Lost Roads (Benny Imura 7)

And yet in the midst of all of this were flowers of incredible beauty. Perfect roses, fields of daisies and brown-eyed Susans. For nearly two miles a pack of dogs ran alongside Morgie’s quad. They were ordinary dogs, many of them dangerous-looking, but they did not snarl or snap; instead they seemed to run for the sheer joy of it. It made him smile, and when they stopped running he turned to look back and saw them standing in the road, tails wagging.

Ahead Riot was slowing, allowing him to catch up. She cut her engine near a faded billboard for a local airport, and he pulled up beside her. Riot took out her binoculars and studied another herd of zebras.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Heck if I know,” she said, handing him the glasses. “Something sure ain’t right over yonder, though. Take a look.”

Morgie took the binoculars, and for a split second their fingers brushed. It sent an electric shock through him, and he looked at her. Saw her glancing back. He wanted to believe that he saw some lingering love among the hatred and sadness there. But Riot turned away and pointed where she wanted him to look.

“I saw blood on a couple of them. Looked more like injuries than them bleeding from sores.”

“Yeah,” agreed Morgie. “They’re pretty skinny, even with all this grass to eat. Maybe they’re sick. Radiation or something. Predators go for the weak and sick animals, right?”

“Maybe,” said Riot slowly. “They’re acting pretty calm. Can’t be anything hunting them right at the moment.” Then she added, “But if there’s something hunting them out here, then we need to know about it. Wouldn’t be all that funny if we dodged a bunch of zoms and then got eaten by a pack of lions.”

Morgie braced his elbows on the handlebars to steady his view. Now he could see the blood, but it made him frown. Predators usually came up at quarter angles, slashing at the rear legs to hobble deer or horses or other big grazing animals. However, all of the blood he saw was on the upper necks of the zebras. Then the tight knot of animals shifted enough so that a bloody carcass on the trampled grass became visible. The movement also allowed Morgie to see their faces.

One of the zebras, as if sensing that it was being observed, raised its head from the thick grass and looked directly their way. The binocular lenses were powerful, and now that he was braced, his view was rock-steady.

“Oh… my… God,” he breathed.

The faces of the zebras were smeared with bright blood. It wasn’t theirs. On the ground, now partly visible, was a tawny African lion.

It was dead.

The zebras were feeding on it.

22

THE OTHER UNDEAD ZEBRAS RAISED their heads. One by one, looking to where the first one was staring. It was a scene that was at once terrifying and bizarre.

“Please tell me I’m not really seeing what I’m seeing,” said Riot slowly.

The herd of undead creatures suddenly broke into a trot and then a gallop, thundering across the field toward them.

“Move!” cried Morgie.

They turned on their quads and hit the gas. The wheels spat dust and dried grass as they bit the turf, and then the two machines were hurtling down the road. The pack of animals were running every bit as fast. They did not move with the slow and uncertain gait of human zoms but galloped at full speed.

The road snaked around. They could drive fastest on the blacktop, but the zebras were cutting toward them at an angle that would let them catch up before the road straightened out. It forced Morgie and Riot to leave the road and cut across wild pastureland in order to keep ahead. The ground was uneven, filled with rocks and gopher holes, and choked with brush.

“We’re not going to make it,” yelled Morgie as he gave the quad all the gas it would take. He willed it to lift off, to fly.

His heart sank as he thought of all that he’d been through, everything he had suffered and experienced, the dangers he had faced growing up in a town surrounded by the dead. Morgie Mitchell had survived all of that, and now he was going to die in a terrible, painful, and absurdly stupid way: eaten by freaking zebra zoms.

A sound burst from his mouth, interrupting the flow of despairing words.

As the zebras drew so close their big yellow teeth snapped at the fenders of his quad, Morgie burst out laughing. Then he gave it more gas and sped away, leaving the creatures in a swirl of road dust.

* * *

Thirty feet ahead, Riot turned to see if Morgie was still behind her.

She saw his face. Saw that he was laughing.

“Boy’s crazier than an outhouse owl,” she said.

And then she was laughing too.