Road to Riches: Deadline: Book 1 (Zombie Road) Read online

  Road to Riches: Deadline

  A Zombie Road Tale Book 1

  Wesley R. Norris

  Road to Riches

  Deadline

  A Zombie Road Tale

  Book 1 in the Road to Riches series

  This is a work of fiction by

  Wesley R. Norris

  ISBN: 9798542705637

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No portion of this text may be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission, with the exception of use in reviews

  Copyright 2021 Wesley R. Norris

  and

  Wise Pug Publishing

  All rights reserved

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1. Busted

  2. Call

  3. Horse

  4. Queen of Hearts

  5. Wild Card

  6. Forward Motion

  7. Queen of Diamonds

  8. Ante Up

  9. Grinder

  10. Pair of Queens

  11. All In

  12. Backdoor

  13. Fish

  14. Three of a Kind

  15. Cowboys

  16. Ace in the Hole

  17. Full House

  18. Underdog

  19. Runner Runner

  20. River Rat

  21. Hold ‘Em

  22. Dead Man’s Hand

  23. Hole Card

  24. Bubble

  25. Nosebleed

  26. Bluff

  27. Push

  28. Showdown

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  This one is for all of you wild and crazy guys and girls that travel the Zombie Road.

  Introduction

  I first became aware of Wesley’s skill at penning a good story a few years ago when we were putting out the first Zombie Road Anthology, Tales from the Zombie Road. A lot of heavy hitters in the indie world donated stories for the book. All of the proceeds were going to the Wounded Warriors Project. It was a who’s who list of incredible writers that included Christopher Artinian, Ricky Fleet, Tony Urban, Rich Restucci, Roma Gray, Valerie Lioudris, and Michael Pierce among others. Fairly big names.

  The deadline had passed, we had the material we needed, the editing was being done, a cover commissioned, formatting had been started and we weren’t taking any more submissions.

  Until I got one from Wesley.

  I don’t even know why I opened it, it should have been sent back with a “thanks but final production has already started, perhaps you can submit it if we do another anthology” type of note.

  But I did open it and I did read it and I was blown away. I had to go to the fan page and see who this guy was. Was it really Mark Tufo doing a little slumming? It wasn’t, he was a real guy and said his wife convinced him to send it in. He didn’t think it was good enough.

  Needless to say, we “stopped the presses” so to speak and added his story. It was one of my favorites and I used his characters in some of the Zombie Road books.

  When I was looking for a cowriter for the Feral Children series, I sampled and discarded a handful of hopefuls and decided to see if he would be interested. He was and wrote a humdinger of a trilogy. All three books were best sellers and he wove an intricate story that breathed life into the children. I edited his version heavily since it was a joint project but one character he introduced, the surly cowboy called Rye, now has his own book.

  This story is all Wesley. It’s his tale done in his style and it’s good. It’s a ball’s out, heavy metal, full tilt boogie Zombie Road tale of mayhem and destruction. It’s set in the early days, sometime around when Lakota had been secured and Jessie had started his ceaseless wanderings. It’s a tale of the bold and the brave, the mad men and women who went beyond the safety of the walls. It’s the story of a certain hard bitten, hard drinking and hard driving Retriever.

  He tells me there are two more books coming and I, for one, can’t wait.

  July 26, 2021

  David A. Simpson

  “Enjoy life, there’s plenty of time to be dead.”

  -Hans Christian Anderson

  “Gambling, the sure way of getting nothing for something.”

  -Wilson Mizner

  “Never tell me the odds!”

  -Han Solo, Return of the Jedi

  Prologue

  Day 1 of the Outbreak

  September

  Kalispell, MT

  We all have that moment. That one event in our life that alters the course of everything. It changes who we are, who we become, and relegates that old you to the recycle bin while someone new takes your place. The previous life becomes a collection of dusty memories, shattered dreams and missed opportunities. All you’re left with is the choice to lie down and give up or find a way to keep pushing forward. For me, that moment came on a September morning that started out like any other.

  I was riding high on life when I parked my brand-new Jeep Wrangler in the school parking lot that cool, crisp morning. I checked my reflection in the mirror. Rye, old boy, I do believe you woke up better looking than yesterday. I tugged at a lone grey hair in my short beard, winced when the invader’s root gave up its patch of conquered real estate. Thirty-three years old was too young for that foolishness. I blamed my father, Phineas. He was a silver haired fox by the time he was in his mid-forties, and I wondered if I would be the same way. Better to turn gray than turn loose, I decided. I plucked a few strands of dog hair from the passenger seat left behind by the Australian Shepherd puppy my girlfriend, Bex, had given me on our first anniversary and flicked them out the window. He was an ornery creature, small enough to sit in my cupped hands. He consisted mostly of fluff and bad attitude. She had christened him Bo. I wanted to name him something cool like Thor or Zeus, but after fluttering those pretty blue eyes at me, I gave in, and Bo joined our growing little family. I admit, I was getting attached to him, despite the fact he chewed up my favorite pair of boots and had marked his territory on anything he could hike his leg high enough to reach. He was stubborn and unruly, Bex claimed he was taking after me already. I pretended to be offended by the comparison, but I wasn’t. I liked her quick wit and teasing. Besides, I already had Bo scheduled for obedience training, maybe that would straighten him out.

  The Jeep was a luxury purchase after years of paying back student loans and cutting corners to save enough money to put down on the modest log cabin outside Kalispell, near Stillwater Creek. A place where someday, I’d teach my future son and daughter the art of fly fishing. With its off-road tires and four-wheel drive, the Jeep was rugged enough to take me into the remote camping areas for long, romantic weekend getaways with Bex, but roomy and practical enough for car seats, strollers and diaper bags when that time came.

  I opened the center console and took out the small black box that was nestled inside. I’d always loved the ladies and had dated my fair share, but something changed the day Rebecca Dawn Porter started teaching at Kalispell Primary. In an instant, wild nights of partying and playing the field were a lot less interesting than a picnic for two on a blanket somewhere secluded. My heart raced and my mouth went dry as I stared down at the big diamond, surrounded by a cluster of smaller diamonds. It too, was another purchase that I’d struggled to find a way to pay for until I realized that my poker hobby was the quick answer if I could find the right games
to get into. I’d always had a knack for cards but had never played for stakes bigger than quarter antes. Nearly everywhere has a place where people gather for a private game, it’s just a matter of finding out where and getting yourself invited. Of all people, it was the school superintendent that turned out to be my way in. He fancied himself a seasoned gambler and pegged me for an easy mark when I deliberately understated my skills. Backrooms of laundromats, auto garages, horse barns, a locker room at the football field and anywhere else that offered a modicum of privacy served as a venue where the respected pillars of the community could indulge their vices. I spent the first few nights making sure I lost more hands than I won but kept my initial stake intact. I learned their tells, that little twitch of the eye or nervous movement that signified whenever they were holding a solid hand and when they were bluffing. I endured the slaps on the backs and the laughter whenever my piles of chips were raked into theirs, watching and learning until I knew their tactics as well or better than they did. Then, I put my newfound knowledge to work and started taking their money, enough to grow my savings but not enough to get me uninvited from future games. Those long nights at the tables finally paid off and I’d been able to buy the ring with cash. The jeweler had raised an eyebrow when I pulled out the envelope stuffed with wrinkled twenties, fifties and hundreds, but we were both smiling when I walked out a few minutes later with the small black box tucked in my pocket.

  Bex disapproved of my gambling and the stench of stale beer and cheap cigars that wafted around me after a night at the tables but was willing to let me hold onto at least one bad habit. I planned to tell her when I proposed that those days were behind me, it was a means to an end. I didn’t need the stimulation that poker provided, she was more than enough. I snapped the lid shut and returned the ring to its hiding place, fighting a twinge of doubt. I wiped my sweaty palms on my khakis, of course she would say yes.

  Friday night was going to be the big night. We had dinner reservations at the best steakhouse in Montana followed by a booking in a luxury suite afterward at a ski resort. The off-season rates put it within my budget since the first snows were still a month or so away. The room boasted a Jacuzzi and the finest champagne the hotel had available would be chilling in a bucket of ice when we arrived. I told her it was to celebrate the new house and the next step in our relationship. She was moving in with me as soon as the lease on her apartment was up at the end of the month. If I played my cards right, it would be my fiancée that moved in and not my girlfriend.

  I looked up in time to see her entering the building. Early as always to get her lesson plans in order and greet each student as they walked in the door of her classroom. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a loose ponytail; stylish glasses perched on her pert nose. The hem of her dress showed off just a flash of tanned, toned calf muscle. She was one of those girls who was a natural at everything. Smart, athletic, considerate, beautiful and kind, with just enough snark and sass to keep me on my toes. She complimented me in every way and made me want to be a better man. I never knew what she saw in me, but I’m glad she did. Bex Porter was one of a kind and I felt like the luckiest man in the world as I watched her sashay through the doors.

  “Rebecca Porter Rye,” I said aloud, just to try it out. The words made the butterflies in my stomach dance.

  A glance at my watch reminded me that if I didn’t move my ass, a room full of third graders would find a way to entertain themselves. I scooped up the box of fresh doughnuts and the bag of sausage, egg and cheese biscuits I’d picked up from a local restaurant. I was feeling great about life and decided to treat my class in celebration. I locked the Jeep and headed for the door.

  A not unsubstantial part of my good mood was the fact I’d won the local shooting competition and was scheduled to move on to the regional matches in October. I’d been shooting and hunting since I was big enough to tag along behind my dad, carrying my Red Ryder BB gun, pockets stuffed full of snacks my mom had packed so I didn’t starve in the three or four hours we were out.

  Mom and him had encouraged me to compete at a young age in skeet shooting. From there, I had moved on to combat pistol matches, long range precision and eventually three-gun competition where you alternated the course with shotgun, pistol, and rifle. I had a real shot at taking the state title in November if I could keep up my momentum. It was a chance to gain some big name sponsors, even though I was eternally grateful to the local guys at the Five-Minute Oil Change and the good folks down at Dixon’s Home Improvement for supporting me so far.

  I walked into a mostly full classroom that morning and wrangled some of the more rambunctious of them back into their seats. I was pleased to see there were no empty desks. I’d heard television reports on all the major news outlet about a new virus that had popped up in heavily populated places like Atlanta, Los Angeles and New York the day before. There’d been incidents of extremely aggressive behavior among the sick and fears of a pandemic running rampant across the country. I’d spoken with my folks the night before on the phone. Dad and my mom, Rochelle, were in New York City, taking in the Broadway shows, shopping at trendy boutiques and enjoying the endless variety of cuisine at upscale restaurants. Mom said the violence seemed to be localized to a few of the rougher neighborhoods, far from their hotel, and that they were fine. No need to worry, she told me. I remember thinking how lucky we were to be so far away from big city problems.

  I passed the bag of biscuits out to my first period class, along with a warm glazed donut for each of them, with the exception of Hannah Hutchinson, the vegetarian. I gave her my donut and left her sandwich in the bag next to mine. She loved animals and wanted to be a veterinarian, or so I had heard every morning since school started a few weeks earlier. I loved animals too, medium rare with a baked potato on the side, preferably. I rolled the top of the bag down to keep the last two biscuits warm until I could meet Bex between classes so we could eat breakfast together. I’m just sweet that way.

  After roll call, while the kids were still eating, I began laying out some notes on the chalk board. We were going to discuss the cell and how it functioned. I would have some of them come up and draw out the nucleus, membrane and cytoplasm, followed by an explanation of what each one did. Pretty dry material to a third grader, but I did what I could to make it interesting and keep them engaged.

  Hannah volunteered to be the first to explain the function of the nucleus. She was one of the brighter children in my class and eager to educate her peers, so I handed her the chalk and got out of her way. The rest of the class was surprisingly subdued considering they were eight-year-olds who had just finished off sugar filled donuts. I noticed Dylan Wilson on the front row was starting to look unnaturally pale. He’d been fine a few minutes earlier, he was one the kids playing when I’d walked in. Sweat ran in rivulets down his ashen face. His veins looked dark under his pale skin and a line of drool was running from the corners of his mouth. I was getting ready to take him to the nurse’s office when Bryan LeCrenier vomited his breakfast and blood down the back of Anthony Beard’s neck, who was unfortunate enough to be sitting in front of him.

  “Hang on Dylan, I’ll get you seen about in just a second.” I said softly to the wan complexioned boy. I touched the back of my hand to his forehead, he was burning up with fever.

  “Get away from him Anthony,” I said. “Go to the nurse’s station and get cleaned up. She’ll call your parents to come get you.” The boy darted from the room, shedding his puke stained jacket and dropping it to the floor.

  Some of the bloody vomit had also splashed onto Dottie Hillesheim’s face. She tried to wipe it away but only managed to smear it across her face. She screamed out, “Gross!” She too, was sweating profusely and panting.

  She jumped from her desk and followed Anthony out of the classroom into the adjacent hallway. Her movements were distorted and jerky, but it didn’t register to me at the time what it meant. Other students left their desks and followed her, staggering and moaning, clutc
hing their hands to their bellies or holding their heads while they retched down the front of their clothes.

  Bryan gasped loudly and slumped from his seat to the floor. It looked like he was having a seizure, only in slow motion. His muscles contorted and contracted so fiercely I swear I could hear the tendons popping. Dylan growled at me when I pushed him back down into his seat. I warned him to stay there as I made my way towards the back of the room where Bryan was in the throes of agony. He twitched a few more times then lay still. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing and was hesitant to get near him. My instincts were to check his condition, send for help and start CPR if needed. I froze in uncertainty, he could be highly contagious.

  I swore under my breath, I’d inadvertently given my class food poisoning, maybe even killed Bryan. That wouldn’t look good on my performance review. The students I’d sent out into the hallway were just standing there in a cluster. Disoriented like they didn’t know where they were or what they were supposed to be doing. I shouted again at them to head to the nurse’s station but none of them paid me any attention. They tilted their heads like hounds sniffing the air and then bolted down the hallway in the wrong direction. The rest of the class was oblivious to what was happening. All of them were starting to show the symptoms that were affecting their classmates.