I seethed. “This was supposed to be a secret. How in the hell does the whole world know about it?”
He shrugged. “You know how it is. Waitress overhears something and tells the cook, the cook tells the trucker he’s standing at the urinal next to. The guy taking a dump in the stall overhears and sees a way to make a buck, etc.etc.etc. Hell, for all I know, I might have let a nugget or two of information slip at Naomi’s last night, shit, I don’t really remember.”
“Yeah.” I responded. “Well, nothing to do but do it, I guess. Get that damned gate opened and let’s roll.”
He nodded. “We’ve got your back. Me and a couple of others will be with you for a while, then another group will pick up for us. You good on fuel? I’ve got you some refuels scheduled, but there a ways out. There may be a horde you have to contend with, but there’s a plan in the works for that too. The CB and Ham are burning up with reports coming in from the settlements, so we’ve got eyes and ears on most of the route. There’s a whole lotta people betting on you to fail, but there’s a bunch who stand to make a sizable profit if you make it, including me. You’ve got friends out there believe it or not. Of course, I don’t see how anybody who knows you can stand you, but maybe that’s just me.”
“Thanks, asshole.” I muttered. In my mind’s eye I could see the clock already ticking away. I had to move.
I turned back to Caitlin. The look on her face almost broke my heart. I shut out the excited chatter of the crowd and ignored the people calling my name. They didn’t matter to me, they were here for the show, to have something new to talk about. Worry etched her face, and I could see the glistening in her eyes signifying the tears were about to fall.
Please don’t cry, I thought. “Don’t listen to him, you know he’s full of shit most of the time. It’s just another job, it’s what I do and I’m the best there is.” I really wished I believed it at that moment. This was shaping up to be an epic shitshow. Story of my life.
She wiped her eyes, forced a smile. “He’s not the only one full of shit. Go, do what you do, then come back to me. I’ll be here.”
I gave her one long last kiss that drew applause and cat calls from the crowd, rubbed Bo behind the ears, then climbed back up in the Armadillo. I held up my hat to the crowd and panned it around, let loose a yeehaw and revved my engine. Even though I didn’t feel it, I had to play the part.
The sally port gates swung open as the blown 454 in McCullough’s truck roared to life. A cheer went up as we passed through the gates, and we were gone.
9
Grinder
I-40 East of Lakota, OK
I kept the Jeep at a steady eighty miles an hour as we traveled east. Lance was running point in the dually. He had a girl I’d never met before with him to man the machine gun mounted in the bed of his truck. Her blue hair was shaved up one side of her head and every visible inch of her exposed skin was covered in tattoos and piercings. She tried chatting me up over the CB, said her name was Kamikaze Karina Robertson and was from somewhere in Oregon. I tuned her out. My nerves were on edge and my jaw ached from clenching my teeth. There was too much attention, too many people making bets and getting invested in the run for the river. I was a moving target with a big bullseye plastered across my ass. I’d need every bit of luck I could muster just to get to the ferry landing. Every channel was being monitored by friend and foe alike, plus Bastille was broadcasting nonstop. I was grateful for her help, but I had too much to process for meaningless chit chat.
I was carrying a full load of fuel in the oversized tank. It was almost four hundred and fifty miles to the river crossing. Pushing the Armadillo at eighty miles an hour with its armor reinforced body and big tires was gonna drink a lot of gas. I had another thirty gallons in jerry cans mounted in the cargo rack. It wasn’t gonna be enough. Fuel was easy to get under normal circumstances, but nothing about this was normal. I had a pump and hose setup that would suck it from the underground tanks, but if the rumors were true about half the population of the badlands gunning for me then a gas station would be a perfect spot for an ambush. I could get some from the big tank in the bed of McCullough’s truck, and he swore that there were friendlies on the route to top me off, but I couldn’t count on that until I saw it with my own eyes. He’d been mighty helpful so far, but for all I knew he had big money riding on me getting my ticket punched somewhere between Lakota and Huffman and his help was just a way to hedge his bet. If Lance was playing the long game and his talk was just talk, then at some point I would have to stop for a fill up at an abandoned service station and take my chances.
Call me cynical, but I’ve been stabbed in the back before, literally and figuratively. Carter’s warning not to trust anyone came unbidden to my mind. I realized I’d let him get in my head, twisting my thoughts, distracting me and making me paranoid. McCullough and the others had given me no reason not to accept their help at face value. Fuck you Carter. I blocked the cocksucker from my thoughts and turned my attention back to the road.
“Who’s the junior varsity team in the Chevelle?” I asked over the radio. I had to get my head back in the game and I needed to know who the players were.
We were being tailed by a navy blue 1970 Chevelle with a pair of white racing stripes on the hood. The car was heavily armored and had GoPro cameras mounted around the exterior of the car.
“Crash and Conor. Couple of amateur film makers that go out and shoot footage of the undead. They follow the scavenger teams and retrievers to get live footage of them in action. I took them out with me once. Crazy if you ask me, but the stuff they shoot is used to plan routes and scavenger runs and the young people love it. They have an outdoor theatre set up and throw parties and do screenings on the weekend.”
“I hope they know they are on their own. I don’t have time to bail them out when we run into the inevitable shit up ahead.” I replied.
“We copy loud and clear. Give us a show Rye, your fans are waiting,” came the reply from the Chevelle.
We pushed hard and made good time. I-40 was clear, no signs of any pursuit or ambush as far as the eye could see. I felt some of the tension between my shoulder blades ease. We were almost forty-five miles outside of Lakota. I was drafting off McCullough’s rear bumper to eke out every mile per gallon of my precious fuel. A ’57 Chevy pickup driven by twin boys who didn’t look old enough to shave, much less drive, were running side by side with the boys in the Chevelle. We’d picked up the fourth vehicle of our convoy thirty miles outside of Lakota. The passenger in the truck was showing off for the cameras, flashing gang signs and showing off his guns. Jacob and Bobby, if I remembered correctly. They were wanna be bounty hunters. Nancy had told me they had considered taking Pascal’s bounty on me before Butcher shut them down and steered them toward easier money.
I tuned into Radio Lakota and caught the middle of a broadcast by Bastille. “You heard right listeners and you heard it here first. A retriever who goes by the name of Rye is racing towards the Mississippi River right this very moment. What kind of fool crosses the Mississippi? I was granted an exclusive interview with Mr. Rye, but the noise of the crowd rendered the recording inaudible, but he assured me the job was well within his abilities and nothing would stand in his way. We’ve not yet uncovered exactly what’s so valuable that a man would make such a dangerous attempt to cross the Mississippi for, but rest assured, we are working hard to discover exactly what it is. Anonymous sources indicate that whatever the mystery prize is, it’s extremely valuable. Valuable enough that someone has placed a bounty on Rye worth ten thousand dollars if they can stop him from reaching the river crossing! Man, oh man, can you imagine the kind of people that’s gonna bring out from under their rocks? We’ve also heard reports from saloons in every settlement and even some of the folks at the Tower that they’re taking bets on when and where he gets stopped! Place your bets folks and stay tuned!”
I groaned. That is not what I told that ass clown. I should have made good on my threat. I would make i
t a point to give him an exclusive interview if I made it back. His face could interview my fist. His big mouth was gonna get me killed and anyone who wasn’t hunting me already, now had ten thousand good reasons to start.
“Reports are steadily coming in about people gathering on tops of the walls to cheer this post-apocalyptic rock star on his way, while others are radioing in to report heavily armed groups of men and women, headed in from every direction to take a shot at our reckless hero, who was last seen traveling east on interstate 40. Best we can guess from looking at the map is he’ll be passing through the Eastwood settlement just this side of Greenbrier, Arkansas within a couple of hours. We’ll stay on the air with play by play updates as reports come in. Remember, we are monitoring all the CB channels and the Ham, so call in those sightings!”
I pounded the steering wheel in frustration, and then punched the power button on the stereo. The idiot was broadcasting my location to anyone within range of the radio station. As if that wasn’t bad enough, we hit the first ambush.
They were hidden on the far side of the overpass. We were already past them before I saw them tear out in pursuit in a smoke-filled cloud of spinning tires. The first car was an old convertible Eldorado Cadillac, complete with a set of cow horns on the hood. The other vehicle was a rusty Ford Bronco with the top removed and a machine gun mounted in the bed. Both vehicles were filled with leather clad, shaved headed, pointy teeth, dog collar wearing cannibal assholes eager to invite me to a cookout at their place.
“We’ve got trouble!” I heard Lance shout over the CB. “Take the lead, we’ll handle these baby eating sons of bitches.”
I watched as Karina climbed through the sliding rear window, pink leather pants and jacket worn over a Buffy the Vampire Slayer t-shirt, blue hair whipping in the wind. She had a big grin on her face as she racked the charging handle on the M-240 mounted in back of the dually. She tossed me a salute as I passed them. I gave her a thumbs up, punched the accelerator up over a hundred and passed them in the right-hand lane.
In the rearview I watched the Chevelle as it swerved to avoid the barrage of bullets coming from the Bronco and the Cadillac that flanked it on each side. The pursuers howled at them, then roared past the Chevelle and didn’t waste any more time on the video boys. They weren’t shooting back and they weren’t the target. I was, and they kept the pedal to the metal to close the distance between us. McCullough and the brothers were running side by side, shielding me and covering my escape. The twins in the ’57 engaged the Cadillac while the baddies in the Bronco opened up with their belt fed on McCullough’s truck. I white knuckled the steering wheel out of frustration and tapped the brakes. I couldn’t let these people fight my fight for me while I drove away.
“Get your damned foot off that brake!” I heard McCullough scream through the radio. The steady rat tat tat of Karina returning fire almost drowning out his voice. “We got this. Go! Go! Go! We’ll catch up! McCullough out!”
I pushed the accelerator harder. I didn’t like it, not one bit, but I had to keep my eyes on the prize. I glanced in the side mirror and saw a fireball erupt as I crested a hill. I gritted my teeth and hoped it wasn’t one of my friends.
10
Pair of Queens
Eastwood Settlement, AR
I was running solo, thirty miles on the other side of the ambush. No word from my escorts, no distant vehicles in my rearview. I still had a long way to go and knew there would be more attacks. A pair of dirt bikes paralleled me for a while from the west bound lanes of I-40. I had no way of knowing if they were scouting for those looking to cash in on the bounty on my head, or just excited kids wanting to get in on the action. They were dressed in full motocross gear with rifles slung across their backs. If they were looking for trouble, I was in the mood to give it to them. Running from a fight wasn’t my style and the acid in my gut churned at the thought of one of my new friends catching a bullet that had my name on it. I toggled the remote joystick on my gun mount and swiveled the MK-48 in their direction. The pair gunned the nimble bikes until they were out of sight.
At the forty mile mark a glance in my side mirror revealed McCullough’s truck gaining on me, followed by the Chevelle. I breathed a sigh of relief.
My CB chirped. “Your back trail is clear. You missed a good one, son.”
“What happened to the boys in the truck?” I asked. I didn’t see the ’57 Chevy.
“Caught a round in the radiator. They’ll be fine, can’t say the same for those cannibals, though.” McCullough replied.
“Tell those boys I owe them a night out on the town.” I responded. I was relieved they were okay. They knew the risks when they got involved, but I didn’t want anyone else’s blood on my hands.
“I’ve got good news and bad news, amigo. The bad news is my auxiliary tank sprung a bullet hole, but the good news is the good folks at Eastwood have arranged for a refuel. Keep running, they’ll come to you. We’ve got enough to get us back to Lakota, but we’ve gotta turn around now. Those travelling story tellers will be waiting for you a few miles on the other side of Eastwood.”
“Copy that. Keep the beer cold, I’ll be back before you know it. Thanks, partner. I owe you one.” Guess I was wrong about McCullough, he came through for me when it mattered. I watched as the dually grew smaller in the mirror. The Chevelle was still following behind me at a distance. The passenger was leaning out the window filming McCullough as he traversed the median in a show of spinning tires and loud exhaust.
I got off the interstate and headed north on Hwy-65 towards Greenbrier, Arkansas. I caught another glimpse of the dirt bike riders before they turned down a county road. I didn’t have time to worry about them, they weren’t an immediate threat. I was more concerned about the steadily dropping fuel needle.
I blew past a small settlement with tall walls made of cinder blocks. It was the Eastwood settlement McCullough said would provide me a refuel. I’d never been here and wasn’t sure I’d ever heard mention of it before McCullough brought it up. Settlements were popping up all over the place, and I spent a lot of time in the badlands so I wasn’t surprised I’d never heard of it until now. Apparently, they knew me though. News of the run for the river was spreading like wildfire. Men and women manning the guns atop the walls waved and hollered as I blazed on. Up ahead I was greeted by the sight of a pair of heavy-set women standing on the edge of the blacktop. One held up a sign that said RIDE HARD on it in big, bold letters. Between the words RIDE and HARD in smaller script was the word me, in parentheses. The second woman raised her shirt and shook her pendulous breasts in my direction. I laughed and hit the horn in appreciation.
I left the little town in my rearview and kept the hammer down. The gas needle was bumping the empty mark. McCullough had said to keep going, they would come to me, but I didn’t see a fuel truck anywhere. I was really hoping to save the gas cans in my bumper rack until I crossed the river, but the Armadillo wouldn’t run on hope. I started looking for a spot to pull over and dump them in with a clear view in each direction when the CB squawked.
“How bout ya’ High Roller.” A sultry voice came over the CB.
I picked up the mic. “Go for me.”
“Check your six, Cowboy.” She purred.
I looked in the side mirror and saw a cherry red missile bearing down on me. The drop top Camaro had to be running one fifty easy. I saw two blonde sets of hair blowing in the breeze as they ate up the distance between us. Conor popped out of his window, camera in hand when the buxom beauties in the Camaro passed them like they were sitting still.
I keyed the mike. “Who do I have the pleasure of talking to and what can I do for you two angels?”
“This is Cicada Mills and my sister Crickett. We came out of that settlement you passed a few miles back. Some guy named McCullough radioed in that if we wanted to be famous, this was our chance. So, Cowboy, you hold that beast dead on eighty miles an hour and keep her straight and true and my sister and I will handle your infligh
t refueling needs.”
“Roger that,” I replied. The Camaro pulled alongside me. I looked over to see two young women about twenty or so through the open top of the muscle car. Both had long curly blonde hair and legs that stretched all the way from their asses to the floor. The driver was barefoot, wearing a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, cutoff jeans that barely qualified as shorts and mirrored aviator shades. The passenger was wearing a way too tight t-shirt that had a smiling Jiminy Cricket on it and shorts that matched her sisters. I assumed she was Crickett, and Cicada was the pilot. I’m a very observant guy. Crickett climbed into the back seat where a row of plastic gas cans sat. Cicada pointed at her eyes and the road. I turned my attention from watching the buxom pair to keeping the Jeep on course as they slid in close beside me. I’d been a racing fan in my youth, spent some time on the dirt tracks with my friends and their home-built race cars. A good pit crew could get a car topped off and moving again in no time flat. Let me tell you, those old boys had nothing on these girls. I watched through the side mirror as Crickett hoisted those gas cans across the mere inches separating our vehicles and dumped fuel into my thirsty ride, wild hair whipping around her head like a flaming yellow halo, while her sister drove that car with unerring precision. Five empty cans later, the gas gauge was hovering at a comfortable level. Cicada accelerated to draw even with the rear door of the Armadillo and Crickett opened it up and climbed in. I got a good look at her long tanned legs as she climbed into the passenger seat.
She blew a bubble and let it pop and gave me a smile that could melt a glacier. “Howdy Cowboy, you’re cute.”
“Thanks for the gas doll, but what the hell do you think you are doing?” I asked.
Road to Riches: Deadline: Book 1 (Zombie Road) Page 9
