Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus by Simpson, A. (e ink manga reader .txt) 📗

when it came to sharing rumors and spreading gossip. “But Bobby is a good man, quick to help out. I promoted him to shift leader on the night watch and he helps the electrical crews when he can. If she doesn’t want him back, I’m sure he’ll find someone else. We’ve had quite a few of the boat women making their way here so the chances of finding a girl are a lot better than they used to be.”

A high-pitched whine could be heard in the distance and everyone turned to watch the jet powered Lamborghini rocket up the road, its afterburner spitting flames as he neared the town and shut it down.

“Those kids.” Phil shook his head. “He only does that to show off. One of these days, Collins is going to start a highway patrol. That’ll cool their jets.”

He paused for a minute then laughed at his own joke.

“Hope not.” Hot Rod said. “Next thing you know, she’ll want me running a log book again. I’m glad some of the old ways are gone.”

The Pony Express cars switched power to the gas engines, idled up to the gate and scissors doors slid skyward as the Asian crews got out and stretched. They lit cigarettes and disregarded the shouts from the top of the wall. With studied indifference, the epitome of cool, they checked over their machines and ignored the cameras as Takeo completed another delivery with a timestamp and signature from one of the guards. They were the latest superstars in world hungry for entertainment. The Hell Drivers who tore down the freeways at a blistering pace. The men and women who guaranteed the fastest delivery to anywhere in the territories, often picking up the goods fresh from a retriever who had just risked life and limb coming out of a city, his guns still smoking and his up armored car still dripping zombie blood.

The whole system was made possible by the radios, the internet and Lakota gold; a standard currency that was worth the same anywhere you went. The Tower had seen the need for an easy way to transfer funds and had opened a Tower Bank branch office in every settlement. With their own proprietary Ham radio channel, they could balance the books and allow withdrawals and deposits from anyone within the civilized territories. They only charged a small fee. Not many people other than the traders and retrievers used the service but the bankers were patient. They played the long game. Soon, people would need to buy things again. Soon everything wouldn’t be available for free to any one willing to scavenge. Soon people would want credit cards and home improvement loans or perhaps a shiny new electric golf cart. The Tower Bank would be there for them, ready to help. Low monthly payments, no money down and the interest rate in very fine print. The world was rebuilding. Soon there would be tax collectors. It was inevitable. The forward-thinking people knew this and were already laying the groundwork.

Some of the kids in town had hustled up the ladders to the top of the wall to stare down and snap pictures. They’d heard the scream of the turbines and wanted to see the machines for themselves. Sometimes the drivers would come inside for a meal and spend the night but other times they would drop their package, pick up another and leave. It was one of the few things the Lakota kids could brag about on Facebook that the rich kids in the Tower couldn’t. They got to see the machines up close and bragging rights, even at the end of the world, were still pretty important to teenagers.

Slippery Jim, Gage, Tony and Lizzie were at Pretty Boy Floyd’s that night and had quite a crowd of grownups and kids listening to them tell their story. He’d pulled the rest of his gang on stage as moral support, they’d all been in on the plan since the beginning, even if they didn’t get to stowaway on the trucks. Pam’s bar was more of a family gathering place like a pub in England or Germany than it was a typical American bar. The jukebox was never so loud you had to shout over it, dogs were welcome and people would spend hours over dinner and a board game with friends.

After emotional family reunions, severe scolding’s for running off then hugs again for being such little heroes, they’d all agreed to tell everyone their story on Pam’s stage, usually used for Karaoke or Phil’s jazz band on Saturday nights. The boys were shy with all the eyes on them but Lizzie was a natural in front of the crowd. She’d watched Scratch and Stabby goofing around enough times, telling their outlandish stories that were completely unbelievable but you somehow believed them anyway. She told her tale and soon the boys were adding to it, reminding her about parts she forgot and they had the crowd mesmerized with the story of the refugees in the bus, the thousands of undead and the airplane diving out of the sky when they thought all was lost. Jim and Tony’s story about the Tower was nowhere near as exciting but everyone had questions about the mall and the ice cream parlor and the 3d movie theater.

Jimmy was debating on whether they should tell about breaking into the basement and the time machine but he knew grownups. They’d never believe it and then they would think everything else he’d told them might be a lie, too. He saw Scratch near the back of the crowd and decided to rub it in that Jessie had beat his high score on the Pacman machine when he froze, the microphone halfway to his mouth. He stared at the man standing beside him, a new guy he’d never seen before, and recognized his eyes. He was smiling, his bright, white teeth gleaming against his caramel skin, laughing at something someone said. He was clean shaven; his