Zombie Rules | Book 8 | Who The Hell Is That? Achord, David (most popular novels of all time .txt) 📖

Roscoe thought a second. “I have a few real copper pennies somewhere in my room. I’ll bet those.”

“Deal,” Johnny G said. “When I win, I’m going to make them my lucky pennies.”

Roscoe grunted. “How do you think our people are going to handle this?”

“There will be some grumbling, but they know we consider them family and we take care of our own first.”

“True enough. Anybody who disagrees can always leave,” Roscoe said.

“Nobody will leave,” Johnny G said. “In fact, once the fuel runs out at Mount Weather, I strongly suspect we’ll have a lot of people who will want to come live with us.”

Roscoe gave a dry chuckle. “VanAllen and his cronies are about to find out the hard way that he who controls the diesel is he who is actually in charge. That’s another reason why I want Fred to come join us. There are only one or two of them who know how to break a horse and we don’t have anyone who is even close to being a farrier.”

“He can breed them, break them, shoe them, he can even float their teeth, everything you need to do with a horse he knows how,” Johnny G added.

“I wonder how they’re doing with things like bicycles and parts.”

“No idea.”

“Do you want to know what I think?” Roscoe asked.

“Sure,” Johnny G said.

“I think the man has no intention of continuing with the mission of rebuilding America.”

“His behavior doesn’t seem to indicate it,” Johnny G said.

Roscoe murmured his agreement. “It’s a shame. Stark was on the right track.”

The ambitious plan of rebuilding America required mobility, which allowed a larger span of control of the country. They needed fuel to achieve it. They also needed fuel to power their farm equipment. Roscoe doubted any of them knew how to hitch up a team of mules and plow a field. President VanAllen and his new tagalongs were going to learn their arrogance exceeded their actual power.

“It’s too bad about the man,” Johnny G said, referring to Stark’s illness. “I wonder how much longer he has to live.”

“It sure came on quickly. I guess that’s what happens without the benefit of modern medicine.”

“Yep,” Johnny G said.

“If something like that happens to me, do me a favor and put me out of my misery.”

“You got it,” Johnny G said solemnly. “The first time you piss yourself, I’ll put a bullet in the back of your head.”

Roscoe laughed. “Alright, if it is Irena, what do you think Joe Senior is going to do about it?”

“I’m not sure I know him well enough to answer,” Johnny G said.

Roscoe paused a few seconds before asking the next question. “What about Riley?”

Johnny G gave a small chuckle. “I’ll keep her straight. In fact, I’ve been thinking I can use her to prove Irena is the little rat.” He explained his thoughts.

Roscoe chuckled. “I like it. Okay, if Irena is the rat, we’ll talk it over with Senior. But what if it’s one of the Fitzgeralds?”

“I don’t see how it would benefit them by ratting on themselves, but if it is, we’ll confront him and hear him out.”

Roscoe scratched his face. “The more I think about it, the more I think you’re right. I sure am going to miss those pennies. Are you going to kill her?”

Johnny G smiled. “Nope. In fact, we’re going to have some fun.”

“How so?”

“We can use Irena to give them false information.” He explained the plan that was formulating in his head.

A smile spread across Roscoe’s face. “I like it. We can really mess with VanAllen.”

“Yep.”

“Changing the subject, we need to try to recruit one or two of those doctors. We’ll need to think up something to offer them. I’ll add them to the call list before I call the president. Then I’ll cut the phones.”

“What are you going to say to that douchebag?” Johnny G asked. Roscoe scrunched up his face a moment and then thought of an appropriate response. Johnny G laughed loudly.

Chapter 43 – Thanksgiving at Marcus Hook

Unlike Mount Weather, the people of Marcus Hook had a lavish Thanksgiving feast planned. This was the first Thanksgiving they were not dependent on Mount Weather for food supplies and they wanted to celebrate their quasi-independence.

This Thanksgiving was somber though. Ringo was a likeable man, and everyone considered him a friend. There were the usual whispers from people who liked to play armchair quarterback, but mostly everyone chose to mourn Ringo’s death by getting drunk and high and reminisce about the good times.

During this, Roscoe and Johnny G gathered up the Fitzgeralds and led them to a table in the back, away from the crowd.

“I got an extra space heater under the table to keep our feet warm,” Roscoe said and then held up a large jug of wine. “This’ll keep our bellies warm.”

“I like the sound of that,” Trader Joe said and held out a glass.

Roscoe did the honors and filled everyone’s glass. Riley used the diversion to move her chair closer to Johnny G and subtly placed a hand under the table and down in his nether regions.

“Is this Mount Weather wine?” Trader Joe asked.

“It is. We grabbed a few jugs during our visit,” Roscoe said. “I’d like to make a toast.” He held up his glass. “Here’s to lost friends and to new beginnings.”

“Salut,” Trader Joe said.

The other four joined in and turned up their glasses. Johnny G refilled his and passed the jug around.

“Now that everyone’s thirst is quenched for a few seconds, let’s talk about our future trading post,” Roscoe suggested.

“Yes, let’s do that,” Trader Joe said. “My son and I had a long talk today while travelling to Atlantic City. By the way, everyone there said to tell you two hello and a few of them were inquiring if they could get some more fuel.”

Roscoe acknowledged with a nod. “How are they doing?”

“Not too good. They lost four of their own to a zed attack last week.”

“The cold weather has them hungry,” Little Joe remarked.

Roscoe thought