my gold when I get back has always been my motto.” I replied. It was the truth. I didn’t care what the prize was. Even if it was worth more than I charged for the retrieval. My word was my reputation.

  “If I help you, can I have my pistol back?” He asked. I knew it chafed his ass knowing that I had one of his prized pistols.

  “No.” I smirked. “But I will give you its weight in gold coin when I make it back.”

  “Loaded weight? You know I carry one in the chamber.” He grinned fiendishly.

  “Yeah.” I grinned back. He was in and I needed all the help I could get.

  “Deal.” He rubbed his hands together. “Let me make a few calls and get me another beer will ya.”

  “I’ve got to go see the Old Man, get your own damned beer.” I stood and donned my Stetson.

  He erupted in laughter. “Better you than me!”

  6

  Forward Motion

  Lakota, OK

  The office was nothing fancy considering the importance of the man who occupied it. Two flags stood in holders placed on either side of the window, one Marine Corps and the other a United States. A map on the wall full of colored pushpins that marked settlements and truck routs, and a shadow box with a ton of military service medals were the only things hanging on the walls. Pictures of his wife, children and grandchildren sat framed on his desk, along with a cigar smoldering in an ashtray. The Old Man looked up from the stack of paperwork in front of him when I entered his office without knocking. He dropped his pencil and mumbled something under his breath before picking up his coffee cup and leaning back in the worn leather office chair.

  “How much trouble are you going to cause me this time Rye?” Cobb asked as he glared at me over the rim of his steaming coffee cup.

  “Nothing smart to say? That’s a welcome change.” He sipped at his coffee, waiting for me to speak.

  I wasn’t sure what he was alluding to, and I didn’t want to confess to anything he didn’t know about, so I kept my mouth shut.

  He sat his cup down and leaned forward, fingers laced and arms leaning on the desktop. I instantly felt like a thirteen-year-old in the principal’s office agai
n for something that wasn’t really my fault as he glared at me.

  “I’d stay away from Scratch and Stabby if I were you. They’re still pissed. So are the Newman brothers, claim you skipped out on them over a poker debt. Don’t expect me to intervene when they whip your ass, you are overdue for a good thumping.”

  I laughed, instantly relieved. I thought for a second he’d caught wind of some of my more nefarious activities, like the afterhours visit I’d paid to the fuel depot after I borrowed the key to the pumps from one of his men. “That business with Scratch and Stabby was all in fun. They were all for it at the time. As for the Newman brothers they can kiss my ass. Dexter had an extra ace stuck in the top of his boot and Rupert was dealing from the bottom of the deck. They’re lucky I didn’t shoot their sorry asses.”

  I’d cleaned out Scratch and Stabby in a game of Texas Holdem the last time I was in town. Scratch wouldn’t accept his bad luck, so I bet him the pot against something near and dear to him. He lost and I watched on in satisfaction as a local artist airbrushed the World’s End Acquisitions logo on his prosthetic arm. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. I didn’t want any hard feelings between me and those guys, so I treated them to a night of fun and drinking down at the Old Goat, using the money I’d won from them, of course. Sometime during the night, I encountered the Newman brothers and before that was said and done Scratch, Stabby and myself were all sporting black eyes and busted lips before Sheriff Collins threw those two and the Newman brothers in a cell to sober up while I was making a hasty departure out the back door.