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

girl’s fingers and staring at her small breasts. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

“Let Bastet take care of it,” he said absently, his mind on other things. “While you are out doing your duties for the empire, find him and kill him.”

“As you command, as it will be done,” she said, thinking she’d say just about anything to get out of the Casino, away from the charade, and out on the road for a while. She was pretty sure the ancient Egyptians didn’t carry on like they were Caligula, like they were decadent romans. Her father just changed things to suit his whims whenever he felt like it.

18

Gunny

Whoever was driving the truck knew his only chance to get away was straight down route five. They were south of the border and flying down the only paved road that led to San Felipe. If he had enough gas to make it all the way, Gunny had no hope of catching him. The supercharged Toyota was walking away from him, steadily increasing the distance. He could only tell he was still ahead of him by the dust cloud. He kept it at a steady ninety-five, not pushing too hard to overheat the motor or be barely in control as he plowed down tumbleweeds and piles of loose sand blown over the road. This was an endurance race, not a sprint. Somebody would lose control, something would break, one of them would run out of fuel. Maybe.

The truck fled across the desert and the tri-five followed in his wake. The sun was getting low in the sky. It seemed to be picking up speed as it fell behind the distant mountains. Every chance he got, every time the road was clear of drifts, Gunny let the big block breathe. He took her up to the limits of what was safe, then went a little farther. The car was built for endurance, not high speed, and at one-forty she was floating. The air being forced under the chassis was lifting the car, making it light on the road. It was almost like hydroplaning on water and Gunny concentrated on keeping the oily side down. He saw the gouts of black blood splatter and exploded zombie pieces a few miles later and knew he had them. Busted chunks of chrome grill and pieces of a headlight housing were scattered along the road and he thought he could detect some white steam mixed in the dust cloud. A radiator leak would have the computer on the truck shutting it down fast. There would be no “pushing until it blows.” That was the reason the Lakota crew built old-school cars with old-school motors. No electronics to fail, no sensors to break, no miles and miles of wires under the hood. No computer thinking it knows best and turning the engine off, or putting it in limp mode, at some inopportune moment. The new cars were faster and had better air conditioning but they didn’t want to trust their lives to them, too many things to break, and no way to fix them if they did.

In another few miles, Gunny saw the truck, abandoned on the side of the road. There were a few houses set back down a long driveway and he guessed the men had been trying to get there when it shut down. Steam still hissed out of the broken radiator and he kept low in the seat, counting on the Kevlar lining to protect him if they opened fire. There was no sign of them and the truck didn’t have any antennas on it. No CB or Ham to warn Casey they were coming. It wasn’t even armored, one of the thugs had liked it and taken it recently. Probably from the trailer park, and one of the old-timers. He saw footprints taking off through the desert toward the low-slung adobe houses a quarter mile off.

Gunny went another half mile past the dirt driveway, then left his car on the road, flipping the hidden switch cutting the coil power so it couldn’t be started. He left the keys in it, dangling from the dashboard switch evident for anyone to see, then attached the trip wires to the door handle. If Casey’s goons opened it, they would get a nasty little double-aught buck surprise, right about crotch level. He took off through the scrub brush, running low behind boulders and sandhills, staying in washes where he could. He was trying to keep the setting sun between him and the house so they’d be staring straight into it. If they’d been listening, he was sure they heard the rumble of the big block when he pulled up. If they didn’t have any training, they were likely holed up in the buildings. If they did, they would be hiding in the desert, waiting to ambush him.

The place was isolated and desolate, the only structure for miles. He slowed his approach as he got closer, followed a small depression, and stayed hidden from the house. He had a good view from behind a particularly thick creosote bush and watched for movement. He was only about three hundred yards away and could see the windows at the side of the house clearly. He lay prone and flipped up the iron sights, scanning for movement. Shadows jutting out from behind corners of the buildings, a flicker of a curtain, or someone darting for a better position. They had to know someone was coming for them, sound carried far in the desert and his tri-five wasn’t shy about making it.

Gunny waited, listened, watched. There was no wind and the sun was just about gone. He’d make his move in another ten or fifteen minutes, if they didn’t lose their nerve or start thinking they hadn’t heard the car stop. Maybe they’d start telling themselves whoever was coming should have been here by now. Maybe they were mistaken, maybe they imagined the sound of the car being shut off,