White Wasteland by Jeff Kirkham (best color ebook reader .txt) 📕

“How far north is Cumberland?”

Tye thought about it. “Maybe fifteen miles.”

Jeff would prefer to think he’d driven by the place and superimposed the idea of the horse over his dream. Unfortunately, he had never been to Cumberland. Not even close. It was way down by the Great Salt Lake and he’d never had a reason to go out that far.

He remembered the horse from the dream, and he remembered remembering the horse. It hadn’t been a trick of the mind—a shell game of the subconscious. He knew he’d seen this exact stallion in the dream, and he knew it like he knew that he hadn’t put creamer in his coffee that morning.

“He’s beautiful. We could use more horses. Our gas isn’t going to last forever.” Jeff tried to plaster over the weirdness of the moment with chit-chat.

Tye nodded emphatically. “You got that right. I’ll put the word out that we’re looking for horses. We cut and dried some of the grass from the back land before snow fell, so we can feed a few mares over the winter if we can find them for trade. Anyone with any common sense will hang on to their horses, though. They’ll be worth their weight in ammunition pretty soon.”

“Maybe worth their weight in gold,” Jeff corrected him. “Nothing’s worth its weight in ammunition. Take care.”

Jeff saluted Tye with his coffee mug and turned back to the big house.

State Street and 90th South

Murray, Utah

With his small assault team, Evan figured he could chase off the zombies that threatened Tanya’s family so long as they ran the op at night.

For the recon, Evan left Tommy in charge at the dealership. He was starting to get the impression Tommy didn’t have the stomach for this kind of thing. Tommy had done plenty of training under Evan’s command, but when it came to prolonged combat, he preferred guys who were into it, not guys who tolerated it. Every time they were staring down the barrel of an honest-to-God fight, Tommy chimed in with less violent alternatives and it was getting old. Evan had avoided enough violence in his career to know when violence was necessary.

When the Homestead sent Evan’s team downrange, Jeff had equipped them with four priceless Gen 3 night vision goggles: three PVS-14s and a PVS-7. Given their nighttime superiority, Evan didn’t mind splitting his team for a recon, leaving most of the guys to hold their base of operations at the dealership.

While the night was still young, Evan and Jake went to gather on-the-ground intel in a four block radius around the pawn shop. They worked a slow circuit around the point of contact—where he’d seen two scumbags dip into an alley after shadowing the little girl. (Truman, Reagan, Riley?)

Half-way around their circuit, they ran into campfires. People milled about, talking in low voices, huddling around the fires—mostly men. Evan saw some alcohol, some women “on the job,” he even saw a couple of kids ducking around like gadflies.

Evan and Jake stayed back in the shadows, ghosting from one building to the next on the opposite side of the street from the zombies. A pattern emerged; they were clustered around a single block of commercial buildings. Every gap in the low-slung, commercial buildings was filled with people living in shanty huts and dead cars. As Evan circled the block, it became clear that this was a population center of sorts, a gathering place.

Evan and Jake weren’t the only ones with guns. Many of the adult drifters carried handguns, shotguns or rifles. But they were the only ones equipped like commandos. The zombies who noticed them gave them a wide berth.

The alleys and access streets into the heart of the block made little sense. It was as though the buildings had sprung up like mushrooms. There were two bars and a tattoo shop. A big parking lot served a boat repair business and an erotic dance club. From what he could see from the outside, the parking lot in the center was the hub of activity—some kind of market or trading post. A long line of people carrying buckets and jugs wound around the Mi Ranchito Grill, between an auto parts store and behind a flooring shop. Evan thought he saw a tanker truck parked in the middle of the flat-topped buildings.

Evan rolled his AR-15 around to his back and approached the line of people with buckets. The first guy wouldn’t look him in the eye or talk to him. The next guy chatted up a storm, but the information seemed wonky. Jake stood back a few feet with his hands on his rifle, covering Evan.

“What’s the line for?” Evan asked the chatty guy.

“The water truck, dude.” The zombie’s teeth looked like they might actually be growing moss.

“Why aren’t you people sheltered up at home? Why live in tents? It’s fucking cold, bro,” Evan asked, hunching his shoulders as if to bundle up in his fatigues.

The zombie guy shrugged. “Different reason for everyone. Some need a fix, others were chased off by Mormons, others—like me—were ran out by gangs.”

“There aren’t any gangs here?” Evan looked around.

“Nah. This is cop territory. It’s protected. Say, who are you, anyway. Are you Army?”

Evan shook his head. “My buddy and I are just looking for food for our families. We’re paintball players—you know, pew, pew. These are our paintball uniforms.”

The zombie didn’t appear convinced. Evan continued, “Where are the cops, then?”

The zombie pointed at a man leaning against the back of the King Buffet with a 30-30 rifle. He was dressed in a huge, oil-spotted coat, many sizes too large and a black and gold baseball cap jammed backwards over a beanie. Evan couldn’t get an exact read on the guy’s size, but he knew the man was too skinny and too nappy to be a police officer. Any cop worth his salt would’ve approached Evan and Jake the moment they appeared on the scene in full kit.

“That ain’t no