Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus | Books 4-6 | Jessie+Scarlet Simpson, A. (pride and prejudice read txt) 📖

on death's door when he drove that old car of Johnny’s through the gate. A month later, you’d never know he had been shot and beat and had broken bones. Stacey was sure there was something in the IV drip he’d been given. It was powerful medicine, but by the time they realized how miraculous his recovery was, there was nothing left in the bag but dried residue. The only part of him that wasn’t as good as new was the nasty gash on his face. Stacey had said there were muscle and tendon damage that went too long without being repaired. It had healed into a scar that pulled his lip into a sneer and ran all the way up to his eye. There was something dark inside of him, too. It hadn’t healed yet, and maybe never would. Everyone had been through a lot, but her baby had been through more. Doug had told her how he got the scar, Jessie claimed he didn’t remember.

They had been trapped in some trees, trying to get to the lake after breaking out of the school. He said Jessie went mad, started killing all of their classmates and teachers that had them surrounded. He said that the pile of bodies was so high that one of the zombies had leaped and sunk its claws into Jessie's face, ripping it wide open. Jessie had kept killing, though. Kept cutting them down. He was the only reason they escaped.

Johnny told her a story he’d heard repeated by some of the guys at the bar, about Jessie beating a zombie to death with its own daughter. It was a tale he’d told them one night when he first started drinking heavy, when he would get drunk after a few shots.

Whatever had been in that IV bag had fundamentally changed him, and she wasn’t entirely sure it was all for the better.

Jimmy Winchell walked in and she smiled. Back at her old home in Atlanta, she had a few of his CDs. He was one of country music’s biggest stars a few months ago, today he would be helping her put in a toilet. She’d have to check if the little record shop in town had any of his music. She still wanted an autograph.

5

Gunny

Gunny had to admit, he was a little bit jealous. This was the kind of crash pad he’d dreamed of having when he was young and single, growing up in the Eastern Kentucky Mountains. He’d been turning wrenches for the whiskey runners since he could hold a tool and a shop like this, set up at the foot of the holler, would have been something special. He’d been avoiding the office and his duties while working on Jessie's new place for the last couple of days. Lacy had turned some dirty offices and even dirtier bathrooms into a charming little bachelor’s pad, complete with a kitchen. That was all fine, but what he really appreciated was the garage area. A three bay, one of them with a hydraulic lift, and plenty of room for toolboxes and welders. The kids had snagged one of the arcade machines out of the bowling alley and Slippery Jim had done something to it so it was set on free play. The sounds of Pacman were coming from the corner as Jessie pulled the old Mercury into the center bay, the one with the lift, and he limped over to push the arms under the frame.

They were going to improve the car as much as they could, build a real Pony Express Runner that would keep him alive, no matter what he ran into. It was the wild, wild west outside of the walls. Bastille had been broadcasting some old radio westerns he’d dug up from somewhere and now it was in everyone’s heads. America had reverted a hundred and fifty years. The dangerous bandito’s of yesteryear were compared to Casey’s Raiders, and the radical Muslims had been compared to wild Indians for a few days, until Dutch and Joey Tallstrider had heard and taken offense. Bastille had decided it wasn’t such a good analogy and hastily apologized to the two pissed off Indians. Now he called the radicals still out there godless heathens. He was pretty sure nobody was going to stomp in claiming to be one and claiming to be offended.

Nobody knew what the raging zombie hordes were like when compared to anything in history. There simply hadn’t been anything like them before.

The wild west idea had taken hold and some were already romanticizing the wide-open spaces. Not many people wanted to go outside the walls, though. That was a good way to get yourself killed.

Gunny poked around under the car once they had it in the air, thinking about different ways to improve it while his mind worried about the things he was privy to as the so-called president.

General Carson, his number two, had pointed out that the earliest census for the States was in 1790, and there were nearly four million people way back then. Carson’s best guess, judging from satellite signatures, was there were only a few hundred thousand people left in America, spread out everywhere. Unless more groups were discovered, hidden away, living underground or in high rise buildings in the cities that was all. That wasn’t enough people. Anything could happen to wipe them out. Massive hordes of undead. Some new sickness or flu bug that could kill thousands. Casey’s gang of idiots slowly culling the population. The humans were barely hanging on, still on the endangered species list.

Carson was still trapped inside Cheyenne Mountain and he didn’t have the manpower or the know-how in his small group of men to do much more than he was. Over the winter, they were able to pick up more and more fires with the satellite infrared filters set to anything over one thousand degrees. He was able to track Casey and his band the same way, following their path