Zombie Exodus: Aftermath, scene 41

continued from scene 40 

The older man picks up a bottle of pink liquid with a long straw and sips from it. When he's finished, he sets the glass down, repositions in his beach chair, and says, "You got to pay the toll."

"For fuck's sake, there's a toll?" Jesse asks.

"Everyone has to pay the toll in Loco. Give me something small. A can of food, a trinket, even a pack of matches."

Your group looks at one another, and Portland finally speaks up. "Sir, I have something." She takes a bracelet off her wrist and dangles it high in the air for him to see. "It's real silver."

The man squints as he looks at it. He twists in the beach chair. "Frankie, lower Old Betsy."

At his command, the drawbridge lowers with a long creek, its rusty chains straining and rattling the entire way down. When it crosses the moat, it drops the last few feet, and a plume of dirt flies in the air.

Jesse drives the Jeep across the drawbridge and slows at a chain across the road high enough to keep you from progressing. The older man stands from the chair, stretches his back, and walks to the passenger door. He puts his hand out towards Portland, who gives him the silver bracelet.

"Thank you, kindly," he says. It takes him a full minute to unhook the chain and cross the road.

"Old man, we're looking for someone to preserve my ex-wife's body, and we're also looking for a doctor. Point us in the right direction," Steven says.

The older man turns back to the car. "It's the same guy, Dr. Fester. I can point you in the right direction, but it will cost you."

Steven draws a revolver and places it on the man's forehead. The older man smiles and points down the road. "Take this to the barn and make a right, then another right. "

"Thanks," Steven says and taps the side of the Jeep. Jesse drives forward, paying heed to the older man's directions.

Loco X lives up to the name. The town is a sprawling, chaotic landscape of crumbling buildings and makeshift shelters. The streets are littered with debris, and the air is thick with the smoke of burning trash. Your Jeep bounces along the pothole-ridden strip of asphalt that winds its way through the heart of the town. The road bustles with activity with a constant stream of survivors. A sickly dog runs across the street carrying a stick, forcing Jesse to slam the brakes to avoid hitting him.

As you drive again, you spot an open-air bar called, Last Chance. The few standing walls are blackened by smoke, and the floor is stained with the blood of countless battles. The bar is made of rough-hewn planks of wood, scarred and gouged by knives and bullets. The bottles behind the bar are caked with dust, and the glasses are cracked and chipped. The saloon's patrons are a motley crew of survivors, their faces etched with the lines of hardship and despair. They sit in silence, nursing their drinks and staring into the middle distance, lost in their own thoughts. The only sound is the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses.

When you come to a stop to let two children across the road, several patrons walk to the car. One holds a machete over his shoulder, while another holds the shaft of a broken sludge. Yet another has a makeshift pistol with a long barrel.

"Nice Jeep. Looks like one of those army types," the machete man says to you. He has a long scar from forehead to lip. "You one of those West Pointers?"