While the initial books will be set in Oklahoma City and the surrounding area. I would like to collaborate with writers in other cities and make it a series that has different settings. There wouldn't be a single group of survivors in a single city.
Instead a reader could pick up a part of the Mad World series set in or near their hometown and relate to some locations they read about.
Reynolds
didn’t sleep at all after seeing the lasers. The one pointing west bothered him. Who would they have been signaling?
He
listened to the woman’s quiet breathing as he thought about any recent scout
reports.
In
recent weeks the scouts hadn’t seen anything of note.
The
most substantial thing they saw was a small herd of zombies walking along the
H.E. Bailey Turnpike headed away from town.
There
were empty skinner campsites but no actual skinners.
And
no contact with the Darren Group had been made in at least two months. Reynolds scouts would report seeing
them in the distance but no confrontations were made.
The
crunching of acorn caps broke Reynolds train of thought and the woman held her
breath.
“Wha…”
she said.
Reynolds
shushed her.
He
heard the crunching again.
A
small quiet birdcall came from the darkness.
Reynolds
reached over and patted the woman on the shoulder.
“Go
back to sleep.”
“What
was that,” she said.
“I
think it got spooked away,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
“Slim
chance of that.”
Before
Reynolds could start thinking about the signals, the woman was asleep.
The
walk along the highway was nice for Reynolds and the woman.
The
turnpike was clear and as they rounded the highway to the south they began to
see evidence of reestablishing civilization.
People
worked in the fields lining the highway harvesting corn.
Reynolds
waved at them as he and the woman walked past.
“You
know them,” the woman asked.
“No,
I know where they are from. They might know who I am though,” he said. “A lot
of people
do around these parts.”
“Where
are they from?”
“You’ll
see.”
They
walked further and came to a small neighborhood. It was at the intersection of Northwest Expressway and
the Turnpike. Countryside and fields surrounded it.
Around
the neighborhood barricades and fortifications kept out most of the danger. The
majority of houses were intact. Two houses were in the process of being
constructed.
In
cul-de-sac’s small markets had been set up with goods for the people to buy.
“It’s
a village,” she said.
“Yeah.
This is Prescott North,” Reynolds said. “Prescott South is just down the road
and it’s bigger.”
“Prescott,”
she asked. “I thought this area was Yukon.”
“Prescott
was the name of the man who brought these people together,” Reynolds said.
“Technically it might have been part of Yukon.”
“Was
his name?”
“Shortly
after we arranged an alliance he was killed,” Reynolds said.
They
continued down the road and Prescott North was behind them.
People
in the fields and along the side of the road stopped and waved. Reynolds waved
back.
“These
people all seem to know you,” she said.
“Yeah.
When Prescott was killed I extended our patrols and protection to this area.”
The
woman shielded her eyes and looked out to the east of the highway.
A
large expanse of countryside had been converted into a marshland. Tall reeds and cat tails swayed in the
breeze as ducks lazily paddled around the waterway and egrets stalked prey.
“Is
that a swamp?”
“Yeah. This entire area floods on the east
side so we don’t farm there.”
Fishermen
in flat bottom boats sit with lines in the water in middle of the swamp. Ducks swam by them leaving long v’s in
their wake.
As
they continued down the road they came to a barricade at the edge of a long
bridge.
Vehicles
blocked the road. Median barriers had been stacked and arranged to create a
maze that a car could maneuver if going slow.
A
group of men and women carrying rifles and wearing guns stood near the
barriers, talking and laughing in the late morning sun. The younger members
held the reigns of a few horses on the side of the road.
When
they saw Reynolds come up they all straightened up a little.
“Reynolds!
Good to see you back,” a man yelled.
He
had a rifle slung over one shoulder and wore khaki colored clothes similar to
the men and women he joked with minutes before.
“Markus.
Was that you last night,” Reynolds asked.
“You
still use that stupid trick,” Markus said, referring to the crunching of acorns
Reynolds uses for an early warning system at night.
“It
got you didn’t it?”
“Not
me, Twinkle Toes over there,” he said.
He flicked a toothpick at a scruffy haired teenage boy who held the
reigns of the horses.
Reynolds
recognized the teen as a Prescott villager.
“Don’t
worry about it, kid. Markus has stepped on a few acorns trying to sneak up on
me too,” he said. “Where are the rest of your Highwaymen,” Reynolds asked.
“They
headed up I-35, should be back tonight sometime,” Markus said. “Who’s your
friend?”
He
looked the woman up and down and tilted his head slightly.
“Do
I know you,” he asked her.
“Don’t
think so,” she said. “Not unless you’re from Agra.”
“Nah,”
he said. He squinted at her and scratched his rough chin.
“Found
her up near Guthrie,” Reynolds said. “How far north your guys headed.”
Markus
shook his head in frustration and looked at Reynolds.
“Not
far. The old DQ truck stop.”
“Ugh,
what I’d do for a vanilla cone,” one of the kids holding the reigns said.
“Or
chicken sandwich,” one of the Highwaymen said.
“Or
a frosty,” another said.
Other’s
started calling out what they wanted and would never have again.
“Knock
it off,” Markus yelled. “Ya’ll talking about food and we still have a ways to
go. Ya’ll be belly aching about being hungry before we get past Yukon.”
The
Highwaymen all stopped and looked a little ashamed.
“Where
you headed,” Reynolds asked.
Markus
glared at them all.
“These
knuckleheads and I are making a run out to Strong City.”
“Black
Kettle country,” Reynolds asked.
“Yeah,
His tribe sent word that they came across some survivors who need a new place
to call home,” Markus said. He was
eyeing his men as he talked.
“Well,
if you see Black Kettle or his sons tell them I said Hello and if they need a
place to stay
this winter they are welcome here.”
“I
don’t know how they are going to survive this coming winter. The drought out there has them boiling
leather and bones,” Markus said. “That’s why he can’t keep the people they found
and sending them here.”
“That
and they are white,” a Highwayman said.
“Some
people are just stuck in their ways,” Reynolds said.
“Those
ways may get him and his people killed if they don’t take your invitation,”
Markus said.
“That’s
why I hope you see one of his sons instead of him,” Reynolds said.
“Alright,
you bunch of shit heads! Mount up and get moving,” Markus yelled. “Reynolds,
can I talk to you a second?”
He
motioned with his head for Reynolds to follow.
Reynolds
nodded to the woman. She smiled
and began walking through the maze. Armed guards nodded and smiled at her as
she walked through. Being with Reynolds and not carrying a weapon they figured
she was little threat.
When
Markus and Reynolds were alone, Markus stopped and leaned toward Reynolds.
“Listen,
I know her from somewhere, not sure where though,” Markus turned and was
watching the sun glint off the water in the distance. “When my guys come back
from up north, introduce her to Jessie.”
“You
think he knows her?”
“Maybe,
he’s better with faces than I am.”
“He
is younger than you.”
“That
don’t make him smarter. And I can still kick his ass if it comes to it.”
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