THE SAGA OF THE DEAD SILENCER Book 1: Bleeding Kansas: A Novel Of The Zombie Apocalypse (28 page)

Paulson shouldn’t have wasted th
at fire truck bringing it here. Hell, I shouldn’t have bothered trying to save Oak Blossom Lane. Aside from Paulson and the families there being far from grateful, the fire on the east side has grown so that it’s bringing in hot Kansas prairie air. This wind will happily feed the other blazes of houses and human flesh about Natalia.

As the bang and shriek of metal-on-metal
continues, the cabs of the semis on the other side parting much too slowly, I resist the urge to drive the Big Yellow Truck out the north road and take my chances with the snipers in the fields before the Interstate. I realize I could have, should have hauled ass the other way out of Oak Blossom Lane, told Marta to find her own ride. This is another hour that would have been better spent on the road back to Colorado Springs. As it is I’m going to have to find someplace to camp for tonight. I’ll never make it by nightfall.

Assuming I get out of this, that is.
The sunlight is darkening beneath the smoke on both sides. The ghastly color of the air Marta and I first drove into has found its way here. The women in the backs of the pickup trucks flap the quilts over their children before tucking themselves beneath the heavy material. At least the sun doesn’t beat down as hard. But it’s still hot, and getting hotter. The only saving grace is the wind coming in from the west, keeping the worst of Paulson’s black-smoke belching truck and burning lake of bodies off of us.

The hellish cla
tter of two multi-ton semi-cabs falling over and pulling their trailers down behind them is the sweetest music I’ve heard since this all started. The man in the tractor, a wet rag over his nose and mouth, backs up behind the breach in the first barrier and charges through full speed, taking himself well down the avenue on the other side. The second ‘dozer follows through, this time grazing the cab on the left on the way out. The snowplow behind him bashes the cab on the right a foot or so over.

S
even
vatos
climb to the tall flatbed of the tow truck. They’re crouching along the edges with their M4s at the ready as it rolls through.

Tracy is talking on his phone. He puts it away and waves towards the trucks with the women and children. He goes alongside the drivers’ sides
and shouts instructions in Spanish, with expressive motions indicating directions to be taken. He’s saying something to the women whom he’s called from beneath their quilts when another woman’s voice calls out and everyone looks to see the grandmother from the burned out apartment building hobbling around the corner. 

She cuts a curious figure, moving so slowly and stooped before the flames and smoke
. Tracy nods at the driver of the truck nearest her and he backs his truck up to meet the old woman. The women in the flatbed help the grandmother in. Once that tailgate is slammed by another M4-toting young man, the driver does not wait for the women to tuck themselves beneath the quilts with their children. He takes off at speed behind his fellows, wasting no time getting across the toxic intersection. Like the heavy equipment before them they disappear down the avenue. The cars sit too low and heavy to be driven as fast. They follow as best they can.

I don’t live here so I have no idea where they’re going. All I know is the Interstate is north, this avenue leads west, so I’ll keep driving
and hang right somewhere. I’ll wait until everyone clears out and then….

There’s a knock on my window. It’s Gitmo.
“Hey, can you keep an eye on that last car? Follow behind it until we get to the dealership?” he says when I roll down the window. “Once we get there we can upgrade and you’re on your way.”

How big of you, I want to say. “Where are you
gonna be?”

“
Me and some of my men are gonna be tagging on that last snowplow, bringing up the rear. It’s gonna be all right, man. Nobody’s seen nothin’ out there and it’s a straight shot to the dealership. We’ve driving as fast as our slowest people can.”

“All right,” I sigh. The last car has disappeared through the gap. I roll up my window and follow.

I take my time going through the formerly barricaded area. I try, anyway. Even with the windows up the stink makes my eyes water. A greenish-yellow haze of flame still flickers like a will-o-the-wisp over the nearer piles of bodies. The flesh is burned black on the bones. The mouths of the skulls hang wide as if screaming, tendrils of the whitest smoke pouring through the eye and nose holes. For blocks on either side it’s a hilly, rolling vista of ruined humanity. If any are on their feet they stand well behind the haze, and I don’t see how they can get to anyone in this bulldozed path between bodies before all these gassy, superhot fires go out.

The burning in my nose and throat is going beyond merely irritating to painful. I tap the accelerator and push through quickly. It’s not just the bodies, though they’re obviously the most poisonous. The pall of smoke from the east side is merging with the blazes on the west, and the warehouses on either side of this street are catching fire.
 

Beyond the second barricade I notice a rifle barrel sticking from a third-floor window, the muzzle
pointed to the sky. Smoke billows through the open window. This was one of the buildings Gitmo hit with the tear gas from his launcher. But the smoke from the fires across town is also thick up there. No telling what got him first.

I speed to catch up to the car in front of me. The truck carrying the loot from the liquor store as per his original assignment—it’s the one pickup with a hardtop, while the women and children ride open—closes the distance behind me, as does the snowplow behind it.
Can’t blame these guys for not wanting to linger, either. No doubt pissed at me for rubbernecking.

We come to another
intersection, this one marking the boundary of the poor neighborhood of warehouses and Section 8 housing. Beyond I see where the western sky has purpled from one end of the horizon to the other. A mean front of thunderstorms coming our way. It’s still got some prairie to cover yet, but it will be in full effect when it gets here. Wherever I’m camping tonight I’ll have to find it fast. Resign myself to a long drive in the morning….

I follow the car as it
turns right behind the rest of the convoy. The air clears as we go over another low ridge. The sun almost looks natural. Then we climb to another short, artificial plateau, this one vast enough to accommodate a large auto mall complex. No super high-end stuff like BMWs or Mercs or Ferraris, but pretty much everything else. If they don’t have it, you don’t need it.

Me, I’ve got
what I need right here: the Big Yellow Truck and a clear line of sight to the next Interstate exit, this one a good mile up from the one the snipers are watching. Of course, they might be here, too; it only takes one asshole with a scoped rifle to ruin your day. I should take the road we were driving west before the turn and drive until the road runs out, and then zig-zag my way up to the frontage road….

The truck behind me is right on my tail. I follow the last car into one of the dealerships and find myself in a narrow lane between rows of used cars. The car in front of me stops. I stop, and marvel how the truck behind me doesn’t plow into me.
But I’m pinned in. If I push against either vehicle in front or back I’m pushing against a truck and a snowplow in back, and every other goddamn thing up front.

I s
hut off the truck and jump out. “What’s going on, Tracy? I say, slamming the door behind me.

Tracy is at the front of the convoy talking to his lieutenant
s. He ignores me. After his lieutenants leave to carry out their order Tracy spends a leisurely minute with his phone.

Finally
he puts it away and looks at me. “What?”

“I understood I could go free after this. You’ve got me blocked in. I figure it’s a misunderstanding, but I really need to be on the road by—
”

“Gitmo’s in charge of that. You’ll need to talk to him.” He walks away.

The
vatos
standing here and there, guns at the ready, smirk at me. Son of a bitch.

I walk back to my truck, and then back to the snow
plow where Gitmo is holding court.

“Gitmo,” I say. “I
gotta go.”

Gitmo makes a point of pulling out a cigarette
and lighting it. I wait for him to go through his ritual of doing this before he says, “My friend, you have a decision to make.”

“Like hell,” I say. The sound of M4s,
Glocks, and who knows what else clicks in the air as my hands position themselves above the handles of my panga and hammer. “I didn’t want to be here. I was the one who figured out how to save you and your people. Now you’re fucking me over? Again?”

“That’s just it. How were you fucked over? Don’t you have everything back that was taken from you?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Now I’d like to move on.”

“Thing is, I’m still owed.”

“For what?”

“You put that gun on me.
Treated me with disrespect.”

“Were you giving me my stuff back otherwise?”

“You got your stuff back, right?”

“
Yes.”

“
So you’re good. But that still leaves me.”

“What
the fuck do you want, Gitmo?”

“
Take it easy on the language. No need to talk to me like that.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake: “
What do you want?”

“Just ‘
cause we’re not in the barrio anymore doesn’t mean we’re safe. Rumor has it they’ve chased some people down in the mountains with drones.  Taken ‘em out, every last one. You know they can computer target faces with those things, put a bullet in every one.”

“Sure,” I say
, assessing my tactical situation. They’re all standing well back. They’ll have me leaking out of a dozen holes before I get my panga off my belt.

“I know it sounds crazy but I’ve been in touch with a lot of people. Too many people disappearing off the grid without telling me what’s what. People talk to me, you know? Somebody always gets back to me!”

“Did it ever occur to you they lost the bars on their phones? Or maybe their phones just died? Service was spotty as hell before the dead overran Kansas City.
Not everyone has access to electricity, either. The phones die, they die. End of story.”

“
You know,” Gitmo says, “you did all right back there.”

“If saving everyone’s lives is ‘all right,’ I’ll take it.”

“You didn’t bust through those barricades, now.”

“No, but until I
brought up the idea of using the heavy equipment to do it, and how to pacify the area, you guys were standing around eating grilled chicken and waiting to die.”

“Well, see, that’s the deal. A
ll you have to do is think of things. I mean, yeah, use that fancy cane-cutter of yours from time to time on the
muertos
, that’s good. Still. A hell of a deal! You just use your mind and suggest ways to go and me and the boys will do all the heavy lifting.”

“I got a home and family to go to.”

“No you don’t,” and my hand goes to my Glock when I see the sneer on his face. His
vatos
all point their pieces at me, and I’d love to shoot them too for their stupid pseudo-gangster poses with the guns held sideways.

“
What I’m saying is they’re gone. You know it, I know it. This is your chance for a new family. You help us, we got your back. Win-win, man. You live. We all live.”

“And what if I just want to live somewhere
else?”

“Then you owe me for your disrespect.”

“Which means what?”

“
Gotta take you down. Just the way it is, man.”

I take in my final scene.
My last opponents. There are four goons to the left and three to the right of Gitmo. It’s a sure bet I’ve got shooters behind me but there’s not much they can do when I’m making my final charge at these guys. As Marta said, though, stupid never stopped anyone.

However it plays
I’ll be sure to inconvenience at least two, maybe three of these shits before I go down. Enjoy the rest of the apocalypse with no arms, asshole. I’ll be the lucky one, free of this sticky-stupid flypaper of power games and bullshit.

Gitmo is looking at me looking
his boys over. “The alternative to death is family. That’s what we’re offering here! How can you turn down family?”

I look over the tops of their heads, breathing steadily. I’ll go after the kid on the far left first, maybe use him as a shield while I hack away at the others. (Breathe.) It’s got to be
panga and Glock, not panga and the hammer because Gitmo will run and I do so want that ugly motherfucker dead. (Breathe.) (And breathe some more, because you need to be cool….)

“What’s it
gonna be, Mr. Dead Silencer? You can’t be silent forever!”

I’
m bringing one last, deep draw of air through my nose, mentally rehearsing the motion of my hands to my belt. I’m going to have microseconds to make this move. I listen for what sounds like distant thunder. A sign? Wait….