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

mayor nodded. “We’re a pretty rugged lot, up here. Most of us made a living cowboying or farming. We’re used to the electricity going out for weeks at a time during storms, and everybody’s got a horse or two to get around on, so I reckon we were a little better off than those city folks.”

A woman brought their food and at least she didn’t start in surprise when she looked at Jessie's face. The old scar and the fresh scratches from the cats had made the girl that brought their drinks nearly drop the pitcher of beer as she poured. This gal was friendly, almost flirtatious. The mayor grinned broadly at his mild discomfort at the attention.

“That’s our Sandy.” he said. “I think half the men in here have asked her to marry them. If you haven’t noticed, there’s a shortage of ladies. If you find a town full of them, make sure you let them know we’ve got a whole bunch of lonely cowboys.”

Jessie, grinned, nodded and picked up his fork. Apparently, it was the same story everywhere. A lot more men than women had survived the initial uprising.

“I’ll keep an eye out.” he said and turned his attention to the steak. It smelled good. It was one thing Tombstone had in abundance.

After dinner was finished, the plates were cleared, and a few more drinks were drunk, the mayor excused himself. He had a lot to do tomorrow, they were heading out on horseback to round up another few hundred head of cattle that had been spotted ranging down near the Airikaree River. The roadhouse was crowded and rowdy and the band got worse and worse as the night progressed. They were playing for drinks and were doing their best to get their money’s worth. No one seemed to notice, though. The first court days of the year had been held over the weekend and everybody that had anything to trade or sell had come from miles around. Guns, dogs, generators, tickets for firewood, and nearly anything else of value was at a flea market in the town square. They called it court days because a hundred years ago, the traveling judge only came around to hold court a few times a year. Everyone that had business in town brought things to trade or sell, and it became a tradition. It was a good time to catch up with seldom-seen friends and family, maybe swap an extra horse for a good scatter gun, or a coon dog pup for some canned goods.

Jessie found a dim corner to sit in, back against the wall, and sipped on the home-brewed whiskey. It had only been aged for a few months the bartender said. “It ain’t the best you ever had, but it’s what we got plenty of. You want Jack Daniels, you better have something good to barter with.”

After a sip, Jessie asked him to make it a Bin Laden, two shots and a splash of water. The home-brew would be just fine, thank you. He watched the crowd, content to be an outsider. Bob was curled up under the table and trying to doze. He must have had a hundred different people petting him today. He was used to it, he was the friendliest dog at the petting zoo where Jessie had found him and was accustomed to hugs from kids and scratches behind his ears from grownups.

The people of Tombstone worked hard and played hard, drinking, dancing and gambling with abandon. They might go back to their homes and neighboring farms with a hangover tomorrow, but tonight they were celebrating surviving the first terrible months of the outbreak and the harsh winter. Everyone was having fun at the first gathering of survivors

Jessie enjoyed the people, the laughter, the acrid whiskey, and the flirty barmaid. It was easy to forget what was outside the walls. He liked that the drinks didn’t affect him much, just gave him a warm glow while everyone else got drunker and drunker, thanks to whatever that injection was he’d had. He had forgotten about the syringes filled with the blue liquid until months after he was healed and was taking out the interior of the Mercury to put in the Kevlar linings. He found them under the seat and it took a long time for the memories to slowly come back to him. They were what had given him the healing ability, not the IV bag. It had only been pain killer. He gave two of the needles to Stacey but kept two for himself. The sisters could try to figure out what was in them or use them on someone with life-threatening injuries. That’s why he kept them: he knew he might need a booster one of these days if he was going back out on the road. He might need a shot of the blue miracle for him or Bob. He’d tossed them in his glove box along with the nitrous mask and first aid kit and hoped he’d never have to use any of that stuff.

It was nearing three o’clock in the morning when the barkeep yelled last call. The flirty girl who had been pulling beer and slinging plates all night slid into his booth, throwing herself right up against him. Hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. She was the serving girl, although serving woman would be a more accurate term. She was nearing forty, if she hadn’t already reached it. Her name was Sandy, she’d lost both her kids and her husband on the first day of the outbreak, she lived in an apartment above the bar, and she got off at three. Jessie had learned this through the course of the night as she refilled his drinks or brought him toasted tortilla chips. She was also really friendly, thought he was a handsome devil, and had told him to save a dance for her. Jessie had just smiled his crooked smile, he knew she was