Republic of the Living (Novella): Vengeance

  Republic of the Living: Vengeance

  By Taz Gallaher

  © 2015 Taz Gallaher

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  1. Friday Morning

  2. Thursday Afternoon

  3. Tuesday Afternoon

  4. Friday Morning

  5. Wednesday Noon

  6. Friday Noon

  7. Wednesday Evening

  8. Friday Afternoon

  A Note to the reader: Some readers have commented on the twisting structure of my novella. There is a convention used by ancient epic called “in media res.” This translates into English as : “in the middle of things.” This novella begins in media res. In the first chapter, we join our protagonists already on the run from a sequence of deadly events that occurred 36 hours earlier. In the second chapter, the story flashes back to a slightly earlier time. In this way, as you read forward in the novella, the story takes you further back in time, until you arrive exactly at the narrative’s central event - - a bloody confrontation between good and evil and the birthplace of vengeance.

  1. Friday Morning

  The fog rose up over the mountains like a pompadour of smoke combed into the sky. Beneath it, canyons furrowed the dusty brown hillsides in long, shadowed scars. On the flatlands, empty buildings and crumbling houses poked their heads above a sea of oaks and pines. A flock of birds wheeled across the sky, swept across the tracks, and disappeared into the streets below.

  The morning sun bounced off the pale concrete bed of the elevated railway. It should have been raining but the seasons were out of joint. Instead, a warm, dry wind gusted from the west, herding brittle leaves across the rails.

  Chewy and the girl trudged along the flume that cradled the tracks. They had left Fruitvale late Wednesday night, headed north and then east, hurrying to outrun their pursuers. When dusk fell, they had broken into a platform booth and shared a can of beans. In the morning’s gray light, she curled against the corner of the booth and slept. Chewy dozed on the chair in front of a console studded with buttons and switches. He prodded her awake just as dawn broke and they set off again for the hills.

  She was tiny. As they walked together, the top of her short, dark hair barely reached his chest. Her black t-shirt billowed below her waist. Before they left the small settlement on the edge of the dead city, she had traded her heavy over-sized boots for a pair of children’s sneakers - - bright pink and tattooed with cartoon images of cats and dogs. The machete belted around her waist bounced against her right knee.

  She slipped away from him toward the edge of the rail bed. “Over there,” she said, pointing her arm back in the direction they had come from.

  He stopped and shaded his eyes. A line of inky smoke wriggled into view above the tree line. He breathed deeply and the wind brought him the taste of burning wood.

  “Happens when it’s dry,” he said. “Somebody does something stupid and things start to burn.”

  She arched her eyebrows and the corner of her mouth tilted upward. “You serious?” She put her hands on her hips. “You think I’m still that stupid?”

  He shrugged and turned back up the track bed.

  “It’s them,” she shouted.

  He stopped.

  “Fire must be around 20th Street. Means they’re close. Real close.”

  “Well then.” He turned to her. “Better get your ass in gear, hermana. Tunnel’s up ahead and we wasting time.”

  He trudged forward and she jogged up to him, her pink sneakers slapping against the concrete.

  “Come on, old man,” she said as she passed him by. “Better get your hustle on.”

  He laughed and tightened his fingers around his pack straps as he shifted into a fast walk.

  She was tiny, but she was tough. He’d seen that right away. The night she raced across the hard sand at the mouth of the river and pounded on his door. The dog barked twice to interrupt his pen as it scratched across the long sheet of yellow paper. He twisted the wick of the old kerosene lamp, shoved the knife into his back pocket, and opened the door. Her cheeks were flushed and her black eyes glittered in the faint moonlight. He’d seen her a couple of times before outside Auntie’s house up on the bluffs. He nodded once and words exploded out of her mouth.

  By the time they’d climbed back up the narrow trail, the State militia had taken Auntie. The other girl lay in a crumpled pile next to the old woman’s big table. Her cold fingers clutched the shank of a kitchen knife.

  “She told me to get you,” the girl whispered into the silent room. “She told me to get you.”

  They buried the red-haired girl just beyond the haphazard columns of Auntie’s beehives. She helped without saying a word. The sun was rising when he returned the shovels to the old woman’s rickety shed. He dropped to his hands and knees and peered under the ancient cart Auntie used to haul her honey and wax to the market in Arcata. The packed dirt was still smooth.

  Ripping a page from a book on Auntie’s shelf, he scribbled a note to Jackson. They hiked to the next shack up the road and he asked the hard-bitten woman who answered the door to pass the note on. She twitched her head left and right and then nodded.

  “Say,” the woman whispered, leaning through the door toward Chewy. “You hear what happened up in McKinleyville?”

  He shook his head.

  “They’s back,” the woman continued. “Militia’s up there right now. Not looking good.”

  He tipped his head at the woman as she retreated back into her home.

  “Come on,” he muttered to the girl and turned back down the road.

  She argued with him until they stood along the bank carved by the river as it approached the ocean. She wanted to continue on to Arcata. Find Auntie. Find the men who’d killed her friend, Connie. Wreak havoc on the militia. He just nodded as they crossed through Auntie’s yard and negotiated the narrow path down the bluff. At the river’s edge, he raised an arm to block her.

  “Where you from, chinita?”

  She gazed across the fast, dark waters of the river and then back at Chewy. In the distance, a black and tan dog rose to his haunches on the narrow porch in front of the cabin. The dog shook himself and barked once before trotting toward them. Soft, lazy waves rolled against the beach and the ocean spread beyond the beach like a sheet of blue silk.

  “What do you care?” She answered, scowling at him.

  The current pulled at Chewy’s boots as he waded through the river. He heard her splashing behind him. Panting with joy, Cato ran a circle around him and then sat and watched the girl. He leaned down to pat the dog’s head and offered his hand to help her up the crumbling bank. She ignored him and vaulted onto the sand.

  “They’ll be coming for you,” he said softly. “You don’t want to be here when they do.”

  She dropped to her knees to stroke Cato, who responded by lapping his tongue along her cheek.

  “I’m from Oakland,” she said finally. She looked up at him. “You know it?”

  He laughed. “Been there a couple of times. You got family down there?”

  She nodded.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated on the rhythm of the breakers drumming softly against the beach. This had been a good place. He took a deep breath and tasted the clean, rich perfume of the onshore breeze. Beneath him, the river whispered across its sandy bed. A really good place. On the farthest edge of the state. About as far away from the danger and worry and stupidity of the road as a man could get.

  He opened his eyes.

  “Okay,” he said more to himself than to her. “Get on back to Aunties. Get your stuff. Take Cato with you.”

  She sto
od and glared at him, hands on her hips.

  “Go on, pequena. We ain’t got much time.”

  He whistled and pointed across the river. The big, broad-shouldered Shepherd loped beside her as she disappeared into the scrub that thickened along the bluff.

  When the girl and the dog returned, he explained everything to Cato and left the dog on the porch next to the water trough and a tub of food. Jackson would find him later in the day. He grabbed the long, metal-tipped staff from where it leaned against the wall.

  They left before noon, trudging south along the pebbled apron of the beach.

  2. Thursday Afternoon

  The city had never been Hanrahan’s friend. And, now, without the people, the cars, and the noise, it had grown even less friendly. A long wedge of shadow sliced across the shop fronts to his left. The brick and clapboard buildings had been buffeted by some disaster. Windows replaced by dark empty holes. Doors flung from their hinges. Scarred paint and chipped, crumbling brick. A few, scattered cars - - victims of the same catastrophe - - glowed weakly in the dim morning light.

  He slapped his heels against the horse’s sweaty flanks and cursed. The animal, a big roan mare, flipped her head back and halted. He rubbed his hand along her neck while he studied a flock of zombies stumbling through the intersection at the end of the block. They bounced against each other, spreading across the street like a bag of spilled marbles. No order, no purpose. Obeying the simplest rules of cause and effect. Worse than animals, he thought as he shifted his gaze to the horse’s thick mane and wide eyes. Much worse.

  “‘S okay, Bama,” Hanrahan whispered, patting the animal’s thickly muscled shoulder.

  Hooves pinged against the pavement to his rear and the rest of the posse assembled on either side. The horses nickered as their riders pulled them to a stop. He nodded toward the intersection.

  “God damn,” Pearly muttered under his breath. “Thought we’d catch up to them this morning.”

  Pearly’s horse danced under him, nervous and anxious to keep moving. More zombies flowed into the intersection and a burst of wind pushed the stench of dead flesh into his nostrils. Another five minutes and the meatbags would be halfway down the block. Already, a short, thin figure in rags danced slowly ahead of the larger group, aiming in their direction.

  “How many you figure?” Luke whispered in his low, gravel-washed voice

  Hanrahan pulled the curved saber from the scabbard tied to his saddle.

  “Does it really fucking matter?”

  He kept his eyes on the lone figure stumbling ahead of the pack. It was obviously a child, maybe twelve or thirteen. Wild, fuzzy tufts of hair spotted its gray scalp like sickly clumps of grass. Its feet had been reduced to tiny paws. The thing weaved its head back and forth, searching the breeze for the scent of food.

  Sunlight glinted off the saber as he raised it and pointed to the sidewalk.

  “Pearly, you take the right. Tilt, you take the left. Get the rope. Luke and I roll up the center.”

  He and Luke tugged their horses back while the other two men guided their mounts close together. Pearly donned a pair of thick gloves and pulled a fat loop of rope from his saddle. He passed one end to Tilt. Each man wrapped an end around his saddle pommel. They nodded to each other and the rope unspooled between them as the horses trotted slowly to opposite sides of the street.

  As the riders separated and advanced, the tough, nylon cord grew taut as a bowstring across the street.

  Hanrahan glanced at Luke, who rested the thick wooden handle of a flail along his thigh. The spiked ball at the end of the heavy chain swayed gently with the movements of his horse. Pearly and Tilt stopped a dozen yards in front of the small zombie and tugged at their gloves. Their horses waited patiently, flicking their tails and bobbing their heads. The rope stretched across the street high as a man’s shoulders. Its encrusted glass fragments and metal shards glittered like beads of dew in the sun.

  “Listen up.” He spoke to Luke but his eyes stayed on the zombie child. It had raised its nose toward them and begun shuffling more purposefully down the street. Like iron filings dragged by a magnet, the scattered zombies behind the ragged boy gathered together and drifted toward them. “You and me. We run the ball up the middle. Get on over here. Closer.”

  Luke nudged his tall, black horse next to Hanrahan’s mare until their shoulders almost kissed. He shifted the flail to his opposite hand.

  Hanrahan flicked his eyes at the younger man. Narrow rivulets of sweat crawled down Luke’s cheeks. His dark eyes were fastened on the thickening mob of zombies and he blinked slowly. A gloved hand squeezed the haft of the flail. Hanrahan heard the creak of the other man’s thick, scarred leather chaps.

  “You’ll be fine, boy.” He reached over and tapped Luke’s shoulder. Luke nodded. “Just ride like hell and swing that stick in your hand. It’s not your day today. I promise.”

  Luke glanced at Hanrahan and offered him a tight grin.

  The zombie child drew closer, shaking its head left and right. Hanrahan yanked Bama’s reins. The zombie responded to the horse’s snort by swiveling his head forward. As if receiving the same message, the mob of zombies squeezed together behind the child and surged forward. Hanrahan clucked once or twice to settle the mare and raised his saber. When he dropped it, Tilt and Pearly whooped and kicked their horses’ flanks.

  The big animals pushed back on their haunches and rocketed forward, shifting from canter to gallop in the blink of an eye. Beneath the hoots and hollers of the two riders, hooves thundered on the pavement. The glittering rope raced down the center of the street, zipping just over the zombie child’s head. The boy trudged onward dumbly. Behind him, the razor edge of the black cord sawed across the first line of zombies.

  Heads exploded, splattering dark blood and greasy liquid onto the street. The first, ragged line of undead tottered drunkenly and then collapsed to the ground. Tilt and Pearly’s horses plunged forward and the singing rope mowed down one corpse after another. With a shout, Pearly suddenly yanked his reins back and his horse spun across the sidewalk. Tilt galloped onward, the free end of the rope hissing along the street.

  Pearly struggled to regain control of his horse, and Hanrahan leaned down and murmured into Bama’s ear. He nodded to Luke and their horses shot forward together, muscles rippling and swelling along their flanks. Hanrahan tightened his thighs around Bama’s ribs as they raced down the street. Luke hollered and swung the ball at the end of the flail deep into the zombie child’s chest. The creature flew backward and disappeared. Wind feathered through Hanrahan’s long hair as a zombie crunched against Bama’s broad chest. He swept the saber downward and the flashing blade split a gray, bare skull in two. He heard the whomp of Luke’s flail as it slammed into another rib cage.

  They galloped over the slick, gleaming results of Pearly and Tilt’s work and drove the horses onward into the gathering mob of zombies. Ten yards in front of the zombies, a cloud of sharp, sweet stench enveloped them. Next to him, Luke gagged and the horses jolted forward and accelerated. The momentum of the big animals detonated like a bomb within the mob of undead, an explosion so furious and rapid that the rotting, gray figures were bowled over and tumbled down the street before they could raise their withered arms. The sound of shattering bones and tearing flesh filled his ears.

  Hanrahan pumped the saber up and down, slicing arms and carving the blade into skulls and spines. Next to him, Luke rose up in his stirrups and lifted the whirling flail over his head. He heaved the weapon down in a long arc and a crumpled body shot into the air ahead of the horses. Hanrahan whooped and drove the tip of his blade into the gawking mouth of a tall zombie. Bama’s momentum whisked the zombie away onto the ground.

  The thick herd of wan, stinking bodies was robbing the horses of momentum. As the animals slowed, he raised the saber and craned his neck. Ahead and beyond the thinning edge of the undead, Pearly and Tilt had already arranged themselves on opposite sides of the street.

  A han
d seized the shaft of his boot and squeezed. He swung the saber down without looking and the fingers released their grip. He whistled and waved the saber in the air.

  Luke’s horse wheeled away from him and Hanrahan caught a glimpse of the younger man’s grimace as he hauled on the reins. He pushed his heels into Bama’s ribs and leaned left. The horse snorted and heaved onto its rear legs, twisting its long, heavy body even as it lifted him into the air.

  “That’s it, honey,” Hanrahan shouted and flicked the reins. “Go on, baby. Go!”

  Bama whirled and found her footing. She flexed her hips and galloped away from the zombies. Next to him, the iron shoes of Luke’s horse chimed against the pavement. The two animals raced neck and neck back down the street. Luke bent over his horse’s mane, grinning and whispering into the animal’s ear. The twisted body of the zombie child - - a heap of tattered cloth stained dark and wet - - flashed beneath Hanrahan and he yanked on Bama’s reins. The horse slowed, its chest rolling beneath him and its thick brown coat slicked with sweat and black blood. He patted her as he wheeled around toward the zombies.

  Tilt and Pearly were thundering back down the street toward them. The rigid, sparkling rope repeated its deadly work. The remaining zombies swayed and fell like wheat beneath the thresher’s blade. The rope whizzed across the top of a woman’s head and her skull parted like ripe fruit. A glimmering rind of bone and long, dirty hair popped into the air as her body shivered and buckled to the street. When the pair cleared the near fringe of the zombie herd, Tilt released his end of the rope. He spurred his horse and the animal raced toward Luke and Hanrahan. Pearly glanced over his shoulder and tugged at his reins. His horse slowed to a trot, snorted twice, and pranced down the center of the street.

  “Goddammit,” Tilt shouted as he joined Hanrahan and Luke. “Goddammit!”

  Luke laughed..

  “A good day’s work. Eh friend?” Hanrahan grinned