Dead Earth: The Vengeance Road

By Mark Justice and David T. Wilbanks

As alien invaders amass a conquering army of zombies, a small band of rebels plans their resistance and revenge in this apocalyptic sci-fi series.

The former Deputy Sheriff of Serenity, New Mexico, Jubal Slate lost his home and everyone he loved to the ever-growing zombie horde. But the zombies themselves are not the true enemy. It’s the invaders from another planet who are using demonic technology to raise an unholy army of the living dead.

For Slate, the only thing left in life is payback. Together with a motley band of renegades, he’s making the treacherous journey to find the root of the global disaster. No matter how far he must go or how many undead warriors he must slaughter, they will stop at nothing to end the reign of the aliens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Oct 23, 2010
• ISBN: 9781934861578

Book preview

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Dead Earth: The Vengeance Road

Mark Justice and David T. Wilbanks

Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.

Copyright 2010 Mark Justice and David T. Wilbanks

www.PermutedPress.com

The Future…

1.

I need to kill something.

Mother ignored the man on the big Harley. Luther Kemp was in love with the sound of his own voice and these mutts who rode with him hung on Kemp’s every word. Most of the crew were scumbags: ex-cons, drug dealers, sociopaths and losers who had banded together in celebration of the collapse of the civilized society that had shown them nothing but scorn.

Mother felt out of place with this bunch.

He had been bouncing at a club in Cabo when everything went to shit. The phones were out, so he couldn’t reach his sister or her family in California. He had stolen the old Kawasaki Vulcan out of some driveway and headed north. All it took was one encounter with a group of resurrected dead to convince him that traveling alone wasn’t wise. After barely escaping, Mother hooked up with Kemp and his gang outside Muleje, where they had been depleting the local tequila supply and sharing two whores. One of the bikers, an ex-cop named Foster, had a working sat-phone. Mother had borrowed it and called Jennifer up in LA. Once he knew she was safe, he was able to relax a little. He was in no hurry to get back to the States. In fact, he was in Mexico specifically to stay off the radar of U.S. law enforcement. Traveling with a cop, even if he was a former cop, made Mother jumpy. But for now, Luther and his gang were his best bet for survival. These eight men weren’t Mother’s first choice in traveling companions, but it was safer than riding solo. He was a large man and wore the disfiguring scars from many fights--there wasn’t much he had ever feared. But this was a new world, and it contained more horror than Mother had ever imagined.

Since Muleje, the gang had gone north, close to the border, where they ran into another pack of the undead. They quickly headed south again, where they spent the last few months zigzagging across the country, drinking, whoring and fighting off the zombie majority.

He heard the crunch of gravel before someone smacked him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.

What do you say, Mother? Up for some slaughter?

He faced Luther Kemp.

The leader of this loose-knit coalition of thugs was a handsome man who stood several inches over six feet, taller even than Mother. His long blonde hair and deep tan gave him the look of an aging surfer. In the old world – the world before the green sky and animated dead – Kemp could have been a model or actor--as long as no one looked too closely into his eyes. A single glance at those cold blue orbs had been enough to tell Mother that Kemp was one crazy son of a bitch. But at least he was a sociopath who fought like a maniac.

I’m just trying to stay alive, Luther, Mother said. If anything – or anybody – gets in my way I’ll do what I have to do, just like you.

Kemp laughed, a shrill sound that abruptly ended when he felt the pistol press into his gut.

One more thing, Mother added. Don’t sneak up on me again.

He lifted the pistol over his head, so Kemp and the others could see it.

You’re a good man in a fight, but you need us a lot more than the other way around, amigo, Kemp said, unfazed by the lethal weapon in Mother’s hand. Best not forget that. Kemp winked at Mother, turned and yelled at a fat Mexican. Pedro, let’s gas ’em up.

Pedro wasn’t actually the Mexican’s name, but his true moniker was Mayan and consisted of several syllables and many consonants that got tied up on your tongue. So now he was Pedro; he didn’t seem to mind--if that constant smile on his face meant he didn’t mind. On his bike, he carried a rolled-up piece of garden hose for siphoning gas. Kemp said Pedro liked the taste. Pedro didn’t say anything. He just kept on smiling, even when he was sucking hose.

They had been taking what fuel they could from abandoned vehicles along the roads but here on the outskirts of San Felipe, they had discovered an empty gas station. Water was more important, but gas was important too. They were a biker gang, after all. It wouldn’t do for them to wander around the arid deserts of Mexico in just their motorcycle boots.

While Pedro squatted by the steel cap that covered the gas tanks, Kemp sent Foster ahead to scout for trouble. Two weeks ago, while the fat man siphoned gas from an old station wagon, three zombies had wandered upon the group.

They had almost died for it.

Two of them, a black man called Hoops and a former drug dealer named Castillo, were bitten. Foster had dropped one of the zombies with a shot from his Glock. Pedro turned the hose on another, coating the monster in gasoline. Trey, the quiet one of the bunch, lit his Zippo and tossed it. The decomposing man ignited with a whoosh and wandered down the highway, flailing its arms until it collapsed a hundred yards away.

Mother tackled the third zombie around the legs. When it hit the asphalt, he pinned it down while Kemp stomped its skull into a pulpy mess. That had been disgusting, but Kemp seemed to have a pretty good time doing it.

Castillo and Hoops had been shaken, but they recovered. All the gang were immune to the zombie plague, otherwise they’d have been dead months ago like most everybody else. Since the attack they had become more cautious.

He walked into the gas station, mostly to kill time until it was his turn to gas up. Most of the food had been cleaned out of the small retail area at the front, but the scavengers had left a dozen bags of Andy Capp’s Hot Fries. He chuckled. Even starving people hated old Andy Capp. But he grabbed several bags, anyway. He could store them for later. Down here, you never knew when food would turn up. He looked around for water, but didn’t see any. Water was even more important than food, and here they were: running around in a fucking desert. Maybe the constant sunshine had fried their brains. There was still plenty of water around if you knew where to look. After all, the dead didn’t drink water and the majority of the Earth’s population was now dead.

The station’s cooler wasn’t working and was nearly empty. All the American soda was gone, but Mother dug out the few remaining bottles of Jarritos. All that was left was grapefruit and hibiscus. Oh, joy. He’d drink it anyway. The previous night’s partying had left him cotton-mouthed and dehydrated.

He turned to take his pitiful bounty outside.

Hoops was standing behind him.

Shit! Mother dropped the soft drinks. Hoops caught them.

Gotta be more careful, man, Hoops said. If I was a zombie, I could have chomped your fuckin’ neck.

He discarded the snacks and grabbed the butt of his pistol. Hoops was the second person to sneak up on him today. Mother worried he was losing his touch.

Easy, Hoops said, lifting his arms above his head, a bottle of soda in each hand. The skin below his left wrist was pink and dimpled, thanks to the bite of a dead person.

What you want?

Gonna put these down, okay?

Mother nodded. Hoops put the bottles on the counter.

Hoops smiled. A knife scar ran down the left side of his face from beneath his eye to the tip of his chin. You’re a jumpy guy.

What do you want? Mother repeated.

Enough chit-chat, huh? Okay. Let’s talk about Luther.

What about him?

He is one crazy motherfucker.

Not exactly a newsflash.

Is this what you want to do for the rest of your life, man? Just ride from town to town, scrubbing for water, gas and pussy? Following around some crazy white dude?

He shrugged. Life’s short. Especially these days.

My point exactly, Hoops said. Who knows how much time we got left. Whether all this shit is permanent or things will get back to normal some day?

This speech going somewhere?

"Are we going somewhere? That’s the question. Luther’s just drivin’ us all over ole Meh-hee-co, exposin’ us to whatever’s out there. I suggest you and me hole up. Find us a little town, a place we can defend. Stock up on food and drink. Live large for a while."

And how do you plan to, uh, convince Luther?

"Ain’t no convincin’ that psycho. I was thinkin’ about a change in leadership."

Mother didn’t say anything. He was trying to decide if he cared what happened here. He had no love for Kemp. But he didn’t particularly like any of the rest of them either. You come to me ’cause I’m the only other brother?

I came to you because you can hold your own.

He nodded.

So? Hoops said.

What?

You with me? You got my back?

Mother picked up the bottles of Jarritos. Naw, man.

Hoops’ smile disappeared. Excuse me?

I’m not your guy, Hoops. I’m not Luther’s either. I just want to keep to myself, you know? I won’t help you, but I won’t get in your way if you decide to do something stupid either.

Hoops was silent for a few seconds, then he shrugged. I guess I can live with that. You’re a strange mother, Mother, you know that?

Thanks.

Why do they call you Mother anyway?

Why you think?

I think it’s ’cause you are one strange motherfucker, Hoops said.

You may not be wrong, Mother said. What about your name? You play ball?

Hell, no. Back in school I wore these big fuckin’ earrings, like a pirate.

They both turned to the door. Someone was shooting. And someone else was yelling.

Hoops said, Sounds like some unhealthy shit is going on out there. Maybe we can pick up this discussion later.

So what else is new? Shit happens around Kemp like stink happens around a stiff, Mother walked past Hoops to the windowed front of the building. He gripped his gun more tightly.

Hoops came up next to him. Speaking of zombies.

Foster rode his Honda toward the gas station, shooting his Glock into the air.

The men surrounding Pedro stopped talking and filling their tanks. They watched Foster as he rolled up next to them.

Mother and Hoops stepped outside, weapons on display.

Where are they? Kemp said, fingering one of a pair of curved knives fastened to his big leather belt.

They’re all around this place. I don’t know where they came from. We didn’t see them when we rode in. But now it’s like they’re everywhere.

Kemp looked around. I don’t see shit, Foster. Are you sure you saw something, or are you just getting dumber?

Everyone laughed, except Foster, Mother and Hoops.

Mother moved forward, Hoops right behind him. He went to his Vulcan and opened the saddlebag, removing his sawed-off. He held it in one hand, keeping the pistol in the other. Then he walked across the cracked cement and weeds of the apron to Kemp and the gang.

I’m telling you, man, Foster said, looking behind himself. They’re all over the place. If we sit here bullshitting any longer, we’ll be up to our necks in the fuckers.

Hell, Kemp said. I’m sort of in the mood to slice up some stiffs. They’re rude, they smell bad and my knives need a workout.

You’re crazy, man, Hoops said.

Kemp’s head turned slowly toward Hoops. Crazy, huh? Am I crazy or are you just scared? Because if you’re scared, you can just ride that piece of shit you call a motorcycle right out of here.

Naw, man. I ain’t scared of nothin’.

Kemp stared at him just long enough to make everyone nervous. Then he smiled that bright, white smile full of big, even teeth. Good to hear, Hoops. I only want brave men in my organization.

Organization? Sometimes he didn’t know what Kemp was talking about. They were just a group of guys hanging together so they wouldn’t constantly have to watch their own backs 24-7. Sure, they didn’t have the manners of the local Rotary Club, but there was safety in numbers. And in these strange times, the more tough guys you had around, the better.

I think we should ride out of here, Mother said. Before they see us. Staying here to fight them would be suicide and I ain’t ready to die just yet. That’s not fear. It’s common sense. He almost laughed at his own words. Talking common sense to Kemp was like cautioning a mad dog not to bite.

All right, all right, Kemp said. He shifted position on his cycle’s saddle and gripped the handlebars. I was just joking anyway. We got full tanks of gas now, so we may as well ride on to the next town and see what kind of trouble we can get into.

Foster smiled. Yeah, man!

Only I still have to gas up, Mother said.

Me too, said Hoops.

Well, hurry it up, or we’ll leave your sorry asses behind.

Mother jogged back to his cycle, threw his weapons into the saddlebag, and wheeled the Vulcan over to Pedro. As the quiet Mexican filled the tank, Mother watched Kemp and the rest of the guys, riding around in circles on the street, shouting, laughing and whooping like cowboys.

They’re nervous.

He screwed the cap onto his tank while Pedro refueled Hoops’ bike.

Then Mother saw them coming around the corner of an abandoned, windowless diner across the street, just beyond where the gang was goofing around. Hey!

None of them heard. They were too busy riding back and forth, whooping and yelling.

Shit, why don’t they just shoot rockets off that spell DINNER IS SERVED across the sky?

He grabbed his weapons and stalked toward the street. Hey, assholes! Look over there!

One of them glanced in the direction Mother indicated; then they all did.

Shit, let’s get out of here! Foster yelled, taking off down the street. He disappeared behind a hardware store. Then Mother heard Foster’s tires skid on gravel. In a few seconds Foster was rushing back among them, his eyes wild with panic. They’re down that way too, blocking the road. There’s hundreds of them, man.

Mother figured they had come out of the abandoned factories in the area, attracted by the sound of the motorcycles. And all the guns going off. These assholes were too trigger-happy.. They treated guns like toys, or like this was some kind of Wild West fantasy. Maybe to them, it was. But it looked like the fantasy was about to transform into ugly, bloody reality. The little skirmishes they had endured over the past few months were nothing but the pre-game, the warm-up for the main event.

He checked out the approaching dead. These ’walkers were strays, and like all strays, they looked bedraggled, glassy-eyed, shambling…and hungry as hell. They came in all sizes and shapes, moving forward on their stiff legs, groaning and moaning for their dinner.

Look, Pedro said. He had dropped the siphon hose when Foster came back, rushing to his own bike and weapons. Hoops scrambled to put the hose back in his own tank. They’re coming down from that end of the road too. I don’t think we can get by them, Luther.

Mother looked down the road. The suddenly-chatty Mexican was right. There was a whole army of them marching toward them. A few of them had weapons, like baseball bats, chunks of wood, steel pipes and the like.

Weapons? he thought. That was new. Since when did dead people think of anything but biting off a hunk of living flesh with their rotting teeth?

Let’s all get in the gas station, he shouted. We can try to hold them off from in there. There’s no way we’re getting out of here otherwise. There are too many of them.

Kemp—Mr. Cool--actually looked confused. The bloodlust had been put on hold while he dealt with this unexpected development. Like all bullies, their leader liked to play the big man as long as the odds were in his favor. Now, the leader of their little gang looked like he wanted to be somewhere else.

Screw this. Kemp could get dismembered and eaten by the approaching undead. Mother wouldn’t shed a tear. Let those other assholes fend for themselves. If this was his last stand, he wasn’t going to make it easy for the other side.

He turned around to walk back to the station.

But they had come out from the fields behind the gas station--dozens of them. And now they were swarming from behind it. Raggedy men, women and even children, jaws opening and closing convulsively. Some were missing limbs. A woman in a stained yellow dress trailed a rope of intestines behind her. One of them held a rusty axe. They all walked across the lot toward Mother, blocking his path to the gas station.

Shit, Mother said.

2.

When’s Daddy coming home? Robin said.

She wore jeans with a hole in one knee and the skin there was dirty because she had been playing outside in the yard again with her imaginary friend, Lally. Her long blonde hair was dirty too, just like her Mommy’s. The sleeves of her ragged blue sweatshirt were bunched up her skinny arms, and the rest of it hung down to her knees. On the front of the shirt was a picture of the old-time cartoon character Bart Simpson riding his skateboard.

Heather opened a can of pork and beans using an old-fashioned manual can opener. She did not respond to her ten-year-old daughter because she didn’t know what to say, just like all the other times Robin had asked that question.

Robin’s Daddy, Heather’s husband Bill, had died trying to save them in a zombie attack somewhere between their home in San Antonio and where they were now, in Aquas Bravos, Mexico. And he had saved them. He just hadn’t saved himself.

She closed her eyes. The memory always resulted in a rush of images, like the trailer for a film. Highlights. And like most trailers, her little mental movie gave away the whole story, even the bloody end.

Flash.

The green sky over their nice neighborhood. Neighbors getting sick and dying.

Flash.

Bill – sweet, cheerful Bill – loading up their car with provisions and driving south. Robin in the back seat, more excited than afraid, clutching Little Ed, her stuffed toy tiger.

Flash.

Camping out in the desert. Bill slipping into the tent, telling her the coast was clear for now, whispering so Robin wouldn’t wake up, slipping into the sleeping bag with Heather to make love for what would turn out to be the last time. In the dim light from the lantern, the pustules on his face were almost invisible.

Flash.

Waking to another green morning. The screams of her husband. Gunshots from the pistol he had never fired before. Rushing Robin into the car while Bill bought them a few precious seconds with his own life.

Flash.

Driving away while the pack of zombies tore into her husband, his inarticulate screams the final sound she would ever hear him make.

Flash.

Do you want some beans, honey?

The cute little dirtball grimaced. Beans, beans, beans! All we eat is beans, Mommy.

Heather poured the cold food into two plastic bowls and dropped a spoon into each one.

It’s beans or nothing, sweetheart. And you can have a glass of water too.

She handed her daughter the bowl and a disposable plastic cup filled with water. One thing about this abandoned house in this abandoned town: it had plenty of canned food, water and disposable dishes in its pantry, enough to last them quite a while.

Can I eat these outside with Lally?

Heather took a worried glance out the window over the kitchen sink. The backyard was all dirt except for a few weeds, and was surrounded by a low wooden fence. Little Ed lay on the ground next to a toy fire truck she had found somewhere. Beyond the fence was an alley and some trees across the way. All was still and quiet under the hot late afternoon sun.

Okay, you can go out, but don’t forget to eat your food. And you remember what I said to do if you see anyone walking around.

Robin rolled her blue eyes. Yeah, yeah. Come in and tell you right away; don’t talk to anyone. Not even if they’re nice.

That’s right. Go ahead then. But I’ll be calling you in soon. It’s going to get dark.

She took her beans and water to the small kitchen table and ate them while she watched her daughter through the back screen door.

Robin ate her own dinner while sitting on the ground between her doll and her truck; the girl offered her invisible friend some water from her cup, but apparently Lally wasn’t thirsty at the moment.

In the corner, behind Heather, leaned a loaded rifle. She had never used a weapon before until the day their car ran out of gas here in Aquas Bravos. And then she had found this house with its food and rifle and ammunition. She had taught herself how to use the rifle pretty quick, and lately she’d been considering showing Robin how to use it as well, but she hadn’t gotten around to it yet and wasn’t quite sure it was safe for the little girl to handle the big weapon. Lord knows, it had a kick when fired. It would probably knock the little tomboy on her butt.

No, it wasn’t safe for a little girl, but neither was this world, not anymore. Heather didn’t know if they had a future--if the world had a future. She did know that they had no chance if they didn’t toughen up. What was that silly phrase Bill used to say?

Cowboy up. She smiled. Whenever they faced some crisis – from a leaky roof to Robin’s broken arm after she fell off her bike on the driveway – Heather’s skinny pharmacist husband would say, Come on, girls, it’s time to cowboy up. He was so serious when he said it, eyes closed to slits, jaw clenched in an approximation of toughness. It never failed to make her and Robin laugh.

Just as the memory did now, at least until the tears began to fall, coursing warmly down her cheeks. Heather covered her mouth in case she sobbed loudly enough for her daughter to hear.

Leaky roofs and broken arms were the good old days compared to the way the world had turned. Everything had changed and she didn’t know how or why. She had heard the rumors, of course. Something bad in Nevada. A government experiment. A terrorist attack.

People had grown sick very quickly. Heather, Robin and Bill left their home as soon as the neighbors began dying. She and her daughter never got sick. But Bill had, or at least he was beginning to. On that last night, as she curled next to him in the sleeping bag, she had seen the small sores on her husband’s face. He slept solidly after their lovemaking. She did not. She stared at him all night, trying to pierce the darkness to confirm her fear. He had the disease, the one that had floated into their lives on the very air they breathed.

Not that it mattered much when the sun rose in the green strip of horizon the next morning. She had fallen asleep sometime before dawn and stirred when the light struck the side of the tent. Robin still slept in her small sleeping bag. Bill, the early riser, was already out. Heather would get up and fix coffee, then get a good look at Bill in the sunlight. Things always looked better in the daytime, that’s what Bill always said. She got out of the sleeping bag, thinking about the sky and how she had almost grown used to the strange color of sunrise and sunset.

That’s when her husband screamed.

Mommy?

Heather bit the inside of her cheek and brought her mind back to the present. It was a bad habit, but one that kept her focused. She didn’t need to get lost in painful memories. Not now. Not when she had to protect her daughter.

Mommy!

What is it, honey? She mentally prepared herself for another Robin request. These usually involved her invisible friend Lally or Little Ed the stuffed tiger.

Instead, her daughter said, We’ve got company. Wanna see?

Instantly alert, Heather stood up and grabbed the rifle from the corner behind her.

She heard a distant sound, like a truck engine. Could that have been what Robin was talking about?

Opening the door, she spotted her daughter in the backyard. Two of the dead things stood on the other side of the fence. Robin giggled as the zombies’ jaws opened and snapped closed like alligators in a zoo. One of the zombies began to press its hands against the fence. Soon its companion joined in. Her