Here's a condensed rewrite of a couple "Death Valley" chapters to bring things up to speed.
Wichita spent the afternoon in the camper shell of the Tremors Truck, in the parking lot of Terrible's, the southernmost functional settlement on or (technically) near the Vegas Strip. Built at the intersection of Flamingo and Paradise, and vaguely resembling an adobe mission, it was in an area that had suffered not only the heaviest zombie infestations, but the worst of the fires, plane crashes and military "interventions" that accompanied the outbreak. Incredibly, more than 300 people had held out with no outside support whatsoever, until the general offensive was pushed blocks sout of any other objective just to reach them. The rescuers had been nonplussed when the famed 300 met them with indifference.
Fortunately, the people of Terrible's were far more welcoming to individual travelers, and for once Wichita was grateful as yet another passer-by stopped to offer her a gift. "From the management," he said, offering her a gift basket of soaps, lotions and shampoo. "And if you ask around, I'm sure you can find a place to use them."
She smiled and thanked him, then cried out in surprise and delight as two more visitors approached: "Chacha! Bell!"
"Cheetah!" a five-year-old shrieked as she ran up to hug Wichita. Her mother followed close behind. It had been only a month since the young woman had stepped off a militarized bus at Circus Circus, but they already considered each other good friends. Chacha reached Wichita and embraced her, while the little girl turned around and hugged her mother.
"So, I heard the settlement board offered you a place to the south," Wichita said.
"They talked about it, but they haven't given me anything solid yet," Chacha said. "Right now, I'm just doing piecework on the delivery circuit. I heard you were in the neighborhood..."
Wichita escorted Chacha and Bell into the decidedly cozy camper, which consisted of a kitchen/corridor and a dining area whose two seats doubled as beds. Her guests went first, to sit down while she set about fixing early dinner on the Liliputian stove. "Ramen okay?" she said as she filled a pan with water. Bell cheered, and Chacha smiled. Wichita turned to shut the lower half of the camper door. That was when she heard the sound: A thin but piercing cry, more like a whistle than a scream, carried on the rising evening wind, with the depthless grief and hollow foreboding of a banshee's wail.
What was eerie at several miles' range was agony at the scene in northern Enterprise, where Luna was on her knees, screaming over her sister's heart-breakingly intact body. The mortal wound was smaller than a pencil, almost concealed in her hairline, without an exit wound to match. The pool of blood came from her mouth, probably nothing more than a bite to the tongue as she fell or a few teeth knocked out on impact.
Columbus huddled against a wall, jamming his fists into his ears. He could not guess how the slight young woman could make such a sound for so long. He was beginning to wonder what it even meant, whether she cried out in grief, or warning to others, or to frighten away the unseen slayer. And still it went on, rising and falling like a siren but never cutting off. Finally, it was too much. He stepped toward the surviving sister, reached out and touched her shoulder. He cringed and stifled his own cry as she pivoted, suddenly silent, crouching like a panther about to spring. "I'm sorry!" he blurted.
"Por que?" Luna hissed.
Only in the sudden silence did Columbus again become aware of the rest of the lepers, to a man (and woman) crouching, still but stiffly alert, their ragged, dirty clothes and grimy faces blending unnervingly with their surroundings. He found the Sybill, and all but whimpered, "Please. It... it wasn't my fault."
"Who said it was?" Tigre said. He had missed one leper, and the one was close enough to whisper in his ear. The rest of the lepers stepped forward, their faces solemn but otherwise almost emotionless.
"I'm sure Austin's all right," Chacha said. Wichita looked abruptly up from the stove, and then smiled, but not quickly enough to hide a flinch.
"Mama," said Bell, "what was the sound?"
"I don't know, but I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," her mother assured her. "Why, I bet it's blocks away."
"Really?" Chacha nodded, and smiled a little too wide. Krista returned the smile as she brought the first bowl of ramen.
"So," Wichita said as she say down, "if it's not too personal... what happened with her daddy?"
"Who's my Daddy?" Bell said.
"Shooter's up high, back to the north, between 100 and 300 meters," Tigre said calmly. "Probably alone. He will be counting on the body drawing more zombies. In maybe half an hour, he will change positions."
"...Then we can grab the body," Columbus said.
"What for?" said the Sybil. He stared at her.
"Don't- don't you bury your dead? I mean, you can't just..."
"Burial?" said Ketch. "Eh, not so much..." Now Columbus gaped in disgust.
"Without the soul, all flesh is but flesh," the Sibyl said. "Each may choose his own."
"Your Daddy's gone, honey. Gone a long time," Chacha said. Then, meeting Wichita's concerned gaze, she added, "He... In a lot of ways, he was wonderful, but his problems were... big problems. He needed help, and I made sure he got it, but that meant, he never saw me again. Or Bell, ever." Bell gave a puzzled look as her mother's eyes teared up.
"But enough about me," she said, with another smile that was a little too wide. "I know... Why not tell me about your foster sister? Or... Do you have any pictures?"
Columbus looked to Luna. She was rising back to her feet, her face as stern as the others."Then what about the shooter?" he said, taking out a hand mirror. "We don't have to hide. He's just a poacher- hunting off the grid, and not even doing it right. Poachers use mirrors like these for signals. If I flash him, he will run. If one or a few of us double back, we could catch him."
He looked meaningfully at Tigre, who only shrugged and said, "Then what?"
"Well, I could think of something," Ketch said, "but we aren't that hard up for food."
Wichita smiled. "Funny you should mention it... For a longest time, we only had one picture of each other, that our foster parents took when she was 9 and I was 17. Then- after- we decided to get a digital camera, you know, make a record of history, like anyone gave a- I mean, in case people ever tried to find out what happened. So, we took lots of pictures, only, we couldn't look at them. Then Columbus found us a little printer in one of the stores, and we printed a whole album..." She took out a book, and started to chatter, wrapped up enough that she did not register the subtle shock on Chacha's face.
"He killed your sister," Columbus said, looking to Luna. "Given the chance, he would kill all of you. Even if he knew you were lepers, he might do it. And what he did isn't right even against zombies. We have rules..."
"When blood is shed, the only rule is that blood cries for more blood!" the Sibyl declared caustically. "That is why your rules do not stay those you call `poachers' from slaying. Many Hermanos have fallen, and no amount of blood will bring them back. No, it would only bring more blood. We know better than to expect justice, and we have more important things to do." And with no further comment, she turned and walked to the west.
"Your husband," Chacha said, "he's wonderful, isn't he?"
"Oh, yeah," Wichita said with a sly smile. "You know, I think he and A- I mean, Little Rock hit it off even faster than we did. I mean, there were arguments, pranks, maybe a couple all-out fights, but they always knew they were in it together... He gets nervous around kids- he told me one of his phobias is being alone with a baby- but they love him. I don't think he realizes how much, unless that's what makes him nervous." She rubbed her belly.
Chacha patted her shoulder. "I'm sure he's okay."
Wichita smiled again, a little wistfully, gazing up through the camper window, paying little heed to how Chacha looked at the photo album. "I know he is. Maybe that's why I worry, because of how good he's gotten at taking care of himself. I love it, I really do, but sometimes I feel a little..."
"Redundant?" Chacha said. "Yeah, I know how it is. You'll know a heck of a lot more when that baby's out of you."
"Anyway," Wichita said, straightening a bit, "if he can't take care of himself, the people he's with sure can."
The man's is unimportant. He is unimportant. That, ultimately, is why he happens to be "poaching" zombies beyond the frontier of inhabited Vegas. He was an interchangeable cog in some bygone bureaucratic machine, who found casual blood-letting in the capacity of a casino deputy a refreshing change of pace. But ever since the arrival of Columbus, an ever-growing set of rules has cut in on what had been a cathartic, care-free exercise: No engagements at over 100 m or under 30; no following zombies into cover; no departures from authorized routes or missions; confirming, documenting and cleaning up every kill, or no killing at all. It is getting almost as bad as his old job. And so he, like any number of men with essentially the same stories, has turned to hunting in secret, to fulfill a primal need for challenge, or danger, or simply for killing as an end unto itself.
And now, he is fearful. He does not know why his latest kill brought a terrible scream with it, and he most assuredly does not want to find out. He wants to be far away, very quickly, but he cannot let his hurry override the instinct of stealth. He knows, as he pedals away on an electric moped, that he has both the zombies, which he can already hear foraging in the dark, and the casino sentries to fear. Unfortunately, he is unaware that much greater dangers are much closer at hand, until a casual swing of a nightstick catches him in the throat.
The voice he hears is deep for a woman's, and soft for a man's: "You picked a bad night to be out, and you made it a lot worse." He starts to rise, gripping his moped for support. Then there is a thunk, a whiz, and a metallic crunch as a small, sharp arrow pins his right wrist to the gear box. He starts to scream, but stifles the cry, biting his lip until it bleeds. "That's being smart. First time today."
There is a rustle as a weapon is folded and stowed. "I'd really just as soon wrap this up quick," the androgynous voice says. Now shuffling feet are drawing closer. "But, it seems to me there's a point that needs to be made. If it helps, you could think of this as fair shake. I mean, you could pull free. Or, if you can get to that pistol in your ankle holster, you can at least do a self-checkout." The departing figure's footsteps are drowned out by the feet that are now close indeed, and running. He reaches for the arrow, but the shaft is too deep to get a grip. Then, as the first of the zombies come in to view, he strains to reach his right calf with his left hand.
Lagertijo cried out to Conejo with obvious joy. The Sibyl had quietly announced that they were drawing near a place that would be their refuge for the evening. Columbus was still in the dark where or what it was, but they were clearly close. Even as the lepers walked faster, he stopped in his tracks, once again almost getting rear-ended by Tuerto. "Did you hear a shot?" he said.
"No," Jack Ketch said. "Now get a move on."
Columbus took one more suspicious look around. "Where's Tigre?"
"Already here!" the White Tiger called out impatiently.