I drank some water mixed with Cladoxpan and pried open an MRE ration. I tried to get Lucullus to eat something, but he was too weak to chew. I was sure his tail was infected. I was worried that if I didn’t find some antibiotics soon, he would die. Even more pressing was transportation. When I took stock of how much Cladoxpan I’d consumed in twenty-four hours, I realized my reserve would only last five days. Six, if I stretched it. It would take at least three weeks to walk to Gulfport.
I climbed out of the wrecked bus and started walking. I felt strangely elated and free, the way I did at the start of the Apocalypse when I had only myself to rely on. Lucia’s face rose up before me. I loved her with all my soul, but at that moment, she and I were on different paths. I prayed she was OK and that I’d find her again.
After two hours of walking, I stopped suddenly. In the distance, surrounded by a dense grove of leafless, dwarf trees, was a one-horse town next to the train tracks. My heart raced. I took the gun out of my bag and checked the magazine. I took out two bullets and put them in my pocket, with a shudder. If things went wrong, one of the bullets was for Lucullus. The other was for me.
I approached the town very cautiously. The station platform was littered with bodies, skeletons, and cast-off clothes. It must’ve been one of the stops where the Green Guards dumped their miserable human cargo. My senses on high alert, I plastered myself against a wall and picked my way through the wreckage.
The scene was very similar to the place where the guards had left us. Not a living soul in sight. I took a chance and walked down the deserted main street, which was lined with about twenty houses. From inside every window, dark, threatening shadows watched me. The only sound was my shoes crunching on the gravel-covered pavement.
When I heard a groan behind me, I whipped around like a snake, Berretta in hand. It was just an old Coca-Cola sign creaking in the wind. I lowered my gun, shaking.
I slipped into the town’s only cafe. Shattered window glass crunched under my feet. The interior was dark and empty. Never taking my eye off the door, I skirted around broken chairs and overturned tables and inched over to the counter. In a fury, I yanked open drawers and cabinets. After five minutes I slumped, discouraged. There wasn’t a thing to eat or drink. Survivors from previous trains must’ve looted every scrap of food in the place. Anything of use was long gone. I didn’t need to check the rest of the town. I knew it would be the same in every house.
My eyes fell on a pile of bills and papers under the sink. Out of curiosity, I picked them up and read them over. Mixed in with the usual receipts and bills was a small treasure. It was a cheaply printed flyer advertising The Double J Ranch.
Want to feel like a real cowboy?
Experience the REAL Texas at The Double J Ranch
RIDE HORSES! BRAND CATTLE!
Enjoy the best Tex-Mex cuisine around!
THE DOUBLE J RANCH! You’ll never forget it!
At the bottom were a phone number and a very simple map from Sheertown (the ghost town I was in) to the ranch. A photo showed galloping horses and smiling cowboys leaning on a fence in the background.
What the hell was the rancher thinking? Did he think anyone would come to that remote corner of the world to experience the “real Texas”? Even before the Apocalypse, Sheertown mustn’t have been a thriving place. I figured you wouldn’t need a reservation at the Double J’s restaurant. Visitors were probably few and far between.
A crazy idea popped into my head. The ranch was about four miles from town, in the opposite direction from the train station. Maybe no one had noticed it before. Maybe I’d find veterinary supplies and food there, or even a car that still ran. At least I’d have a place to spend the night. I wouldn’t sleep in Sheertown for all the money in the world. It was an open-air cemetery. Evil lurked around every corner there. And a lot of misery and pain. I could feel it in my bones.
Without a backward glance, I started walking. After ten minutes, I came to an unmarked dirt road that branched off to the west. I checked the map; I was on the right track. The road was covered with dead branches and leaves; in some places, weeds almost entirely blocked it. Besides the coyotes’ tracks, there were no footprints. No one had passed that way for a long time.
I walked for an hour down that dusty road, cursing in Russian (thanks to Prit) every time I got caught on a thorn bush. Once I had to fight my way through some weeds so thick I couldn’t see the other side. That gave me hope. With the road in such a sorry state, it was unlikely anyone had visited the ranch in a long while.
Finally at the crest of a small hill, I spotted the Double J Ranch.
The ranch house was really run-down; a wooden fence surrounded it. Near the house was a huge red barn and a long, low building I assumed was the stable. The place probably was never very prosperous, but now it looked really spooky. In a corral next to the house were the bleached skeletons of fifty head of cattle. With no one to take care of them, those poor cows had slowly died of hunger and thirst in the burning sun.
Then it hit me. The owners had to be around somewhere.
Gripping the Beretta, I eased down the road. At the arch over the entrance, I set down my backpack and Lucullus’s basket. Better to be unencumbered.
First I inspected the stable. Its long central corridor was flanked by two dozen stalls. Half were empty; the other half contained the bones of a dozen horses. The metal doors were beaten in; some had bloodstains. Mad with hunger and thirst, the noble beasts had tried to break out of their stalls. Otherwise, the place was empty.
On my way out, I spotted a small refrigerator against a wall. I opened it with no expectations. I almost fell back on my ass when a wave of cold air hit me and soft white light bathed my face. The refrigerator still worked. The ranch still had power.
I just stood there for a moment, enjoying the cool air. Then I searched the stable, inside and out, before figuring out what the hell made that small miracle possible. Solar panels covered the roof and powered a generator somewhere. Either the owner didn’t like to pay electric bills or couldn’t afford a power outage in such a remote place. A stroke of luck either way.
Inside the refrigerator were several small bottles lined up in an orderly row. I rummaged around a shelf and found antibiotics for horses and cows. I hesitated. They might not be suitable for a cat, and too strong a dose might kill Lucullus. I didn’t have many options, so I stuck some bottles in my pocket along with half a dozen hypodermic needles I found in a drawer.
I looked around one more time, then headed out of the barn. That’s when I saw the first Undead. He was in his midtwenties, dressed in denim overalls and a red-and-black plaid shirt with a faded handkerchief tied around his neck. He staggered around the corner of the house in my direction.
At that distance, I couldn’t see any injury. He hadn’t been attacked by another Undead; the treacherous virus had hijacked him when he shared a bottle or a kiss. That was the good news.
The bad news was, when the Undead saw me, he groaned and made a beeline in my direction. I waited until he got closer, not wanting to miss the shot. Then I spotted an ax leaning against the door. I pocketed the Beretta and grabbed that ax with both hands. It was heavy and long, and its blade was dull, but still looked dangerous. And it was a lot quieter than the gun.
When the Undead was about six feet from me, I raised the ax over my head. I realized that, if I missed, I wouldn’t get a second chance. Shooting might’ve been a better bet, but I didn’t have time to ponder that. The Undead came at me with a roar. When his outstretched fingers had almost reached me, I brought the ax down on his head with all my might.