The old concrete roadway was slowly pitting and flaking, not from heavy traffic but from the ravages of weather over time. The terrain was hilly, and the jury-rigged hydraulic brakes were used often on the downhill grades to lessen the burden on the trailing pair of horses tasked with holding back the weight of the load.
A few hours before lunchtime of our second day, we arrived at our old burnt-out camp. Bloated bodies of the murder victims had been attacked by scavengers. The stench was nauseating. We ate a quick cold lunch up wind and then set to digging graves at the expanded cemetery where seven of our friends were already interred. The work was tiring in the hot, humid, late August heat. One at a time, the eleven maggot infested corpses were rolled onto an old plastic tarp and dragged up the slight grade to their final resting place.
While supper was being prepared far upwind, we gathered briefly to say good-byes to our departed friends and relatives. Without speaking out, I wished my disillusioned friends could have appreciated the precarious situation they had placed themselves in by refusing to acknowledge the horrible and deadly dangers surrounding us.
The burial detail finally finished. A large pot of stew simmered over a low fire while the men stood guard along the rivers edge. The women disrobed and then waded into the cold, clear water to scrub off the stench of death. Before they emerged from the river, their clothing got a dousing. They put on clean clothes and hung the wet ones on the clothes lines that were still intact. Then it was the men's turn to wash before supper while a small group of women stood armed guard.
For our third day of travel, we rose at dawn. Before breakfast was cooked and eaten, it was apparent the sky would stay overcast. We lingered longer than we should have and were late getting started. Most likely, we would never visit that desecrated spot again. Previous good memories had been overshadowed by the recent horrible acts inflicted there.
A strong breeze blew from the south and the air smelled cleaner, as if it had been filtered through a rain storm. The temperature hadn't risen much since dawn, and we all felt rain was imminent. The wagon crews took the threat of rain seriously and searched for our rain gear from the piles of supplies while we rode.
We'd been on the road about two hours when, as expected, a fine drizzle began. Within the hour sporadic summer showers pummeled us and most of us were soon drenched to some extent.
At lunchtime, we pulled in under the leaky roof of an abandoned gas station at a small, wide spot in the road to eat our cold meal in a relatively dry space. Smoked meat, cornmeal tortillas and watermelons made for a quick meal while we vigilantes joked and bantered back and forth. No one joked about the intent of our mission. That was too personal to speak about lightly.
Traveling had become easier for the horses when the road gradually left the hills behind us and flattened to a rolling prairie. We moved on from under the awning thirty minutes later and continued in the rain for two more hours until we entered West Plains. The deserted city had claimed a population of twelve thousand inhabitants prior to the Zombie Apocalypse. Now it was just another ramshackle remnant of what had been. As we left the east edge of town, sunrays shone through the dissipating cloud cover, and the temperature rose noticeably. Water quickly drained away, and steam rose from the warm pavement. I was relieved to get rid of the sweltering raingear.
Before supper that evening, my ratty, well-used twenty-two year old edition of a road atlas lay spread across a soiled counter in a ravaged Shell gas station. The distance left to Poplar Bluff was close to ninety miles. I figured three days of riding would put us near the city. Then we'd be faced with the difficult task of finding the murderous scum we had come to deal with. We spoke about the possibility of being detected first and walking into an ambush. Everyone was charged with scouring the areas around us and being vigilant.
Three days passed uneventfully as we rode toward Poplar Bluff. The weather was still hot in early September but cooled nicely after dusk. By the position of the sun, I guessed it was about three in the afternoon when our destination became visible across the eastern horizon. We made camp on a knoll west of the outskirts of the city where large trees provided shade. An adjacent open area provided tall grass where the horses grazed on long tether ropes. The horses had enough water from the recent rains pooled in a clogged roadside drainage ditch.
I held a group meeting to discuss our plan for locating the murderers we sought. We would form three, three man crews on horseback to conduct a cursory search of the city proper. The group we sought wasn't expected to be in town, but we needed to assure ourselves of that before we searched the rural area. Richard, Morgan and I would lead the crews. Vernon and Adam would ride with me, Mitch and Paige would go with Morgan, and Larry and Bryon would be with Richard. Adam, Paige and Bryon had volunteered to ride three of the draft horses bare-back. The draft horses weren't nearly as fast as the riding horses, so if a crew encountered the renegades they would likely have to dismount, take cover and fight. Hopefully, the rest of us might hear the gunfire. After two days of crisscrossing the city without seeing any signs of human activity, we changed our search focus to the areas outside the city limits.
The city's
