Zombie Fighter Jango #1 The Road to Hell Is Paved With Zombies (11 page)

Chapter
18:

A Change in Philosophy

After over an hour of driving, Jango came to the turnoff for
Interstate 40. To go west on the 40, he would either have to go through the small town of Ash Fork, AZ, or take the ramp that went directly to the highway. He looked at the fuel gauge, and noted that it was at three quarters of a tank. He shrugged his shoulders, slowed to little more than a crawl, and decided to go through the town.

As he drove, Jango kept a weather eye on his surroundings, but saw no movement anywhere. He took
a long, looping turn that brought him to Lewis Avenue at the edge of the town.

At a huge Y
junction, where the east and west bound roads diverged around several buildings, Jango immediately spotted a large gas station called, “Ted’s Corral Market” that appeared to carry groceries as well. He pulled into the empty parking lot, all his senses on full alert, silently cursing himself for not listening when Sonja had wanted to take more guns.

He
put the camper in park, but left it running. He couldn’t see any signs of movement OR fortifications. Jango figured that humans would fortify, and the damn zombies were ALWAYS moving, so he might be okay if he looked around.

Jango put the vehicle back in gear, and pulled around the pumps so he was facing the way he needed to go in case he had to leave fast. He put it back in park, and turned the engine off.
He pulled the key from the ignition, and pocketed it. Then he went into the back to check on Sonja.

Her
color had improved, and she appeared to be sleeping deeply and peacefully. As she inhaled, she made a soft snoring sound that made Jango smile. He kissed her softly on her cheek and went back to the front.

After looking around again,
he opened the door, and climbed down from his seat. He carefully pressed the button that would lock all the doors, and then tested his door handle just to be sure. The door was locked, so Jango closed it quietly, hoping he wouldn’t wake Sonja, and then walked toward the store.

He
held his stick in a loose, easy grip, hanging beside him in his right hand. The way his stick felt in his hand was something new. Jango paused to consider that for a moment. His stick now felt as though it were part of him, and he could see every possible attack that could be made from the at-rest position.

He was elated! Jango
had been skilled with his stick, to be sure, brutally efficient and effective in combat. However, the connection he felt with it now beggared his previous abilities!

Jango continued on to the store. When he reached the glass doors that led into the building,
he looked through the glass for a long moment before opening the door and going in.

He was immediately struck by a smell so strong that it hit him like a physical blow. Jango gagged as his gorge started to rise. He swallowed
hard, put his left hand around his nose, and took shallow breaths while he waited for his stomach to settle.

As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the store,
he noticed a dead man who wore the tan uniform of a Sheriff’s Deputy. He immediately went on full alert, the stench of rotting flesh forgotten as he readied himself for an attack. No attack came, and as his eyes became more accustomed to the poor light that filtered in through the glass doors, Jango saw that the man would never be one of the undead.

The top of the man’s head
had split outward, his scalp opened up like a flower. Next to his right hand lay a large revolver that told a great deal about what had happened here.

Walking over to the body, he
saw that a piece of paper was on the man’s lap. Jango picked it up and saw that it had some writing on it. He moved back to the doors so that he could read whatever was written there.

It turned out to be a note from the man himself, and it read:

   “My name is Randall Hank, and I’m a Sheriff’s Deputy out of Ash Fork, Arizona. My wife turned into one of those damn things and I thought I could get her help. I tied her up and took her to the Health Center. They couldn’t help her. She busted loose, bit the Doc, and bit me too. I put her and the Doc down, buried them both. You have to shoot them in the head, nothing else works. Here is my shotgun and all my ammo. I hope whoever finds me uses it to kill a whole bunch of those damn things. I’ve seen the movies, I know what is inside of me now, and I won’t let it happen. I won’t be one of those things.

Sincerely,
   Randall Hank

P.S.
  If you have the time, please burn or bury me so nothing can eat me. Thanks.”

He sighed as he finished reading the letter. It seemed like Deputy Hank had been an all right guy, and Jango understood why he had killed himself, because he knew that he would have done the same thing if he had been in the deputy’s position.

He folded the note carefully, and put it in the breast pocket of his shirt as he turned and walked back over to the body of Randall Hank.

When he got over there, he saw the gun that Hank had mentioned in his letter. It was in a large, black duffle bag that was partially unzipped. The only reason Jango hadn’t noticed it before was because his focus had been on Hank’s corpse.

Kneeling down,
he unzipped the bag the rest of the way. What he saw there gave him a reason to smile. A Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun with the screw-on magazine extension that gave it an eight round capacity was in the duffle bag. It also looked like there were twenty or more boxes of double-aught buckshot. Jango zipped the bag back up, grabbed the carrying straps, and stood up.

He looked at Deputy Hank for a moment, then turned away and went looking for supplies. Jango had decided to honor the deputy’s last wish. He would bury his body before he and Sonja left
the town behind them.

He
spotted a large display of bottled water. They were shrink-wrapped packages comprised of twenty-four little sixteen-ounce water bottles. “Yes!” Jango exulted. He would stack as many of the packages as he could in the rear of the motor home so they wouldn’t have to worry about water for quite a while. Whistling a merry, off-key tune, he headed toward the door with his new shotgun.

Before he could open the door, though,
he spotted several zombies heading toward the camper where Sonja lay fast asleep. Jango thought quickly. One of the last things he wanted was to start shooting the goobers right there in the parking lot. The gunshots would only attract more, and he did not want a repeat of what had happened in Prescott.

Jango made
a decision. He set down the duffel with the shotgun in it, and readied himself. He had decided to try to lead the zombies away from the gas station. He hoped that the noise of the creatures chasing him would also draw any other zombies away from the gas station, and Sonja. Then he could make his way back to the store, load up on water, and maybe some gasoline, and then get the hell out of there.

Jango took a few deep breaths, and then quietly pu
shed the door open. He looked to his left and right. He didn’t want to start running and find his way blocked by more of the undead.

The zombies hadn’t noticed him yet, so
he got moving, walking slowly to his right. He walked smoothly, softly, trying to get as much of a head start as he could before the creatures spotted him. When he came to the end of the store, and could see that no undead were around the corner, he whistled softly at the zombies to draw their attention. Then, without waiting to see their reactions, Jango started running.

As he ran,
he could hear the hunting cries of the zombies as they began to pursue him. He could also hear answering howls and screams that came from zombies in other parts of the town, and Jango used those sounds to guide his flight.

He
wanted to keep himself from getting hemmed in by the hungry creatures, and he used the moans, howls, and screams to figure out where he shouldn’t go. Jango let himself settle into a long, loping pace that he instinctively knew he could hold for miles without ever getting tired.

A great calmness lay on Jango’s mind
. A sense of comfort and peace covered him like a warm blanket. He didn’t feel the intense fear he used to feel. That fear had been his unconscious calling to the two fragments of his damaged psyche, but now that he had merged with them, the fear was gone. He had the strength of his madness, but no madness. He also possessed an almost omniscient knowledge of combat and weapons. What he didn’t have were the psychoses that used to accompany the knowledge. He was whole.

Jango reveled in his seemingly tireless strength. His legs drove him forward powerfully, pumping with machine-like precision as he led the growing pack of zombies further and further from Sonja.

He led the zombies a merry chase, weaving through residential neighborhoods, and jumping fences to increase the zombie’s inability to catch him
or
to follow him back to the filling station.

After almost thirty minutes of running,
he felt as though he had led the wailing goobers far enough away and he decided to head back to the station.

The sounds of
the zombies that were hunting him rose up all around, closing in on him. Jango let several of them see him go up to a house. The front door was intact, but hanging open, so it would suit his purposes perfectly. When he reached the front door, he looked back and saw that the nearest zombies were still half a block away.

“Perfect!” He said to himself.
While holding his stick under his left arm, Jango drew the knife from his belt, and made a shallow cut on the back of his left arm. He let the blood fill the shallow wound before smearing it all over the front door of the house. Then, he hurriedly ran inside, and locked the door. He quickly made his way to the back of the house, and found the back door of the house in the kitchen.

He
spotted some paper towels, and a dishtowel. His luck was holding steady, but he knew he had to move fast now. He could hear zombies at the front door. Their bodies thumped against the door which made the entire wood framed house shiver, and the windows rattle.

Jango cleaned his arm with a wad of paper towels,
and then tied the dishtowel around the shallow wound. Then, to cover the smell of his blood, he squeezed dishwashing detergent all over the towel, and massaged it in with his hand. Satisfied with the results, he slipped out through the back door, locked the handle, and closed it quietly.
He dropped the bloody paper towels on the ground by the door, and rubbed his hands together to make sure he had dish liquid covering any traces of blood on his hands.

Taking his stick into his right hand,
he started running again. Now he ran in earnest, keeping out of sight, moving like the shadow of a shadow. He slid through yards, over fences, straight back to the store.

His run back to the gas station was uneventful.
He could hear the hellish screams of what must have been hundreds of zombies, but the screams were all coming from far away. Jango fervently hoped that his ruse with the blood would hold long enough for him to get water, and some fuel before he left.

When he got back to the station, aside from the distant wails, it was quiet and still. Jango ran to the front of the station, jerked open the door, and grabbed the duffel that had the shotgun and ammunition in it. He hustled over to the motor home, stuck his stick under his left arm, and got the key from his pocket. He took a quick look around before he opened the door. When he saw the coast was still clear, he opened the door, climbed up on the step-rail, and tossed the duffel on the passenger seat.

As he turned to go and get some water, he decided to see if Sonja had awakened. He didn’t want her to worry or be frightened. Jango pulled the door shut behind him, and went to the back of the camper to let her know what was going on.

“REEEEEE-AaaaaHeeeeeeee!” The sound pierced his ears in the tight confines of the cab as Jango found himself driven back against the dashboard and front window. He struck with concussive force, flashbulbs exploding in his vision from the terrible impact.
His head was driven almost
through
the safety glass when his skull hit.

Without thought,
he brought up his stick to protect himself. As the creature that use to be Sonja bore down on him, her dripping jaws snapping toward him, Jango had gotten his stick in between her jaws, and looped his right arm around her head. Using his body and his arm, he locked her head in place while the stick kept her teeth from reaching his flesh.

He
looked at the struggling, ravening creature and moaned, “You aren’t my Sonja. You are not my Sonja.” Then, with hot, stinging tears falling from his eyes, and heaving, wracking sobs that tore his throat, Jango slowly, gently, broke the zombie’s neck.

Chapter
19:

Fuck Shakespeare

When Shakespeare wrote, “’Tis better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all,” he probably hadn’t taken the Zombie Apocalypse into consideration.
He also probably didn’t have someone like Jango in mind when he wrote it either.

Jango carefully arranged Sonja
’s body on the little bed in the back, and lay down beside her. He lay on his side, staring at her and stroking her hair while he mumbled wordlessly. He had never known love until Sonja smashed all his emotional armor with one lingering high-five. He cried long and hard. His tears fell for what had been, but mostly for what he knew he would never have again. He cursed silently, wishing he had never known the soft, warm, joys of love. He knew that he could never have his armor back. In loving Sonja, he had become a new person in many ways. When he killed her, he had lost everything.

He
had always been alone, and he had been used to it. He had the companionship of his own mind, and a limitless imagination to keep him company. Now, having tasted the warm pleasures of love, Jango had changed. His god had been Survival, and his church had been Violence, but those gods were no longer enough for him. Not without…”Sonja,” he whispered, “I, I, loved you.” 

He
considered suicide for a moment, and then immediately dismissed the idea. Jango had known hate and rage for all his life, but those older feelings were dim and diluted memories compared to the cold fires that suddenly began to burn inside of him as he lay beside the only person in the world who he had ever loved.

He knew the only way he could
go on living was if he had a purpose. He had eaten pain, fear, rage, and hate for as long as he could remember, but the loss of Sonja had stolen his ability to exist on anything else now. He needed his hatred and rage. Now Jango had a new God; REVENGE. Revenge, a new God, but he would worship in the same church and at the same altar; VIOLENCE.

He rose from the bed
, and looked down at Sonja. Jango saw the knife on her belt, and he gently took it, and clipped it to his own belt. He kissed her one last time before he stooped, picked up both of their backpacks and the duffel, and left the vehicle through the sliding door on the side.