The Darkest Part of Day

Chapter 1  
Opening up to others.

“Shut the hell up”!  That’s what I wanted to say, to yell, to scream at them, as loud as I could.  The constant moaning and screeching of the ever-moving mobs below me was starting to wear on my nerves.  In ones and twos, and small clusters they ambled by.  In a seemingly never-ending flow, they moved by like some horrible, grotesque parade.  I wondered where they were always headed.  Of course, now, some four months later, I did know.  I knew they only moved for food and they were always hungry.  Like and army of ants they coursed along in search of it.  And I’d seen plenty of evidence of what happened when they found any morsel of their cravings.

They destroyed villages, towns, and small hamlets of once vibrant life, and they’d moved on.  Places where the day-to-day workings of society played out, now lifeless and empty.  Even larger cities weren’t safe.  No such thing as safety in numbers worked there.  I didn’t want to imagine the horror of crowded apartment complexes and packed streets, where anyone, or everyone was dead or making someone else dead.  The pressing, hungry flow approached places like that, unafraid of anyone or anything standing in front of them.  Against any attempt to block, stop or divert them, they pressed on, destroying any living being before them.  I thought of my wife and family back home constantly, wishing I were there with them, and hoping they were all still safe.

A few towns had survivors, not many, not nearly enough.  Too often, I found those that had survived the onslaught, but were too grieved or too shocked by the violence and carnage to go on alone.  Witnessing the loss of everyone they knew and everyone dear to them was too much, and they died too.  A few hanged themselves or slashed their own wrists, guns, once thought to protect them, now empty and useless nearby, every round of ammunition having been expended during the siege.  The more vengeful or creative had driven headlong into the passing hordes with whatever vehicles they could find.  I never understood that, for it was certain death once the vehicle became immobilized, the occupants torn to shreds.  “Why not drive the other way?” I thought.   I hoped I’d never get to the point of finding out.

Well, I knew screaming at them to shut up at dusk was not the thing to do.  I checked the others around me.  Bart, a stocky, former electronics repairman, sat straddling a fork in the tree branches above my right shoulder.  He was the typical geek, with high-water pants, white socks and black leather shoes.  That would have been on a good day.  His shirt was now tattered, soiled and pink from the frequent blood splattered on him that never completely washed out.  His pant legs were both torn at the knees and ripped out in the crotch.  It was comical since he’d lost some weight and could only hold them up with a length of cord.   I first saw Bart through the telescopic lens of my riflescope.  With the amount of blood covering him, my first instinct was to put him down.  But, his movements, by no means graceful, were fluid enough to tell me he was still among the living.

Three of the rotting creatures were backing him down a truck unloading dock he would not have been able to climb out of.  Bart was swinging a baseball bat like Hank Aaron looking for another homer.  Unfortunately, he was a zombie-killing novice, like the rest of the population that day.  I’d already had a few run-ins, making for higher ground on the roof of a two-story office building.  My first shot missed the intended target, and I watched, a little startled when all three of the mangy souls reeled their battered, ashen faces in my direction.  I knew they couldn’t reach me, not easily anyway, but still, a bit unnerving to have them focus their collective attention on me.  Another lesson learned, the undead have great hearing.  I don’t know why and I don’t have time to research the subject, they just do.  Back to Bart.  Whatever brief interest the trio had in me faded as quickly, as they turned back toward Bart.  He’d taken that several moments to suck up some much needed air into his heaving lungs.

Being a couple hundred yards away, I knew he couldn’t hear my words.  And so I leaned back onto the rifle and took aim.  My second shot went a bit low, catching the man, or thing, in the neck, severing all but a flap of skin connecting its head to the its shoulders.  His head flopped backward and for a few seconds it struggled to keep balance, arms flailing about, before crumpling to the concrete.

Bart was a bit startled by the development, but to his credit he didn’t lose his focus on the problem in front of him.  The shot had again distracted the things and Bart set into the closest one, a witchy looking redhead with only one arm.  Her dress was torn across the right shoulder where it appeared her arm had been ripped off her body.  Blood had soaked and matted with dirt all down her side.  In contrast, her left side appeared untouched and had she turned sideways I might have mistaken her for a real person.  Bart’s bat shot caught her clean in the neck; I even imagined the sound of it snapping under the impact of the savage blow.  She dropped and twitched fiercely for several minutes, even after I dropped number three with a headshot.  Bart showed his manners and gratitude with an enthusiastic wave.  I stood up and motioned him to my perch.  We have been together since, and he has saved my butt several times.

Higher up in the thinner branches lounged Lucy B.  At least that’s what we call her, since she can’t or won’t talk.  She’s wearing the same gray work shirt we found her in.  It was from one of those quick oil change places and the nametag says, LUCY B.  We found Lucy in a storm drain, a mob of creatures stomping back and forth over her hiding place, no doubt confused as to how to get her.  As close as we can figure, she had been with a couple guys from work, maybe out for some lunch, when they were attacked.  Lucy was too small to have moved the manhole cover back into place, her friends must have helped or stuffed her in the hole and closed the lid before losing their own fight for survival.

I guessed her at about 20 years old.  Blond haired once, now matted a dirty brown with mud and blood.  Her shirt is much too big for her and hangs to her knees like an ugly gray dress when she unties it from around her waist.  After a good meal she might make 115 pounds, but what she lacks in size she balances with speed and cat-like agility.  She makes a near opposite to Bart’s chubby clumsiness.  Her ordeal had certainly hardened her spirit, no doubt watching or at least listening to her friends being mauled and dismembered above her.  She has since armed herself with a titanium golf club, and her aim is inspiring.  I’m still amazed with the accuracy and power she employs it with.  Like Bart’s bat, she keeps her weapon tethered to her wrist always.  Bart seems to be smitten with her, while she shows him little more attention than a smile occasionally.  It almost looks sarcastic and usually comes after she saves his hide.  

Dusk is a most dangerous time.  As our routine evolved, we learned that, you never travel at night, ever.  As dusk nears we look for shelter, and that’s when accidents happen.  Your attention is on finding that right, defensible spot and not watching over your shoulder.  Bart speculated some off the wall theory, that the setting sunrays somehow enhance the zombie’s vision, exciting the photoreceptors or something.  I think its crap and that we only get jumped because we screw up, not some superhuman, mutant, zombie, solar-activated power.

I parked the pickup truck under the biggest tree I could find.  As a bonus, the tree stood along the bank of a steep ravine, perhaps 15 feet deep.  It took a little longer to get into position but the natural steep incline gave us a place unreachable from the ground.  Doubtful any of the maggot-chewed things could climb it.  Zombies are not agile or able to climb easily.  That’s not to say they don’t but it is unusual, their limbs just don’t work for that anymore.  But, you have to be careful of where you go, as enough zombies can eventually pile up, pushing each other higher than expected.  

We leave the windows down or just leave the doors open.  The curiosity of the walking dead is quickly satisfied when they can look straight through the vehicle.  Otherwise, they get frustrated, or see their own ugly faces in the glass’s reflection and smash the windows.  That makes for some miserable driving in inclement weather and the need to find another vehicle.  Maybe its instinct, some memory of human reasoning or just the curiosity that makes them check it out every time.

Using some climbing rope and carabiners we found at an REI store, we lash ourselves to the upper limbs of well-rooted trees, preventing an embarrassing nocturnal tumble once you’ve finally managed sleep.  We also tie another line, a length of paracord, between each of us.  More than once a dream-shattering, but otherwise gentle tug wakes me, stopping my snoring.  Lucy B. glares an evil eye at me; I know it though I can’t see it.

Getting to sleep is hard.  The dead never sleep and their constant wanderings, moaning and crashing about in the dark makes so much noise that slumber is difficult and all of us are on edge.
In more remote areas, away from paved streets and roads, I can sometimes get a few minutes or the rare hour of needed rest.  Before long though, some pathetic creature blunders along, snapping twigs or getting hung up on a farmer’s fence.  Frustration and anger appear to be two more emotions the walking dead still keep, that and desire for warm flesh the only other they exhibit constantly.  When these things, these pitiful wretches, are blocked from their path of movement they bellow in long, low-pitched, guttural growls.  There seems to be some type of communication among the living dead.  One soul griping about being stuck doesn’t seem to draw any attention.  But if they are on the hunt or have a living person cornered, they amass quickly, almost appearing from everywhere at once.

Every night is the same, the dead waking the others, and me, keeping us on edge, wondering if they’ll finally have us surrounded?   We can’t dare use white light to see where they are, the bright ring of light acting like a beacon summoning the dead immediately.  I have discovered that the red filtered light from my Surefire G3 goes unnoticed.  Not as much comfort as you might think since the light only throws a short distance, not near enough to move about with on foot.  Still we can tend to cuts and other injuries or signal each other when need be, negating the need to speak.  Right now, I need some sleep.  If only the dead would shut up or rest for a few hours.

Dream.

I woke up lazily and still felt tired but warm and dry for a change.  My nose picked up the delicious aroma of bacon cooking.  I could hear the soft voices of a radio playing downstairs as I swung my feet out onto the thick, padded carpet.  After an intentionally long stretch I stood up and walked over to the window, squinting my eyes to the bright sunlight.  It was Saturday and I got to sleep in for the first time in weeks.  Work had been a non-stop train of busy days and mandatory overtime.  But I didn’t care about that today.  I was off and I wasn’t answering the phone or the door.  I was numbly watching the neighbor’s dog chasing kids around the backyard, while the parents gabbed over the hedges.  

“Well, I see you finally managed to come back to me.  You were dead to the world, Verne,” said my wife, Annie.  

“Been a long week, Hun.  How are you this fine morning?” I asked with a smile.  “And that bacon smells wonderful.” I added.

“Why don’t you grab a quick shower, breakfast will be ready in ten minutes” she replied and after a quick peck on the cheek she whirled around and was gone.

The shower felt great.  I stood under the pulsating downpour for a long time, letting the jets of water massage my sore back.  I must have been in there for too long because the water started to go cooler, then cold.  I reached for the handles…..

…. And nearly fell out of the tree, held only by the rope tightening around my waist and threatening to squeeze the air out of me.  My thrashing about pulled both lanyards connected to Bart and Lucy, who tugged back forcefully, whether to stop my fall or punish me, I’m not sure.  After regaining my position and composure, I gave each line a gentle pull, the signal that I was all right.

My shower was rain, a cool late August downpour.  It must have been coming down for a while since it was dripping steadily through the leaves.  It wouldn’t be too many more weeks before the coolness of the autumn air took those leaves away completely, and with it the better part of our nightly concealment.  For now the rain helped mask any noise we made, keeping the Zs at a distance.  Unfortunately, all of my raingear was in the Kifaru Express pack down in the truck.  Strange how things had changed in such a short time.  Never before would I have left my gear, expensive and hard to get gear, in an open, unlocked vehicle overnight.  Even at the school where I’d been when things first broke out, in a class with two dozen other cops and military men, I would lock my stuff in the wall locker.  On the other hand, the crime rates had all but bottomed out, unless you’re counting the murder and mayhem done by the population of undead dead.  At least they weren’t thieves too.

A thud and then the sound of someone or something tumbling and then a splash reverberated below in the ravine.  A few seconds later came the angry thrashing sounds of a Z trying to get to its feet, no doubt having a hard time from the water and the steep, muddy incline.  For a few long minutes the splashing and growling continued, then eventually drifted off down stream.

I checked the time using the filtered flashlight and was surprised to see it was nearly 2 A.M.  Amazingly, we had, or at least I had been in the tree for close to seven hours uninterrupted.  That was more sleep than any of us had gotten in the last two weeks.  But now I was getting chilled and I knew I was better dressed for the weather than my companions.  My lower torso and legs were soaked from waist to the tops of my boots.  A veteran pair of Goretex-lined Danners kept my feet warm and dry.  My upper body was wrapped in a water resistant wind shirt that eventually would let water in, but for now was working fine.  My 5.11 trousers however soaked up every drop of rainwater in the soft cotton fabric.  I would have opted for some rain pants had I known the forecast, but who gets updates anymore with no stations on the air?  

With a gentle tug I checked on Lucy B.  She fired back a quick jerk of the line, so I knew she was awake and irritated.  Maybe because I woke her earlier, or because she too was getting sore and chilled.  I knew she had to be miserable up there with no protection, I could hear her teeth chattering every so often.  It was still hours before daybreak and she would be in a shit state if she couldn’t get warmed.

My first thought was, “too bad,” since many times I had talked to her about carrying at least a small backpack and some basic camping supplies.  She had picked up a small fanny pack, a bright blue one that I would never have considered, in which she carried a few things.  Some hard candy, a couple of butane lighters and a small flashlight with the lens taped over with automobile taillight repair tape.  On the belt she’d attached a pouch holding a Gerber multi-tool and some spare batteries for the flashlight.  She also carried a Cold Steel Recon Scout bowie knife.  We’d done some shopping at an outdoor shop where I tried to convince her to get a smaller blade, but she insisted on the Bowie.  It is a good, solid knife so I didn’t argue.  She had duct taped a small pouch to the sheath for a sharpening stone.  Her only other belongings were a pair of new Nike running shoes and a bright yellow down parka, both in the cab of the truck below.

I decided I had to get her and Bart some form of cover, not to be macho, but practical.  If she got sick, she’d be a burden and a dangerous liability.  A simple cold with a constant cough, or sniffling or sneezing would attract attention.  I gave the signal I was moving positions, three pulls on the lanyards.  When she replied it was a steady single tug, almost as if she were pleading with me to stay put, and I’m sure trying to tell me she didn’t need my help.

The sling on my carbine had a snap hook, which I opened, careful not to let the metal clink into the fittings on the carbine’s handguard.  There was a six-inch thick branch next to my right shoulder and I looped the sling over it and silently reattached the snap hook.  Next, I loosened the lanyards and slipped them off my wrist and tightened them around the flash suppressor at the end of the carbine’s barrel.  Finally, I unhooked the rope from around my waist, letting the carabiner end drop slowly, looping the rope around the muzzle as well.  Everything was in one place, easy for me to locate or for the others to find in the morning if I didn’t make it back.

There was no lightning or man-made light to see by.  We were twenty miles from the nearest city of any size.  The collection of streetlights and store signs that normally would cast a glow along the clouds, were all dark now.  Not as before, when people lived and worked and made sure things like power was generated.  Now it was truly dark, black as a cave every night unless the moon was out.  What I wouldn’t give for a pair of night vision goggles and an infrared spotlight?

I slid as silently as I could down to the next branch, three feet below me and waited.  I waited and listened, my mouth held slightly open to clear my ears.  I listened in every direction and closed my eyes to focus, until I was satisfied there was no noise except the now gentle patter of a light drizzle on the wet ground.  I tried to remember the route I had taken up the tree so many hours earlier, using the same hand and footholds, as I made my way down.  It was at least another five feet to the bed of the truck, and the last drop was going to be the noisiest.  It couldn’t be helped, and I let myself drop, hoping not to twist an ankle or miss the truck completely.  If I did I would have to remain absolutely silent and motionless or the dead, or undead, take your pick, would be alerted.  As long as I made no human noise, like crying out in pain or cursing, I might not draw them in.

The trip down and back up again had taken almost an hour.  Everything I did, every move was slow, deliberate and silent, followed by a few minutes to listen.  Twice I had heard the distant growl of a Z, luckily on the far side of the ravine.  After gathering up a canvas tarp and three poncho liners, I moved up to Bart and Lucy, giving them each one.  Lucy wrapped her cold, skinny little fingers around my chin and motioned my face back and forth, signaling her displeasure on risking my life for hers.  I grabbed her hand and pulled it to me, making sure she could feel my mouth and made an exaggerated, who cares smile, then wrapped the poncho liner over her shoulders.  I let her shift around a bit until she was comfortable and then draped the canvas over her.  She would be dry now and the poncho liner would warm her enough to make it until dawn.

Morning came with a bright sky but a cool and steady wind rustling the leaves around us.  I must have gone back to sleep but don’t remember it at all.  No warm and fuzzy dreams came to comfort me and I longed for home, so far away still.  I looked up to see Bart smiling back at me, poncho liner in one hand and the other giving me a hardy thumbs up.  Back at you, Bart.  Further up I caught Lucy B. with a rare smile, even though it disappeared quickly when we made eye contact.  

Bart was first to descend, after carefully scanning the area with a small monocular.  He lowered his pack down first using his waist rope.  Down slowly he went, his favorite aluminum baseball bat still tethered to his wrist.  Once down, he again made a thorough check, before signaling us to join him on the ground.  Lucy rolled up the tarp and poncho liner, tying them off with a length of paracord and dropped the bundle to Bart.  She scrambled past me like a gecko, stopped and looked back, and with a slight nod continued.  Bart waited below; ready to catch her if she fell.  As always, she seemed more perturbed with his caring gesture than appreciative.  But this time she stopped near him and gave him a quick nod too.  Maybe it was all she could manage in fondness or closeness to others after what she’d seen and endured.  Bart looked at me, smiling almost radiant like a schoolboy.

We packed everything into our packs or bedrolls first, always ready to scurry if need be.  Every morning it was our standard operating procedure (SOP), to have things ready in case the truck didn’t start or we had to abandon it for other reasons.  Breakfast we ate while one the move, in a vehicle or on foot.  Hygiene was the same.  We took turns at the wheel so each had room in the bed of the truck to freshen up with some water or baby wipes, and to brush our teeth.  Even the smallest cut or scrape we tended to with great care.  There were very few doctors and even a small wound could fester and get serious quickly.  We had a good supply of ointments and dressings along with painkillers and antibiotics we had liberated form pharmacies along the way.

There wasn’t a Z in sight as we loaded up and set out.  It was a nice day for a change, sunny, clear, and warming quickly.  The truck started and ran, a little rough from the moisture of the long overnight rain.  It was an old Chevy short bed, but only two-wheel drive.  We’d been lucky to find it, and with a quarter tank of fuel to boot.  Bart had commented that with all that had happened, there would be plenty of vehicles just laying around, waiting for someone to take.  It was better in the more remote areas, but the high altitude EMP bursts launched in the first week of the epidemic had fried the newer models.

We set off to the east, generally that was our primary direction, and our luck with us, the weather was holding.  Driving for the better part of an hour we had encountered only a few Zs scattered along the route.  Country roads were always a mixed bag, sometimes quiet, smooth and deserted, other times filled with obstacles and dangers.   During the first weeks of the outbreaks many small towns had tried to block the flow of the moaning hordes, all without much success.  Bridges were dynamited in attempts to cut off access, always failing the designed intention.  Attacks came from everywhere, not always from outsiders.

Maps were of little use, mostly just for naming the next town or city.  They never showed, and couldn’t describe what a mess the roads would be, on the way to or around it.  Tens of thousand, and probably millions of disabled or destroyed car, trucks, buses and all other forms of conveyance littered the roads.  The bigger the city, the worse the problem was to get through or around.  Most were empty of gasoline and batteries long since drained of any power.  It was serious business to stop long enough to try and find a useable ride.  Mostly we just pulled up and made a quick look, then punched a hole in the gas tank, hoping to catch any gas in a pan.  And most of the time it wasn’t worth the calories burned.  Still, we had to try, or face walking, outnumbered and hungry.  Many of these vehicles were still occupied as well, those trapped inside, waiting for someone to open the door and set them free to raise havoc.  

The stench was forever present.  Where drivers and passengers were killed or died in vehicles, the rotting corpses putrefied the interiors, forever leaving their stink behind and the vehicle unusable.  No one, at least none of us wanted to stop and pick out a new ride, but we did need fuel, soon, or we would be walking by nightfall.

There were only two choices according to the atlas, one a small village 15 miles to the northeast, the other a slightly larger place twice the distance to the southeast. There would be other chances to find fuel along the route, isolated farms and homes or small subdivisions.  I couldn’t see any substantial bridges on either road, but that never meant much.  Many smaller culvert style water or ditch crossings, if destroyed, could still make a road impassable by vehicle.  This type of roadwork never showed on the maps.

We decided on the shorter route, a 15-mile leg along a back road.  Looking at the map it looked like a twenty-minute jaunt, but in reality might turn into and all day journey, searching back and forth for a suitable crossing.  I could only imagine the problems we had yet to encounter getting close to or across the Mississippi river.  For certain, I wanted a better, more capable vehicle.  Much of the terrain we had encountered over the last week could have been more easily traversed in a decent four-wheel drive, and that which lie ahead would only get more difficult.  I kept looking, constantly.

Bart and Lucy were up front, while I took a turn in the bed’s rear-facing seat, taken from a minivan.  Bart was talking, though I couldn’t make out the words.  Lucy just stared ahead as if bored with him, only occasionally glancing in the rear view mirror.  I don’t like riding in the back, being out of control of the steering wheel.  Back here it took longer to react to danger, but I’d grown to trust Bart.  Though he is physically clumsy, he is improving and made sound judgments.

I frequently wondered what he had been like before all this tumult, before survival was the constant, governing action of the day and night.  That first day, he had looked every bit the stereotypical office geek.  Even though he denies it to this day, I know he had a white plastic pocket protector crammed full of pens and paperclips.  We laugh about it even now, when time and circumstance allow for some casual conversation.  Looking up, I can’t see a cloud in the vicinity and it has warmed to what I guessed was about 70 degrees, pleasant if not just a bit cool in the wind back here.   The ride seems almost normal now, a relaxed ride in the country, a warm breeze, and meaningless chitchat among friends.  What I remembered life was like just six months, six long, terrible and mostly terrifying months ago.

My first zombie book.  Give it a read and please let fly the criticizm.

Good start!


AKASL

LIVE FREE OR DIE

Good start.

Can't wait for more

Excellent start. Please add more.

I've been reading this site for awhile but wasn't sure about the process of adding this story.  I hope its in a correct spot.  Here's chapter 2
thanks for the input.

Chapter 2:  Smoke from a distant fire

Xiang Chai smiled as the last of the chemical solids were compressed into the large block mold, using his formula and his designed machinery.  Xiang had graduated well ahead of his class of cadets.  Since he was a young boy, when he’d shown exceptional abilities in science and mathematics, he had been tutored and sponsored by the Party’s best and brightest.  Now at 30, he was a super nova, quickly surpassing the rising stars in the academy.  He wrote his own grants, brazenly worded more like demands, for monies to finance his research.  He knew they would sweat and argue among themselves but no way they would deny him.  He also knew his career was destined to be a military one, controlled by stodgy old men, fearful of his meteoric rise through the ranks, yet tolerant and respectful knowing he would soon be more powerful than them.  The chairman had taken special interest in Xiang; many guessing quietly it was more than a professional relationship.  

Xiang had been allowed the best, modern conveniences that all but the upper echelon of society rarely saw.  Expensive suits, not of local manufacture, but from the top shops in Europe.   His apartment, actually an entire floor of the best skyscraper in Beijing, was lavished with western art, books and furniture.  When he cared to take a woman, which was rare, she never spent the whole night through, always escorted away and never seen again.  Xiang was careful; no one was allowed enough time to pry into his personal life or his belongings.  Even the cleaning crew were guarded and watched and the guards watched too, through a complex security system, Xiang could control from anywhere with his laptop computer.

Xiang enjoyed his excesses.  The chairman had given him a mission, and as he watched the molds separate at the far end of the conveyor, he smiled again.  He was almost ready to move on to the next phase, one that would make him richer than all but a handful of his country’s leaders.  But Xiang was a patriot too.  Not all that the world provided was good, and his mission was to provide for his countrymen, rich and poor.  The west, and indeed most of the world had shunned his motherland and scoffed at her cheap toys and goods, but demanding more and more every year and always at a lower cost.  Xiang had found a way to lower that cost and would make a fortune doing so.

Gold Dragon Unlimited was the fastest growing company on the mainland.  The acquisition of all the smaller component companies had gone as planned and Xiang ruled and industrial empire that was doing business in nearly every country in the world, directly or indirectly.  His plastics were cheap and plentiful and thus in high demand.   The molding processes enabled him to take on huge contracts, growing resentment among other manufacturers and industry leaders, but not phasing Xiang in the least.  His country backed him, covertly when necessary and openly most often.  

Few among the Party members knew the whole story about Xiang.  The Chairman and a few generals of the military and intelligence directorates were among the few that had endorsed the plan, and profited from it.  Two others had been informed and offered places, but had disgraced themselves by not agreeing to the goals and purpose of the program.  Neither lived long enough to voice their opinions, having died in a plane crash before the sunset that day.

The People’s Republic had many problems, people being one of the biggest.  Over a billion mouths to feed and bodies to clothe and sicknesses to heal had nearly bankrupt the society.  China could not afford to feed her population and so many had flocked to the big cities in search of jobs and a better life, leaving not nearly enough to grow the food needed to adequately sustained the masses.  As much as possible China did what she could to pacify those she couldn’t care for properly.  Unrest further strained the leadership and the heavy hand of the military was frequently needed to maintain order.

Influenzas killed thousands every day, so many people in such close proximity allowed infections and diseases to spread quickly and mutate as soon as or sometimes before vaccines could be made.  Thousands more died of starvation, hardy and wicked strains of viruses, a host of other fatal or debilitating illnesses and crime.  Even the best clinics and doctors could do little more than try and comfort the ailing with painkillers as they watched them die before them.  Many people who had never lived in the city knew little of the needs for proper hygiene.  Human and animal waste was dumped in the gutters and alleys, disposed of as they had done for centuries back home.  The accumulation of waste and garbage and sewage grew faster than the infrastructure could move it away.  A cesspool of diseases, of dead bodies, containing every killing virus and bacteria known, was pumped, dumped, placed or piled throughout the country.

Even as vast as she was, China could not find places or decide what to do with it all.  The costs and trouble it took to move the filth far enough into the underdeveloped areas was prohibitive and slow.  Even long and fully loaded trains would take days to make a run to the west and return.  Something had to be done.

Xiang Chai had the answer and presented it to the chairman.  His formulas of polymers and bonding agents could be used to treat the sewage and turn it into inert solids.  He had developed a way to turn the waste into a useable plastic like substance that was odorless, tasteless and performed well in molding.  Just about any item that could be pressed, or formed could use the material.  His earlier series had fallen short of expectations but proved good enough to continue forward.  Xiang learned the substance was unstable over time and dissolved into gelatinous goo.  But Xiang promise better samples and delivered, learning how to extend useable working time and to remain odorless.  In his eyes, and those of the Chairman and inner circle it was perfect and authorized him to go into full production.  All of the garbage, including the bodies, could be could be condensed and packaged as raw material, available to customers that wanted to cut costs.  If the toys or whatever products were produced eventually fell apart, Xiang could offer replacements at bargain prices.  Volume was Xiang’s vision of success.

Four years later he had more volume than he could believe.  He was now bored with the whole process, waiting impatiently for the results to begin.  He waited for the days when his products failed and would judge his real success on that scale.  Having been handed everything his whims desired for so long left him with no feeling of excitement.  The Chairman’s affections and friendship had waned and so too his interest in Xiang experiment.

Small problems began to arise, not at first big enough to bother Xiang about.  But products were failing, some much sooner than expected, and others very quickly.  Xiang wasn’t even concerned if some kid’s toy melted into a puddle of goop in the bottom of a toy box, but then the first large scale international crisis was announced.  The French government had ordered a large quantity of plastic trays, cups and pitchers for use it the federal prison system.  There were excited reports and complaints of large-scale illness after just a few months use of the new utensils.  Before undiagnosed cases of HIV infections and other deadly illnesses were being reported.  When the files and letters of outrage reached his desk, Xiang immediately went to action, assuring everyone that the products were inert and harmless, insisting instead that the sicknesses were to be blamed on the perversion and promiscuous sexual nature of men in prison.  It was known that HIV/AIDS was transmitted by such activities, right?  Nevertheless, Xiang offered to replace the entire order, free of charge, and the problem died down quickly.

Similar complaints sprang up across the globe.  And always, Xiang apologized and made amends and the customer countries continued to by his goods and services.  Eventually the Americans began to gripe and banned some of the products pending further investigations.  “Donations” were made and bribes doled out to the right people to smooth things over and business continued.  Xiang’s raw materials were being used everywhere and those vendors still sold their products with little intervention or delay.  Xiang could only smile and be proud of his successes; everything was just as his masters had told him, and more.

When his own country was one of a handful that weren’t experiencing the problems, the suspicions arose again and with more vigor.  The United States, Great Britain, France and Russia closed their gates to Xiang, but he didn’t worry, for he knew it was too late to stop now and he was already wealthy being his expectations.

Even in a closed society, industrial espionage worked because of greed or honor, and eventually someone, perhaps a line worker, a truck driver or a security guard spoke out and enlightened the world about Xiang’s wonder material.  The basic ingredients were revealed, ushering an outcry from world leaders, who issued immediate boycotts.  Almost overnight, the factories shut down, with no orders to fill.  Xiang felt the coldness of the Party’s back as they tried to distance themselves from him.  He wasn’t surprised or angry, his part in the mission was complete and he had prepared to move on, with or without the Party or the Chairman’s blessing.  Leaving early from work went unchallenged, who could blame him for not wanting to remain in his office and field the calls of hatred.   Xiang started his car, looked back to the large factory he had built, sprawling on so many acres before him.  The slightest smile cracked across his lips as he backed out of his parking stall.


The breadth of the contamination was unknown and incalculable, the world never to fully recover.  In a bit of irony, it was Xiang’s original factory, where his formulas and molds produced the prototypes that became the focal point of international investigations.  Too many former and current workers had died, were dying or soon would dead.  The unfinished vats and unprocessed raw materials, not yet treated with the stabilizing and bonding agents, had been cooking unchecked for days.  The controls needed to keep the toxic sludge to safe tolerances were gone by the time the first U.N. inspection teams arrived.  They weren’t expecting the toxins to be so powerful or volatile, after years of doing complacent compliance searches.  The Party was cooperating as much as possible, giving access to anything the investigators wished to see.  Every scientist and researcher took samples, aiding their goal of spreading the disease-laden slime even further.

The toxicity of the “formula” was discovered to be so high that all the researchers were placed in quarantine, a move too late to stop the spread.  What was thought to be a disgusting form of plastic turned out to contain a brew of all the worst human maladies, now in a compact and lethal batter.  HIV/AIDS, Ebola, Dengue, H5N1 bird flu, and new strains of hemorrhagic fevers and influenzas were discovered in mutated forms, much more resistant than thought possible.  Along with the realization that no antidote or cure could be made or used in time to prevent the coming annihilation of millions, came the thought that no one would live.  The protocols and drugs needed to fight some of these infections would be strong enough to kill the patients themselves.

Back in Beijing, the hospitals were being inundated with sick and dying victims.  The government ordered the euthanasia of hundreds of thousands of citizens in an attempt to control the proliferation, with no complaints from the outside world.  Entire sections of the city were turned into quarantine zones, with death being ordered to anyone trying to breach them.

Mass graves were prepared in the western provinces.  Long train cars filled with the dead and those that were guessed to die before they reached the end of the line, were hauled west, hoping for a quick resolution to the crisis.  

Across the planet, Xiang’s plastics were melting down.  The structured inertness he had boasted, now found to be nonexistent.  Ingestion of the smallest portion was enough to begin serious illness.  Children, because of their frequent mouthing of objects at hand, were especially vulnerable.  And they died quicker, their tiny bodies and immature immune systems unable to fight off the toxic chemicals and organisms.  The number of dead rose at a staggering pace, hospitals and clinics everywhere unable to keep up with the demand for treatment.  Cremation was urged and made mandatory in some areas to stop further contamination.  Most grieving parents wanted traditional burials and traditional funerals whenever possible.

The U.S. was the first to demand China bear the costs of the losses of lives and the associated jobs and productivity, with many other nations joining in almost at once.  The Chinese government waffled and stalled, purporting her innocence, even blaming western greed and over-consumption as the root cause.  Emotions were strained from the start, but the uncaring and flippant attitude of the Chairman and the Party infuriated everyone.  Those that had lost family were demanding retribution, but the cries for retaliation were heard loudest.

Chapter 3
Checking in and Checking Out.

Checking in at the range near Santa Fe, New Mexico, I felt a bit anxious.  I’ve been shooting most of my life and teaching others to shoot for half of it, but I was still apprehensive.  I looked around at the dozen or so other cops as they piled their gear in the bunkhouse.  A few had already made acquaintances and chose bunks close together.  Everyone nodded politely and introduced themselves around.  

For the most part they seemed like regular guys, here, like I was, for some advanced training and a little fun and relaxation.  Two guys stood out, and stood separated by the length of the room, clearly assessing each of the others present as a threat to whatever trophy or award they gunned for.  As I watched the rest, the easy-going majority, I could see they too sensed the silent inspection as well.  We were all supposed to be here to better our personal skills and take something new back to our departments, not to prove we were better than everyone else.  I’d seen their type too often to remember how many times, they were overly aggressive.  And that was fine with me, for the staff here had a reputation for leveling the field and showing each participant they still had something to learn.  I was ready for the challenge, but respectfully nervous all the same.

We were only half of the class.  I had been told that a dozen federal and military students were soon to arrive.  I liked that, since diversity in techniques always lent something to learn, some skill set that worked or saved work.  And it was nice to be around some real shooters, guys that could be embarrassing good and still make you feel you did well to be on the line with them.  Yes, there would be some aggressive personalities coming with them too, but it wasn’t the same.  This next two weeks was going to be fun.


“Can you believe this crap?” one of the others in the room asked aloud, staring at the TV screen.  We had all gathered around the set at lunches and dinners to catch the latest news.  But over the last two days even the instructors had lost interest in teaching and shooting and sat with us knowing how important these international developments were becoming.  Several students on the law enforcement side had already checked out and gone back home, concerned for their families.  All of the military guys had already left three days prior, no doubt their bosses having a bit more information than was being left out on the daily news broadcasts.

My own travel arrangements were on hold, awaiting confirmation.  Hundreds of flights a day were being cancelled when people didn’t or couldn’t come into work.  The airlines made no promises or excuses.  If need be, I’d rent a car or truck and start out as soon as I could find a ride.  We retired for the evening, but none of got much sleep as we talked over what to do.

The next morning I was packed and ready to go before first light.  I waited near the front porch of the bunkhouse for a taxi, and chatted with Pete, the only staff member left on the complex.  There were 6 of us left, all with plans to head out today no matter what.  I checked my gear one more time, for about the tenth time, satisfied all was ready but a nervous habit I guess.  I had an M4 carbine in a hard case along with ten magazines and about 200 rounds left over from the class.  Pete offered us all we wanted, but I declined, thinking 200 rounds was a lot of weight to carry and what would I need more than that for short of a war.  If I knew then what was about to happen, I would have taken a full case, maybe more.

My cell phone rang, the tone telling me it was Annie calling.  “Hi honey, how are you?” I asked.

“Where are you.”? She asked instead of answering me.  I could hear a slight waver in her voice and asked again how she was doing.  She said she was freaked by what was happening and wanted me home soon.
 
“The airlines were a bust, can’t even get an answer there anymore.  I’m waiting for a taxi to take us to town and I’ll grab a rental and have to drive home.” I explained and from the sigh she let out I knew she was upset.  I wasn’t sure but there seemed to be another question coming but she just remained silent.  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Aren’t you up on the latest news, Vern?” she finally asked, her query a bit agitated.

“No, we caught the news last night, but this place is a little remote and we’re all outside right now.  I don’t want to miss the taxi; it was the only one I could get to come this far out here.  What’s going on?” I asked her.

“China just launched a nuke from a sub into Taiwan.  The President is threatening retaliation if Chinese forces don’t back off, pending word from the Taiwanese government.  All our forces in the theatre are steaming that way.  China warned us to move out to some island chain or something because they think we are trying to attack her because of the rotting toys.” She rattled off.  “And…. she started, but stopped.

I was listening now and waited a few seconds, then asked, “You mean there is more?”

Annie tried to play it down, but I could tell something else was bothering her more than the Chinese and possible nuclear exchanges.  She started again, “There are several, well lots of rumors, and several news casts, of dead people getting up and walking.  I know it’s stupid, but the net is buzzing over it and the networks aren’t playing it down much.”

“That’s crazy.” I blurted.  “It must be some kind of You Tube spoof.” I added.

“I don’t know Verne, there are some pretty realistic videos on there, but maybe you’re right.” She conceded.  “Just get home, soon as you can, dear.” She pleaded.

“I’m working on it, and I’ll get out of here today, one way or another.  If I end up driving it’s going to take a few days, you gonna be okay?” I asked her.

“Soon as you can, I Love you.” She said with a stammer and crack in her voice.

“I Love you too.” I answered back but she had already hung up.

I asked Pete if we could get a radio fired up, since we seemed to be out of the loop.

He brought out one of the smaller flat screen TVs and we sat mesmerized, watching video clips and listening to the latest news briefs.   The videos were running in a loop and all of them showed mobs of pale-faced, filthy humans staggering around downtown Chicago, New York and other major cities in this country and abroad.  At first, like the others, I thought it was some elaborate hoax, but the video work was too real and to have staged something like this in so many places at once was impossible.  Some were questionable, but one in particular depicted a young male, maybe twenty years old staggering along with half his chest cavity missing, entrails dragging behind him and daylight clearly visible through his torso.  I couldn’t believe the gravity of the wound, and know without a medical specialist, that the injury was fatal.  He should not have been able to function, or live.

The taxi pulled up outside and tooted the horn twice.  We walked out as it was pulling away, with only two passengers.  Anyone want to guess who those two guys might be?  I was tempted to draw and shoot a tire, giving the rest of us a chance to get going as well.  I noticed couple other hands were visibly relaxing from the butts of holstered handguns as I turned around.  “Pete, is their anything, any other form of transportation we can use?” I inquired.

He smiled and said, “Just a tractor we pull the mower with to cut the brush back.  But I don’t think you want to try and drive that to town.”  In all fairness to Pete, he didn’t know me well enough to make that assumption.  

“Show me.” I replied.



We made it to town just before dark and pulled into the train station.  If it was comical, the few people gathered there didn’t react to six guys looking like vacationing cops, caring backpacks and gun cases, riding up on a tractor.  Generally, anytime I’d traveled carrying anything that looked like a gun case drew stares and glares from the crowd, but these folks seemed almost relieved.  Almost everyone was on a phone, cells held up to their ears, or standing in line for the next wall-mounted versions.

Inside, everyone else was crowded around the televisions hanging overhead, something obviously very interesting was on.  I checked the screen and saw a map of the country with a series of yellow circles superimposed on it.  The scrolling message banner below the map listed cities in alphabetical order, with Los Angeles, Miami, New York, and Pittsburgh catching my eye.  I struggled to hear the weary looking newsman drone on about the quarantine zones.  “Quarantines.  What’s that about?” I asked aloud, to no one in particular.  Only an elderly lady near me even flinched.  She turned to me and explained.

“There have been massive outbreaks of infectious diseases they say.  All the big cities it looks like.  They keep saying it’s from the Chinese plastic toys.” She quipped.

I walked back over to where the others were watching over our pile of gear and filled them in on the latest developments.  We all decided that we had to lock down some form of transport soon or we were stuck here for who knows how long.  Pete said he would check the bus schedules, while others went to check for rental cars and train schedules.  Plane travel was completely out according to the newscast.  The consensus was that nothing was moving until morning, if at all.  Pete and two others decided to try the airport, maybe they could find a private pilot willing to make a cash run.  They hopped the tractor and were off, leaving two guys and me from the east coast as the remnants of the class of 24 just a week ago.  

The three of us took turns watching the gear, alternating with checks on the TV and bathroom breaks and making ourselves at home in one corner of the lobby.  At 8:42 p.m. a train pulled into the platform and got a round of applause from the waiting crowd.  I checked the arrival/departure boards and noted that the train had come in from Arizona, it was packed and it was three and one half hours late.  It was scheduled to depart on a leg back to Arizona in four hours, and was of no use to my group or me.  The plus side, and there had been few of those lately, was that half the crowd had decided to board the train and wait.  No doubt they wanted to make sure they had a seat before a throng of last minute arrivals came rushing into the station.  Their move cleared up some more comfortable seating in the lobby’s common area.  My companions, Jerry and Bob, and I took up residence in a row of church pew-like wooden bench seats and stowed our gear.

The lights dimmed at 11:00 p.m., making for better resting conditions.  I had just closed my eyes when I heard a scream.  Snapping awake and instinctively reaching for the Sig P226 pistol I normally carried behind my right hip, I remembered it was locked away in my bags.  Jerry must have heard the scream too and reacted similarly.  We both tore into our gear bags trying to locate some hardware.  Bob, I noticed wasn’t with us, and I thought perhaps he had heard the screams first and gone to investigate.  We couldn’t all go and leave our long guns and other belongings unattended, and since I found my pistol first, Jerry got guard duty.  “Go, I’ll watch the stuff!” He exclaimed, obviously frustrated.

More screams echoed through a row of heavy wooden doors that led out to the loading platform.  These were multiple voices and I imagined some people were standing outside the train as it sat there, idling.  I reached the door and had just started to pull it open when two shots cracked the still air, followed almost instantly by two more fired in quick, double-tap succession.  I knew it had to be Bob.

With only a few mercury vapor lights and some accent lighting on at this time of night, visibility wasn’t the greatest.  The lights must come on when a train arrives, I thought to myself.  But right now there was a new friend, in an unknown life and death match with someone and I was his backup.  My left hand dove into the vest pocket and pulled out a well-worn Surefire G3 light.  I rushed through the doorway and onto the platform only to find it littered with dead and dying people.  There were at least a half dozen from what I could see in the shadowy half-light.  Blood and belongings were splattered about the concrete flooring.  I approached the closest victim, a middle-aged, overweight, black woman in a flower print dress. I blipped the light beam across her body quickly and was shocked to see that her throat was savagely ripped open.  Her blood had pooled under and around her and was starting to run to a cut in the cement.  There was no need to check for a pulse, the amount of blood around her was all her body could have held.  She was dead and nothing I could do for her would help.  


Another double tap reverberated to my right and my eyes caught the orange-yellow flash from behind the end of the train.  I rushed that way and ran past several more bodies without stopping.  Active shooter training taught you to go to the threat first to save as many as possible.  This is similar to what the military does when ambushed and goes against all normal instinct, but neutralizing the threat was the best way to stop further killings.

I knew from class that Bob carried a single-stack 1911 style pistol, though I couldn’t remember which manufacture.   Unless he’d thought to grab a spare mag, he was down to 2 or 3 shots left.  My Sig held 17 rounds in the mag and 1 up the spout, plus I had 1 spare standard 15 shot mag with me.  It was a 9mm, but the Winchester +p+ STX hollowpoints would do fine.  I rushed on and heard growling, like a pack of feral dogs, up ahead near the end of the building.  The train was to my left, the building to my right.  There was one mercury light high overhead that did little more than cast shadows.  I knew that Bob’s last shots were from the train side and I began to ‘cut the pie,’ that is, to make incremental movements to my left, trying to see before being seen.

“Bob, you all right over there?” I called out.  Growls and moans were the only reply.  Something wasn’t right; it couldn’t be dogs being this aggressive.  I slid forward one more step and came upon a sight I will never forget.  Bob was dead, but no pack of dogs had him down.  He lay sprawled, spread-eagle, his clothing torn forcibly from his chest and arms.  Kneeling over him was a cluster of 6-8 creatures, that’s all I could say; no human could do what they were doing to Bob.  A haggard male in a shredded business suit was standing near where Bob’s head should have been, gnawing on a dripping section of arm.  I would have probably stood there longer, looking, but not able to believe my eyes, not able to register the horribleness of what I was seeing, had not one of the creatures rush at me screeching.

I lit her up, blinding her actually with the powerful beam of light from the G3, and sent two 127-grain hollowpoints into her head.  She dropped with a thud not more than a yard from the base of the platform and 4 feet below me.  Her wail had alerted the rest and they turned in unison and began to clumsily move toward me.  They would have to negotiate the platform base, a concrete slab perhaps 4 feet high, to get to me.  I cranked the flashlight base to a steady beam and held it between my teeth, then began to aim and squeeze the trigger.  They kept coming, the first few anyway, as I double tapped them in the center of the chest.  It only staggered them momentarily before the oriented themselves again and approached.  From then on, only single shots were needed, one each to the forehead of every last one of the murdering scums.

I made a reload and turned the light off after I was satisfied they were all down, for good.  I stood there staring, transfixed at the carnage.  I was about to tuck the pistol into my belt when the groan came from behind me.  I swung around and brought both pistol and light up.  Mrs. Flowery Dress, the black woman I’d pronounced dead earlier, wasn’t.  She was lolling toward me, her head resting over on her left shoulder, unable to support itself erect from her previous injury.  Her eyes were open and focused solely one me, but lifeless and pale.  Her color too had drained to an ashen gray.  I put two rounds between those nasty eyes, hoping this time that she was really dead.

As I raced back to meet with Jerry, I passed the loaded passenger cars of the train. From the engine noises and closed windows on the metal travel tube, I couldn’t hear the screams.  But in the lighted cars, silhouetted against the glass it appeared as though a riot was in progress, and in deed one was.  Obviously, some of these undead things were on the trains, slaughtering all those that fought with them and fought harder to escape.  I didn’t have enough ammunition to help them and went back inside.  

Jerry was rightfully shaken from the noise from all the screams and shooting.  He had prepared properly, his own carbine hanging around his neck by a sling, his Glock model 22 now seated on a belt at his side.  “Time to hot wire a car or truck and blow this Popsicle stand.” I said as I dug into my own backpack.  I took a few minutes to fill him in on the changes to our plans of waiting for a ride as I found a belt holster, chest rig, and extra mags.  I unlocked the Pelican hard case and pulled out the carbine and all the magazines for it.  I stuck 8 loaded magazines into the chest rig along with two spare mags for the Sig and reloaded the ones I’d emptied.  Over that, I slipped on the Camelbak HAWG pack after stuffing the last two carbine mags in it.  Luckily, I’d filled it and a spare 50-ounce bladder back at the range, anticipated a long wait here at the terminal.  The wait was now, over, it was time to go.




We ran almost the entire distance to the airport, nearly 2 miles, hoping to link back up with Pete and the others.  If we couldn’t find them, at least we would be nearer the rental car companies or any vehicles we could get keys for.  We had already decided that it had to be two separate vehicles, since Jerry would be heading a different direction to get home.  I wanted to find something with a GPS navigation system, I didn’t know the area, but realized it was wishful thinking.

I could see fires burning behind us, in the downtown area, every time I checked to our rear; glad we didn’t have to go through that way.  The chaos appeared to be wide spread, much more so than I had thought possible this early on.  We passed hundreds of dead and dying, knowing we couldn’t help many and the time taken to do so would put us further in grave danger.  We didn’t know at the time what the mechanism was that was spreading the disease, be it blood, saliva or simply being breathed on.  I would worry about that later, and hoped for now I hadn’t already been exposed.  Many of those that we passed, looking dead as possible, sprang back to life or whatever you called this new phenomenon, straggling after us with hungry teeth snapping.  They seemed bent on sharing whatever horrible devastation had befallen them with us.  Thank you just the same, I thought as I moved away.  The rate of turn over was astonishing, and I figured it wouldn’t take long to endanger the entire world’s population.  That thought was rapidly pushed to the back of my mind; my quest was far more personal, more important.

Very nice, give it a name and keep it coming!!!

More.


More, please.


More, or else.


Just more.

Name is on top of first chapter, but I'll try and put it on each following chapter.  
Its called,  THE DARKEST PART OF DAY"

Cool, give us more!!

OK I'm hooked! Keep the chapters coming.

AKASL

LIVE FREE OR DIE

great start keep it coming and thank you for posting

The Darkest Part of Day

Chapter 4
Getting out of Dodge

We made it to the front gate of the airport, still nearly a mile left to get to the main terminal building.  The tractor was here, overturned and surrounded by dozens of bodies, none that we recognized.  There had been a serious firefight here, brass shell casings by the hundreds, from both carbine and pistol, were scattered all around.  Obviously, Pete and some or all of the others had run into the same kinds of creatures I had by the train, but certainly many more.  Not a good sign, on several levels.  The airport would have had plenty more people than the rail station, and more of them panicking, looking, as we were, for a way out.  Transportation, the instinct to flee away from danger, would be at a premium.

The sound of a gunfight, distant still, signaled to me that Pete and someone else was still alive.  Jerry and I rushed on, encountering few of the staggering beings, and as tired as we were, we could still easily outrun them.  Every one of them that we passed however, turned and tagged along after us, arms outstretched in worthless attempts to seize us.  By the sounds they made, they were angry or frustrated that they couldn’t have us.  I’d seen what they did once they got their hands on someone, not something I was looking forward to.  They continued to growl and moan constantly.  I couldn’t blame them, if they felt pain, they all had to be hurting terribly from their wounds.

There was a common look to them, faces ashen-gray with dark sunken eye sockets.  Their eyes were lifeless and pale, some almost white, cloudy, devoid of distinct pupils.  But it seemed certain they could see, or had some other senses guiding them directly to us, or any object they moved on.  A few looked even worse, covered with dirt, mud and blood, where skin was visible.  Many bore horrific injuries that seemed should not allow them to move, but they could, not to be confused with normal human movements.  They staggered and stumbled like drunks, arms and legs at odd, twisted and grotesque angles.  And still they moved, ever forward after us.  Jerry and I agreed to call them zombies, seeming a logical choice from the movies we’d seen, or just Zs for short, to make conversation between us easier so we didn’t have to try and describe them.

I knew things had to be total chaos from what I had seen and heard in the news, and from my own personal confrontations.  That knowledge, as hard as the whole situation was to believe, was now fact and I resolved my actions to it.  My main concern, aside from my personal safety, was to find a way home, as quickly as possible.  Annie was upset enough when we last spoke, reminding me to call her when I got a chance, but I knew she was in a good defensible place, with adequate arms and supplies.  It was some comfort, only a little.  I had to get home.

We were halfway to the terminal, encountering more and more Zs on the way.  They all were headed the same direction as us and gathering in such numbers that we had to take several angles through the parking lots to avoid them.  Jerry occasionally took a knee and fired off a few rounds as he took some breaths of much needed air.  My own lungs were aching too, heaving and gasping for every amount of air I could.  My legs too were starting to cramp, aching from the exertion, maybe dehydration.  I hadn’t run this far, this much, in years, and it wasn’t feeling good.  I sucked down several mouthfuls of water from pack on my back, tasting the mild lemon flavor of the electrolyte powder I always used.  The heat here was sapping our strength quickly, hopeful the electrolytes would keep me going a little longer, stopping the cramps.

The gunfire had died down, now only a few sporadic shots, sounding like only one person left shooting.  Perhaps Pete and his companions had split up or found a defensible spot and were conserving ammunition.  The other alternative was not as pleasant, knowing there was a high probability only one of them remained.  I felt sad and angry at the same time, having seen what would happen to them if they were caught.  As I saw it, I only had a few friends in this part of the world, far away from home; so losing even one of them did not sit well.

We were in the parking lot, still crammed full of cars and light trucks, and their owners likely to never return for them.  To our left I noticed the large yellow rental car company sign and made for it.  It was a small brick building, but surrounded by filled stalls.  No one, friend or foe was near the office as I approached.  Jerry watched my back while I breached the door, reminding me that we had lots of company working towards us.  I scanned the two room building quickly, making sure it was available if we needed a place to bunker, and called Jerry in when I was sure they were empty.  Jerry secured the door while I searched for keys.  I was looking for a truck, anything heavier than a passenger car, a four-wheel drive preferably.

The keys weren’t labeled so I had to read off the manufacturer’s logos to find the right ones we wanted.  There were 2 Jeep Cherokees, 2 Chevy Trailblazers, a Hummer H3 and roughly a dozen passenger cars.  Jerry spoke up and said he wanted the Hummer.  Smiling, he asked, “Hey, why not, right?”  “Could never afford one on my pay, now I can have one free of charge.” He laughed.  I chuckled and threw him the keys.  I took one of the Cherokees, hoping I would get one with the land nav option.  Both vehicles were close together and easily able to get out without jockeying a bunch of cars.  Shots were still being fired up by terminal and I wanted to get there and extract whoever was left alive.  Jerry led off with the bigger truck.  We cleared the lot and almost immediately got bogged down because of the hundreds of abandoned cars packed haphazardly by the front entrance.  Jerry solved some of the problem, using the Hummer to push smaller cars out of our path.  

It was slow going, and we were drawing a crowd, attention from unwanted and dangerous company.  We broke out of the lot, only to find that up ahead the 4 lanes leading into the arriving passenger area was blocked up tighter than the lot we just muscled through.  I opened the sunroof, standing up on the seat to look for any of the others from the range.   All I could see were angry, gaping mouths and flailing arms, a mob of the dead staggering toward the building, but piling up at the doors, crushing those in front against the glass and metal door frames.

The shooting had stopped, not the sign I was looking for.  Tempted to honk the horn as a signal to alert any survivors, I couldn’t bring myself to do it, knowing it would only infuriate the crowd and draw more of them to us.  But then an idea came to me, one that I hoped would help me and any of the others left.  I turned the truck around and headed to a less congested area, with good avenues of escape, and started intentionally bumping into parked cars, setting off alarms.  The affect was almost perfect, as I looked back to see a thousand gnarled faces glowering in my direction.  The tide of the once living slowly began to turn, staggering, wandering and stumbling my way.  Jerry figured out what I was doing and went down another row, smacking cars along the way, creating more noise.  If Pete or the others were still alive, I hoped our ploy had bought them some precious time to regroup or escape.  It was about all we could do, not having near enough ammunition to fight our way to them, let alone get back out.  Good luck, Pete!

I made my way to Interstate 25, Jerry following in the Hummer headed south, but away from the population.  Surprisingly, there were quite a few other vehicles moving about the roads now that we were clear of the airport.  This was many more than I expected, and more than we’d seen since our ordeal began.  I tried the radio, hitting the scan button over and over, looking for a station with any information or alert.  There should at least be some emergency broadcasts telling people where to go for help or safety.  I found a few stations, listening to each for several minutes to find out the host city.  Not that it did me all that much good since I didn’t know the area or have a map to orient with or judge distances.  Unfortunately also, the truck did not have the GPS system I wanted.  

Jerry signaled me with some flashing of his headlights.  I pulled over in a barren stretch of road so we could talk.  Instead if getting out, he pulled up along side me.  “My turn is just a bit further up.  I wanted to say thank you for all you’ve done and to wish you luck.” He said sadly.  

“Same to you, Jerry” I quickly replied, then added, “Shoot straight, and pick your battles well, we’ll definitely be outnumbered.”

“Roger that, buddy, God Speed to you.” He answered back and then pulled away, heading north up I25.  I pulled off the interstate and went still further south on a state highway that promised to link up with Interstate 40, headed towards Oklahoma.



After a few miles, once I was past the congestion of the Interstate clover leafs and interchanges; the road became quiet and boring.  It was a comforting feeling after a day of destruction and carnage.  Still searching for radio channels I got parts of the bigger story.  War had been threatened over Taiwan, however it only took a few hours for all the sides involved to realize that they had bigger, more devastating problems.  Tensions remained high as nearly every country still held China to blame and demanded payback.

About a hundred miles east, past Tucumcari, I found a place to pull over, near a town called Endee.  I wanted to check my gear again and determine my best course of action.  I wasn’t sure how big Endee was, but I wanted to be ready for trouble if there was any to be had there.  Searching through the truck I found a Santa Fe street map in the door panel, little use to me now.  I kept it anyway since it might be useful for a fire, should I get a chance at such a luxury.  Which brought me to the next problem, food and water.  I realized I had not eaten since early yesterday morning, and I’d burned a bunch of calories since then, which explained my fatigue.  Digging through my pack, I found a few energy bars, some lemon hard candies, a half pack of gum and some electrolyte tablets.  I kept out one of the bars and few of the hard candies I stuck in my shirt pocket, then stowed the rest of the stuff.  I decided I should hang on to this meager supply and find something else, something more substantial.  I chose to stay on the road and bypass Endee, munching small bites of the energy bar and sipping lemon flavored water.

Checking my water supply was a little surprising.  I had trained to hydrate often during matches and training, and today I had unwittingly slugged down more than half my main supply of 3 liters.  I still had the 1-liter backup stored in a pouch on my chest rig.  Making a mental note, I needed, more water, some decent, nourishing food and some other supplies and gear to be able to make it on the road or off it, if things turned out that way.  Something to cook in would be nice, some spare batteries for the G3 and another, smaller light in my vest, and some clothing in case I had to go it on foot.  Lastly, since I’d seen the enemy, and his numbers, I needed more ammo.  I wasn’t looking for a battle; in fact, I wanted to avoid them if at all possible.  It was better to be prepared for the worst and hope for the best.

With no maps, I need to find out where I was and the best way to get back home.  The radio was little help still, and I hoped that would change if I came closer to a larger city further east.  Once back on the road it was almost peaceful, no signs anything was wrong, other than the occasional vehicle stranded haphazardly along the roadside or down in the median.  From the way they sat, I could envision the occupants had been in struggles for their lives, fighting out their last minutes with someone they knew and loved that had been infected and turned.  They were most likely all back together again in some macabre family.  I was amazed there weren’t more real people, living, breathing people like me out on the roads.

Another 40 miles passed with little to see, only a few roaming creatures, stiffly walking about.  There had been a few more multi-vehicle crashes a mile behind me, but no signs of life and I guessed these Zs were the former occupants or drivers, now wandering aimlessly.  A sign ahead showed a gas station 8 miles up the road.  I slowed a bit and reached for the carbine on the
passenger seat, making sure it was ready to go, a round chambered, the EOTech sight turned on, before wedging it upright between the seat cushions.

The off ramp was littered with so many cars and trucks that I had to go around them on the embankment.  I needn’t have bothered, the station lay in ruins, partially burned and still smoldering.  There was no one around, alive at least, but I wasn’t getting any closer than the road to be sure.  The bodies of those killed were everywhere and I found it hard to negotiate the truck around them as I headed back to the ramp.  I guess it was the human side of me not to simply run over them.  I guessed that might change before I made it home.  The on ramp was a no go, two big tractor-trailer rigs had collided near the over pass, completely blocking the access.  I raced across the bridge, thinking I would go down the wrong way and cross over the median farther up the road, but this ramp was blocked too.  I ended up going back down the ramp I’d come up early to get back on the road.  Only this time I saw more cars coming at me.  I pulled onto the road, under the overpass and waited for them to approach.  

Like me, they had determined that the Zs couldn’t drive and so I might be safe.  Three jacked-up 4x4 trucks pulled to a stop in the middle of the interstate.  They were packed full of boxes of all kinds of goods, no doubt these boys had been shopping.  The cab held three men each and a couple of the trucks had some women and children in the backs among the boxes.  I kept the Sig cocked and ready, out of sight on my lap, just in case.  The closest guy yelled over to me, asking where I was going.

“I’m headed to the east coast.” I replied with a friendly smile.  

“Shoot, that’s a fair piece o’ drivin’ he replied with a broad smile as well, showing his missing and brown teeth.  “We’s headed back to Okie City, if’n ya wanna tag along.  We could use another shooter.”  He continued.

“Have you got a map I could borrow?  I asked.  “And sure, I’ll pull in behind you for a ways.” I added.  This good ol’ boy handed over a full-sized Rand McNally road atlas, that I barely got my fingers on before the driver mashed the gas and took off.  The other two truck followed suit and I could hear them whooping and hollering as they went by.  These guys were crazy and I feared for the young ones in the backs of the open trucks, as we raced along at nearly 90 miles per hour.  Even though it was a warm day, it had to be a bit chilly back there, but they all just kept smiling and waving back at me.  I didn’t dare try to read a map at this break neck speed, one errant bobble of the wheel would have sent me rolling to my death, or seriously injured until the Zs came to finish me off.  Oklahoma was fine, so long as we stayed away from the bigger cities.  At some point before then, I needed to stop for gas, food and water.

Our little caravan pulled off the highway near El Reno, a small service station supposedly 2 miles south of the interstate.  I made a quick mental picture of the area in case I had to come back this way in a hurry.   The bubbas in the trucks were still hooting and laughing, like we were on the great vacation adventure, as we rolled down the dusty gravel road to the station.  When we arrived, everyone piled out of the trucks to stretch, and out came the guns!  They understood security, as we took turns fueling, those not involved in the process stood watch.  Bubba #1 had gone in and turned on the pumps, and along with it some exterior lighting, even though it was the middle of the afternoon.  It was encouraging though to know that there was still power, and I hoped that meant things weren’t as bad as earlier reported.  I filled up with a tank of premium, my first since I was a younger man with a souped up car.  I was last in line, so I left the truck at the pumps, as I got out to look for food, taking with me the keys and my carbine.  No sense making it too easy to lose everything.  

One of the Bubbas laughed at the stubby carbine as I slung it around my neck.  Apparently, any weapon other than a lever action rifle or a long barreled shotgun, was foreign to them.  It was time to find some food, I was famished and feeling a bit sluggish from the lack of it.  There wasn’t much left on the few shelves still standing in the small store.  In one of the coolers, I found a few apples, some canned juices and sandwiches.  With the power out previously, I skipped the sandwiches, tucking the other items into a shoulder bag.  Scrounging around behind the counter, I came up with a half a pack of chewing gum, 2 rolls of chewing tobacco, a pack of Twinkies and some AA batteries.  Pinned to the corkboard behind the register was a set of keys.

At the far end of the counter was a metal door, where I assumed was a storeroom for liquor or a private bathroom.  The key fit and I unlocked the door as quiet as possible in case a Z sat ready to spring on me.  I pushed it open slowly, just a crack, and was overwhelmed by the smell of death, days old.  Unfortunately, I wished the person inside were really dead.  Bringing the muzzle up, I pushed the door fully open and saw the source of the rot.  Pulling my shirt up over my nose, I entered and cleared the room, the shirt not doing much as a filter.  The only occupant was a 50-something male slumped in the corner, mostly headless, a large frame revolver still in his grasp on his lap.  He must have seen enough carnage outside; he decided it he didn’t want to go out that way.  I didn’t see much in the room I wanted, especially now that it had an odor I guess would not go away.  I closed the door back up, sealing the makeshift tomb.

I heard the trucks start up outside and rushed to the door, expecting to see the Cherokee up on blocks.  It wasn’t, and I felt guilty, having doubted the generosity and honesty the Bubba clan had showed me thus far.  They were loaded up and ready to go, waiting patiently for me.  “We’s heading this way.” Bubba #1 announced as he pointed down the county road.  It wasn’t my direction.

“Then, this is where we part ways, pal.  Thanks for the company.” I offered, tossing him the tins of chew.  He caught them, gave me another of his wide grins and pounded on the gas, launching the truck toward the road.  The others followed suit, leaving me is a cloud of dust that stuck to my sweaty face.  I could only smile and wish them silently the best of luck and envy their spirit.

I grabbed my Camelbak and an empty 1-liter bottle I found atop the gas pump and took them to the side of the building where a faucet protruded.  After letting the water run for a few minutes, I topped off both containers and swallowed as much as I could.  I sat in the truck, taking a few minutes to study the map and listen for any radio traffic.  As it was, I had been heading too far south following the Bubbas, but knew that I was making better time on the interstate road.  Fortunately, there was a junction that would take me north or northeast a short ways up.  So back roads were going to be it for a short ways.  It would take more time, more fuel and more stops to keep on track.  I scribbled a few notes on a scrap of paper and stuck it under the visor, and stuffed the carbine back between the seats.  The first time I looked up in a few minutes was a surprise.  I’d been so complacent, lulled into the Bubba carefree day, looking at the map and taking for granted the quietness, I almost let myself be taken.  I’m not sure where they all came from, but at least a dozen Zs were closing in on the station, the closest only a few feet in front of the truck.  I could only assume the noise made by the Bubbas departure had summoned them.

I quickly powered the Jeep up and threw it in gear, while fumbling for the window controls.  The Zs were coming from three sides, the forth blocked by the building.  Since there were 6 of them to the rear and only a couple up front, I moved forward but couldn’t turn yet as the pump island was along side me.  

Forward it was and I pulled out from under the canopy, the closest Z hammered a fist down on the passing truck as I bumped another nasty looking creature with the front fender.  He managed to get a hand on the grill, holding on even as the tire ran over his legs, ripping them off above the knees.  The screeching sounds he made left me wondering if these things felt pain, even though he would not loose his grip.  Four others now closed in, moving as fast as they could and I gave them the same treatment, careful not to damage the radiator or lights.  Night travel was going to be something new, not something I wanted to try without headlights.  Cranking the wheel hard to the right I made for the exit, still with half a Z riding the hood.  I thought about stopping to clearing him off with a bullet to the head, then figured I would save the ammo and see how resilient he was.  Surging down the road I intentionally edged close to signs and guardrails trying to knock my unwanted passenger loose.  He was tough, and made it nearly a mile and I almost felt sorry for him, enduring a ride that any other time would have been terrifying on his part and cruel on mine.  I felt nothing for him though but pity once he finally dislodged, as he tumbled and bounced down the tarmac.  In ultimate defiance, after coming to rest, he raised a battered, twisting arm, still clawing at me.

The radio sparked to life but with a weak signal from a central Texas station.  I got only bits and parts of stories and alerts, but managed to hear enough to learn that the military had been pulled back from across the globe and was being used to enforce quarantines in the major urban areas.  Shootings and clashes with groups of survivors trying to get out were too frequent.  I wondered what reason, or what process was being used, that would endanger healthy people, forcing them to remain in the deadly Q zones.  China was still making threats to defend its borders, claims from the Chairman that an invasion was being planned against them.  I was totally convinced the guy was completely mad.  As if there wasn’t enough to worry about.

The Q zones were something to worry over.  I had little to no information about them, where they were, how far they extended, whether I could even get through or around them.  I only knew what I remembered from the TV news in the train station that showed there were many and more concentrated to the east.  The majority of the map I had seen, seemed to be almost a continuous zone, made up of overlapping areas around the more densely populated cities.

My route, it appeared, was to be long and circuitous.  I cursed at myself for not remembering the phone and to call Annie, she would be a wreck.  Fishing around in the pack for the phone, I had a mild panic when I couldn’t find it.  Then I remembered that to keep it safe from getting smashed about on the run from the train station, I had wrapped it in a pair of spare sock.  With much relief, I found it and turned it on, gratified that I still had power.  There were 11 calls from Annie that I had missed in the last day.  With the knowledge that I was in for a well-deserved butt chewing, I punch in the home number.  She picked up almost before the first ring had ended, and told me what a jerk I was, then, told me she loved me before asking anything.

“I’m somewhere in Oklahoma, maybe a little west of Oklahoma City by now.  It’s hard to tell exactly.” I told her after telling her I loved her too and was sorry for not getting a call in before now.

“Oh, Verne.  That’s so far off and so much is happening so quickly, are you sure its safe to drive?” she asked with genuine concern.

“Driving is the easy part, honey, it’s the stopping that is the risky part.” I replied.  I explained everything that I’d been through.  While it probably did little to relieve her anguish, I felt it best to be truthful and let her know I was dealing with it.  I promised to make it home, and meant it.

“I need to know more about these Q-zones, but hang on a sec while I get a pen and something to write on.”  I dug into the front of the pack and found a Sharpie permanent marker.  I always carried one fine tip and one regular type, as they write on just about anything and today it was a page from the atlas.  I hope Canada didn’t mind.  “Ok, go ahead and tell me what you can.  She filled me in as she watched one of the emergency broadcasts on the TV.  By the time she was done, I’d circled about half the country, including most of the eastern seaboard.  One swath ran from Columbus, Ohio over to Indianapolis and then up to Milwaukee, all in one big section.

“How long will you be?” She wanted to know.  I had no firm idea what it was going to take to get home and told her so.

“How are you holding up?” I asked, a little later than I should have.

“We’re doing fine.  Your dad and my sister have made it here so far.  We aren’t seeing that much activity, and we are trying to keep as low a profile as we can so as not to draw attention.” She answered.  That was good news, the first I’d had in the last few days.  

“I can’t stay on the phone for too long, the battery is running down and so far I haven’t found a charger.  It’s on my shopping list.  “Oh and that Jeep Cherokee you always wanted, we have one now.  I’ll tell you about it later.” I told her, not wanting to lose the connection but I had to save the battery for later.

“I understand.” She sighed.  “But you try and get through again as soon as you can so I don’t have to worry.” She demanded.

“I’ll do what I can, but I really need to go for now.  It’s getting dark and I still need to find a place to hunker down for the night.” I explained.

“I love you, be safe, promise?” she said with tears in her voice.

“I promise, I love you too, bye.” I said and disconnected before she could say anything else.  I could only imagine her grief, being unable to control the situation or help in any way.  I knew the feeling myself and vowed to make it through, no matter what.  Right now however, I had to find a place to crash, I was exhausted and needed some real sleep.  But, where? And what place was safe?

Half an hour later, I rolled cautiously and slowly into a quiet little burg.  I didn’t bother to look at the name, too busy scanning the area for Zs.  All seemed quiet as I moved down the main street, no sign of violence had hit this place yet, at least nothing visible from the road.  As I neared the center of town, and I supposed its busiest intersection, I saw two cars approach the crossing from my left.  There was a stop sign, but they didn’t stop and continued through.  They gave no signal or appearance they were distressed or that I should be and I watched them cruise away.  On any other day it might have been normal, and I hoped things had returned to that state.  I saw a few people further up the street, in upper windows of homes and small storefronts.  Most just nodded and a couple gave a curt wave, and they all appeared to be armed but showing no aggression towards me.  I kept going, thinking I wouldn’t be too keen on strangers around my house either.

I kept going and it was hard, the lack of sleep was hitting me hard now, yawning constantly and barely able to keep my eyes opened.  This was dangerous.  On the east end of town, the narrow, curbed city street gave way to a four lane thoroughfare, connecting the town to a small, modern strip mall.  Perhaps ten stores, five or so on each side of a two-story center food court, advertising the normal fare of fast food joints.  Tomorrow I would see if I could get a real meal, but what interested me now was the water tower erected out back.  It stood alone, on a small rise, surrounded by an eight-foot cyclone fence.  Where the town had showed some form of life, this mall was completely abandoned, all the better for my plans.

I drove up to the fence and waited a few minutes, expecting to be challenged or shot at.  When neither happened, I got out and checked the lock on the gate, or in this case, the lack of the lock on the gate.  The base of the tower was built like a large inverted cone with a door, more like a ship’s hatch near the bottom for entry to the control room.  The door was bolted tight and padlocked as well.  So much for the easy way!  Checking my watch and the setting sun, I figured I had another twenty minutes of light.

I opened the gate and pulled the truck in, up as close as I could to the base, and under the ladder rungs welded on the side of the tower.  The first steps were attached about six to seven feet up, a ladder generally needed to reach them and high enough to keep kids off.  I ran over and secured the gate as best I could, using a quick cuff (a large cable tie) nylon strap and the gate’s flip-down latch.  It wouldn’t stop the living, determined to get in, but I hoped any Z that may happen by, would lack the dexterity to open it.  I locked the truck but opened the sunroof, and tossed my carbine and pack out on the roof.  Climbing out, I slid the inner cover closed, slung my rifle and pack, securing them with the waist and chest straps.  There was a catwalk about 35-40 feet up and I climbed for it.

Once on my perch, I dropped the pack and rifle to the catwalk and unpacked my Gore-tex wind shirt, a stocking hat and gloves and a poncho liner.  I threaded the pack straps and rifle sling through the railing, creating a mini barrier to keep me from rolling off the catwalk once, and if, I managed to sleep.  Next was a dinner of Twinkies and energy bar washed down with a few long pulls of water.  Satisfied that this was the best I could do for the night, I wrapped up in the liner and lay back, closing my eyes.

Thanks, keep it coming.

Well, WTF?

Give the man a chance to write his story.

AKASL

LIVE FREE OR DIE

Hope you all appreciate that i came home on break just to give you some.  Enjoy, its a long chapter.


The Darkest Part of Day


Chapter 5
Meeting Mr. Linden

Bart Linden sat at his office computer, watching with awe the images and video clips all his friends had been sending him.  Bart ran the electronics department at the Electronics Express store, set in a large suburban mall on the outskirts of Oklahoma City.   The upscale neighborhood was a gold mine from the well-to-do types that wanted one of Bart’s custom-crafted home entertainment systems or a whole-house security package.  At 23, Bart had definitely made it.  Fresh out of college, less than a year now, his first application had been accepted at the first interview.  Luckily, Larry, Bart’s boss, was amenable to the kinds of electronics visions Bart wanted to build, and they had both made a lot of money so far.

The video clips were amazing, and try as he might, he couldn’t find them to be fakes.  At first, the devastating brutality could only have been some kind of hoax, elaborate yes, but a phony.  But now, he was certain they were real.  From the office window, Bart peered outside, wondering if it were happening here as well.  “Of course not.” He scolded himself.  Nothing ever happens around here.  Sipping his Starbuck’s double mocha latte, he turned and went back to his desk, turned up the radio and slipped on his Bose headset.  No one would bother him while he worked out the new schematic for the Worley’s new estate.  Larry might pop in once and awhile to check progress, but Larry was out of town on a weekend vacation.

Around 4:30, the last song track stopped and Bart pulled off the ear cups and his glasses and leaned back into the chair, stretching out the kinks from leaning over the drawings to long.  He could hear a wailing noise but thought it was left over from the stereo.  But it persisted.  He got up, heading to the break area, hoping there was a soda left, his latte finished and leaving a dull, bitter after taste.  The hallway was quiet, too quiet as he approached the edge of the mezzanine, over looking the sales floor.  There was no one is sight, not customer or sales person.  Maybe there was a sales meeting or something.  But the store was still open for another half an hour, he confirmed, looking at his watch.  Maybe everyone thought that they could knock off early this week since Larry was gone.  Oh, wouldn’t he go ballistic if he knew that?  The wailing noise continued, peaking Bart’s curiosity.  It seemed to be coming from all around now.

As he stepped outside, it became apparent that the sound was from the tornado warning system, but oddly, the sky was clear and calm.  It was only the first sign something wasn’t right in town today.  There was a lot of traffic moving about, much more than normal, even for the end of the day on Friday.  Across the highway, he could see that Sam’s Club was packed.  With a smile, Bart laughed to himself.  People had seen the videos and were panicking, just like when gas prices were announced to be going up.  People were such sheep, he mused.  Everyone was speeding; he could sense that, like some actual emergency was taking place, one Bart still wasn’t seeing.

He shook his head and went back inside to close up his office, thinking the day was over; not knowing the darkest, longest day was just beginning.  He relaxed for a few minutes in the high-back office chair as he watched out the window.  It would be the last relaxing moment Bart would enjoy for a long time.



Downtown, in the Little China district, things were frantic, exploding into a whirlwind of violence and death.  Hundreds of recently smuggled illegal aliens had been trucked and bussed to a handful of derelict warehouses used as holding areas.  These individuals and families had turned over their life’s savings or contracted for terms of indentured servitude, thinking they were free of the oppressive controls of the communist regime.  And they were, only now trusting their lives and futures in new masters, some distinctly more evil and heartless than those they had lived under their entire lives.

Today though, most just wanted out of the dark, cramped confines of the trucks, trailers and shipping containers.  Many were sick, some vomiting, others bleeding from mouths, noses, ears and eyes.  Many more spit up blood, unseen to the throng of people packed into each unlit vehicle.  A few had died, gone, unseen in the corners, wrapped only in blackness.

Chu Wonpo could hear the sickness working through the crowded confines of the semi trailer.  The coughing was getting worse and so many babies were crying, their mothers too weak to care for them and comfort them.  Two shafts of light penetrated the inky darkness around Chu, coming from small round holes punched in the roof of the trailer.  Bright sunlight stabbed its way into the hot box.  Chu could hold his palm into the light, letting the half-inch circle illuminate a small area at a time.  He could hear growling now coming from the back of the long box, and he prayed silently for the poor soul who made the sound, thinking it was a sign of impending death.  The growling grew in intensity and now came from multiple places, moving closer, and then screams.  Screams that made his skin tighten and his flesh bump up.  Whatever was happening back there, he couldn’t see, but knew it was terrible.  He pulled his threadbare shirt over his nose and mouth, hoping he too wouldn’t be infected.  The screamers continued, so panicked, they didn’t use words to try and warn others; they were in too much pain or terror, that screaming was the only remedy.

Chu could hear everything, the gurgling, and the squishy sounds of liquid, splashed to the oily wooden floor.  His heart raced and he felt such visceral pity for those he couldn’t see or help.  He could only imagine them hunched over, guts heaving to expel the vile sickness, as the cause of the noise.  The thuds and thumps had to be those ailing souls falling, no, collapsing to the floor.

He clamped his hands over his ears, trying desperately to block out the sounds and wishing the truck would hurry to its destination.  The screams and growls continued.  Then amazingly, quietness replaced the screams, a hush came over the growls and Chu Wonpo opened his eyes, seeing only the two dots of light on the floor near his feet.  Chu fished under his shirt with an idea.  He unlatched his belt buckle, a two-inch square of polished brass.  He pushed the buckle down toward the light beam and used the flat surface to reflect the light like a small mirror.  At first, it was pointed down, slightly in front of his sandaled feet and he saw the pool of blood slowly flowing toward them.  Pulling his feet closer to him made a scraping noise that brought a new chorus of growls and Chu froze.

Whatever was in the dark with him no longer sounded human or friendly.  He adjusted the light, slowly turning the realigned light shaft out in front.  The growls continued and his hands shook so much he felt sure he would drop the buckle.  But he had to see, had to know what confronted him in the darkness, and he moved the buckle a little more.  Something bumped against his shoulder and he froze again, afraid to even breathe.  A strong hand rested on his shoulder and he thought it was the old man that had boarded with him, but his whole body trembled anyway.  He felt a warm breath against his neck, thinking the old man, scared like he was, was about to whisper into his ear.  The shaft of light from his homemade flashlight split the darkness in front of him and he went rigid.  Dozens of white eyes stared back at him, focused on him alone.  Blood and bits of still warm flesh dripped from their snapping jaws and fingers.  Chu jumped, dropping the buckle, immediately leaning forward to grope in the blackness for it, saving his throat from the first set of gnashing teeth.   Before he could jump up, or kick out or swing the first punch to defend himself, they had him.  Pinned under the weight of so many, he could do nothing; only die without the chance to scream.


Bart walked out the back door, heading to his new silver BMW roadster.  The door slammed shut and he heard the automatic locks kick in to secure it and arm the alarm system.  Reaching in to his camel hair sport coat pocket, he was surprised the keys weren’t there.  Then he remembered, they were on his desk, where they had been under his briefcase.  “Shit!” he cursed at himself.  “Just friggin great.” He added a moment later realizing he couldn’t get back in the building, those keys were on the desk as well.  He slumped his rear against the trunk, so frustrated he couldn’t think what to do next.  Even if the traffic had thinned, it would have taken a good 30 minutes to get home by car, walking was out of the question.  

There was a bus stop in front of the McDonald’s across the street.  “How degrading” he thought to himself.  “Mr. Bigshot with a corner office has to take the bus.” He taunted himself.  A taxi would be faster, but would be a fortune to take him home.   Walking up the alleyway toward the front of the building, he slipped on his jacket, bracing against the cooling air.  It would be dark in less than an hour and he wondered how long the busses ran.  He couldn’t remember seeing them out, never having considered them as transport before, never needing to.  

The bus schedule posted on the open-sided shelter told him he had 20 minutes before the next bus.  More than enough time, he judged, to grab a burger and milkshake and still make it out front.  He only hoped that everyone else around him wasn’t taking the same ride.  He realized he would have to go farther downtown before making a transfer that would take him even close to home.

Talk in the restaurant was all about the Zombie outbreak, or whatever they were calling it.  It just seemed too unreal to get so excited about; there were no signs of any such thing going on around here.  The bus arrived a few minutes late and Bart was surprised to see it was packed.  The driver wouldn’t even open the door all the way.  “There might be another bus along in a few minutes.” The driver announced and began to pull away.  The crowd of people in and around the shelter erupted in shouts and profanity, some even banging their fists on the side of the bus as it left.  And of course, almost at once people attributed it to the zombie problem.  “How stupid, how juvenile?” Bart said, almost loud enough to be heard.  Moving away from the crowd, Bart opened his cell phone and dialed the cab company, whose number was posted on the shelter’s glass wall.

The first two calls had been answered and immediately hung back up.  Persistent and now getting angry over this abuse, Bart called again, this time yelling into the phone so he wasn’t ignored.  The receptionist spoke back rudely, “Look sir, we are swamped and can’t take anymore fares now.”   “Call back later or try someone else.” She added, sounding exasperated.

“But I need a ride now.  Don’t you have anyone that can swing out and get me?  I’ll share the fare and give the driver and extra twenty bucks.” He pleaded.

Her laugh was sarcastic and cruel.  “Twenty bucks!  Are you shitting me?  You won’t get a ride around the block for under a hundred today. Pal” she chuckled and hung up.  Bart was pissed now.  Even as young as he was, he was not accustomed to people treating him like this.  He was so angry that he walked right past the Sam’s Club and Wal-Mart, where he could have bought or taken a bike, making his journey a little quicker.

He decided he would have to walk, and once out of the busier area, maybe he could flag down a ride.  Surely people around here would be willing to help for money.  He checked his wallet and to his further frustration, found that he had only $121, a single hundred-dollar bill, one twenty and a single.  He was so used to using a check card that he rarely carried much cash.  The sun was starting it’s way down to the horizon, and with it the night winds were picking up.  He could smell fire smoke on the wind as he walked.  He had gone about 20 blocks when the thought of going back to work crossed his mind.  He’d have to break in, but who would notice today.  It wasn’t right and instead pressed on.

At least his feet didn’t hurt and he made a mental note to get another pair of the comfortable Italian loafers.  They were expensive, but right now they seemed to be the only thing worth feeling good about.  His shirt and jacket were going to be ruined; he could smell himself, sweating from the exertion.
Bart trudged on, not paying attention to the time or the darkness closing in around him.  His anger and frustration drove him towards home, where he was going to make some calls and get some people straightened out.

After a few miles, Bart noticed that the traffic was still moving, thinner than before, but still more cars than normal.  Not a one would stop and offer him a ride and he couldn’t bring himself to stick out a thumb, begging for help.  He never before realized how heavy the briefcase was, thinking that he had brought home too much work for his weekend.  He’d almost forgotten, he was to have dinner with a guy from the second floor.  The man had offered many times and Bart always made excuses.  Finally, after the man had mentioned that a friend had dropped Bart’s name about electronics, had Bart consented.  Bart told himself that he was sure the guy was gay, him thinking Bart was too since he never had visitors.  Even now, mad at himself for the keys, the taxi, the long walk, the ruined jacket, Bart chuckled inwardly.  He’d have his dinner and find out what the guy wanted for stereo equipment, even offer to design the custom system that would be the envy of the building, make his money and then tell the guy he wasn’t into him.  

That gave him something else to ponder as he walked.  How many others thought he was gay?  Just because he was young, successful and a loner, didn’t mean he didn’t like girls.  He dated a few in college, none that he would get serious about, but come on, he thought.  The crash of a car up ahead snapped him out of his thoughts.  “Whoa” he exclaimed, managing to catch the last few moments as the car came to a rest against the tree.  He wasn’t sure what to do, help them, no, call for help.  Reaching into his pocket, he almost cried.  His phone wasn’t there and thinking for a second he knew exactly where it was, on the counter in the bathroom at the restaurant where he’d gone to wash up after speaking with the cab company.
“Fuck me!” he raged.  “Why does this shit always happen to me?” he cursed.

He peered in the driver’s side window of the car and saw the blood sprayed against it, rivulets slowly headed toward the ground.  He wasn’t normally squeamish about such things, but this was a lot of blood.  They must have been flying to get hurt that bad, he thought.  The passenger was stirring, moaning, obviously in pain, pinned in the wreckage.  Bart was unsure what to do, moving them could bring on a lawsuit if they found out his name, which they surely would once the police arrived.  But he felt compelled to help, no one asked to get hurt like this.  Going around to the passenger door he tried to pull it open, seeing the victim was bent over the console, her head moving slightly.  The door wouldn’t budge and he knocked on the window to get her attention.  As she turned, Bart jumped back in fright.  The passenger had been chewing a hole through the driver’s leg, as she still had chunks of it in her teeth when her eyes focused on Bart’s.  Everything he’d been hearing and seeing all day suddenly came true in that instant.  This lady, or thing, whatever, had ripped open the driver’s throat, no doubt causing the crash.  The crumbled car was now her dining room and her cage.
She thrashed violently trying to get at Bart, her seatbelt holding her in place.  As he watched, mesmerized, seeing she didn’t have the brainpower or ability to do simple tasks like opening the seat belt or the door.  Instead she continued to claw and flail herself about inside the car, only wanting to get her bloody hands and teeth on him.

The rear hatch on the once fine sports car was ajar, and Bart thought at once he should open it and slam it down to lock her in.  He pulled it open a few inches and pushed it down but it didn’t catch.  He tried again, lifting it higher, open enough he could see inside.  The driver was starting to stir now, Bart thinking the creature would go back after him if she noticed.  But the driver growled now too, snapping his head around to gaze at Bart, his eyes now pale and clouded.  Bart knew the man had turned too; he must have, now only beginning to thrash in his seat as well.  The driver wasn’t tied in with a seat belt though and as Bart stood there, holding the hatch above his head, watching in amazement, the driver started to crawl out of his seat.

He couldn’t take his eyes of the events unfolding before him.  Finally, he came out of his trance and noticed a sports bag in the luggage area.  Protruding from it was an anodized aluminum softball bat.  Without hesitation this time, Bart reacted, grabbing the bat and slamming the hatch down, sealing in the ghastly creatures.  Bart ran, as fast as he could, praying the things couldn’t get out and catch him.

It was late that night before Bart got home.  It would have taken until morning had he not gotten a ride.  An older gentleman stopped when he saw Bart, hands on his knees, gasping for air, a mob of zombies in the distance, but closing.  Bart had thanked the man and offered him all the cash he had but the man declined.  “What good is money now, boy?” he said as he pulled away, shaking his head.

Getting into the building had taken some time as well.  No one answered the buzzer/intercoms, as Bart frantically pushed all the buttons.  Bart was furious at first, wondering how people could be so stupid, then realized no one knew what to do or what to expect, what the creatures were capable of.  He wondered himself if he would have opened the door either.  After 20 minutes, Bart’s dinner date came down to the lobby, cautiously checking things out.  Bart had to plead with him, beg him and practically strip naked, a gesture the jerk seemed to enjoy, to prove he wasn’t a zombie.  Reluctantly, the door buzzed and he was let in, the neighbor no where in sight and only the slamming of a door down the hall, to indicate where he’d gone.  It took another 15 minutes to convince the building manager, after recounting his entire day’s agonizing adventure and assurances he hadn’t been bitten, to slide a spare key under the door.

Once inside, he collapsed in the closest leather recliner, kicked off his shoes and passed out from exhaustion.  


The semi-tractor trailer pulled into the warehouse, unaware his cargo had changed along the way.  He wasn’t fazed any longer by the cries and stench of the sweaty beings, they wanted a free ride to the big time and they could save their bitching for someone else, he only delivered.

He could hear them inside, banging on the walls and pounding at the door.  “Little hot in there is it?” he mocked, unlocking the padlock.  The smell was already assaulting his nose as he lifted the first handle, releasing the right side door.  The door creaked and started to move, so he slapped his palm against it.  “Hold your horses, assholes!” he yelled and felt more resistance pushing against the door.   The sounds were muffled through the heavy metal, and he couldn’t understand their language anyway.  He tried to swing the handle back over to latch the door and let them sweat it out a little longer, but he couldn’t and the door opened further.

Several filthy, bloody hands grabbed through the opening, reaching for anything in range.  The driver was stunned and jumped back, letting go of the door, tripping and falling to the ground.  Several of the wretches piled out onto the ground, those behind pushing forward after their new prey.  The first to hit the ground rolled toward the driver and grabbed his ankle.  The driver was in a full panic now, kicking and backpedaling away, a skinny Chinese zombie still attached to his leg.  The driver kicked it in the face, feeling and hearing the nose break and still the creature wouldn’t let go.  Now others, on their feet staggered to him as he fumbled in his pocket for a pocketknife.  The fear gripped him and the fine motor skills needed to open the puny blade were not there, and he dropped it.  As the hands seized his arms and legs, his last screams called out for help.   He could be heard down the empty alleys and dirty ruins, but in this neighborhood, screams were not that unusual, and seldom investigated.

40 zombies stumbled and crawled away from the trailer, spreading out in search of food.  By morning they would be hundreds, multiplying as they killed and ate, passing the disease to new, hungry mouths.




I woke to the sounds of ravens, perched above me, cawing angrily like I had taken their favorite spot.  They departed like cowards as I stirred and sat up.  I had just had a long, actually peaceful night’s sleep.  But not in a very comfortable place, I was stiff and sore from the metal grating digging into me.  But this had been a good idea, a great place to look out and survey the landscape before me.  I checked below and was happy to see I was still alone, and no wandering dead were in sight.  I thought now, the same as I had in a dream as I slept, that maybe this whole mess would die out soon.  How long could a dead person function, with now blood, little brainpower or skills to protect themselves?  There was a lot I didn’t know about these new predators, and I wondered if any one did.  It was all new, or maybe not, maybe some medical or military secret gone horribly wrong.

From up here, I could see that it wasn’t business as usual on the street, or at the businesses.  They were deserted; nothing but a few dogs could be seen moving about.  These were extraordinary times and things would be different for sure.  I needed food, and I didn’t want to steal it or create a situation where someone felt obligated to protect it, like at the point of a gun, but I was going to do some shopping today.  Hopefully, with the cooperation of the locals.

I pulled out my toiletries bag and found a toothbrush and paste, something that would make a big difference in my attitude.  I realized I needed to take care of myself and not allow the routine daily activities go by the wayside.  Whatever was making zombies had to be carried in a bodily fluid, maybe only those with weakened or compromised immune systems.  I couldn’t let any, even a minor infection get a foothold in me.  The brushed and rinsed and then chewed a piece of gum with Zylitol that would help kill bacteria.  It would also make me hungry sooner than I wanted but that was the trade off.

I packed up and tightened down all the straps, made sure all the buckles were closed and the zippers zipped before I unhooked the pack from the railing.  At least now if I dropped it, everything would be together, maybe broken but all in one package.  I slung the rifle and pack again and made my way down, stopping every few rungs to make sure there wasn’t a surprise visitor waiting around the backside of the tower.  I dropped to the truck roof and into the sunroof as quick as I could, instantly closing the sunroof.  At least it would give me a few minutes time to work out a plan if attacked.  When I was sure it was safe, I pulled the nose of the truck to the gate and slowly nudged forward, pressing against the zip tie until it snapped, flinging the gate open.  I made for the subway/deli first.  I wanted food that was already cooked, that I could bag up and scurry away with.  No such luck here, and I guessed the fast food places were about the same, only frozen goods left, and since I had no means of cooking yet, they did me no good.

I had to find a grocery store or supermarket so I could get packaged food that wouldn’t spoil in the heat, I had no refrigeration.  There was a small mom and pop place back in the quiet part of town, I remembered seeing when I passed through, but I didn’t want to chance a shootout.  I’m sure if things were as bad as reported, food would be a valuable commodity quickly, one I’m sure the townsfolk didn’t want to share with outsiders.

Driving up the main highway, I looked for a bigger store and found it a block off the road, tucked in behind some new construction.  The lot was nearly empty, a good sign, but there were armed men pacing back and forth in front.  Collapsing the stock on the carbine, I stuffed it down on the opposite floor board and covered it with the Camelbak pack.  I parked a few rows out, driver side away from the building.  There were places closer, but if the shooting started, I wanted some distance and the thickness of the truck for cover.  Locking up the truck, I approached the front of the store and neither of the guards paid me much attention.  I was trying to look casual and hoped I wasn’t too casual or that the Sig holstered on my right flank was imprinting through me jacket.

Neither guard said anything as got to the door and stood there a second instinctively waiting for the automatic door to swing open.  I let myself in and heard the men chuckle.  A pimply-faced kid, maybe sixteen, with braced teeth and a bad case of bed head, greeted me and handed me a red plastic basket.  “All you can stuff in this is what you get for fifty bucks, up front.” He rattled off, with a bored smile.  I reached for my wallet and flipped it open, revealing my badge and ID card.  As I went for a debit card, the boy spoke up.  “Sorry Sir, cash only.”  Right, I thought, and handed him the cash.  There weren’t many people inside and the store seemed fully stocked.  I wondered what the price would be next week and what would be left.  

Okay, I needed food value and in small, easy to pack sizes.  Stable products like peanut butter, dried or canned meats, some jerky, nuts, rice and more electrolyte powder, if they carried it.  I managed to get the items on my mental checklist and vowed to write the list out for the next time, if I got a chance.  I had packed and repacked the contents of the little basket to get the most I could in it.  This might be a once in a lifetime shopping spree.  I got the following:

4 cans of chunk chicken
3 packages of Armor dried beef
3 half-pound bags of beef jerky
2 pounds of salted cashews, whole
5 packs of chewing gum
3 bags of hard candies, assorted
1 four-pound box of quick cook rice
2 cans of Cheese whiz
1 box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter
1 large bottle of multi-vitamins
1 bottle of liquid antiseptic hand cleaner
1 bottle of waterless soap
8 small packs of baby wipes
And crammed every available space, nook and corner with energy bars.  I managed to grab a small roll of aluminum foil and some kitchen matches.  They stuck out of the basket a little, but the kid at the counter passed me through without a word.  I chose plastic bags and asked for a few extras, that I stuffed in my jacket pocket.  They wrote down my name and told me I wasn’t allowed another visit for one week, fine with me I told them, as I hoped to be long gone by then.

I’m sure there was other things I could have taken, but I felt like I had scored well, not 50 dollars worth, but given the situation, I was happy, like I’d just won the lottery.  This place would be swamped once people really panicked, or maybe not, if the Zs took over.  After piling the goods in the truck, I spent several minutes studying the atlas, looking for a way out of town and east towards home.  I also repacked the supplies in my pack, replacing stuff that I’d consumed and adding a few meals.  The rest, I divided into the plastic bags in as equal portions as I could.  If I had to bail out of the truck I wanted to be able to grab a bag or two and have a good blend of items.  Not get stuck with a bag full of tin foil and baby wipes with nothing to eat.  The bags also would be easier to hang from buckles of straps on me gear, so I wouldn’t have to carry it all in my hands.  I rolled out to the highway and began eastbound but at a more leisurely pace, looking for a radio station to tell me what was ahead.

So far there had not been any sign of the Q-zones or any talk of enforcing them, at least from the infrequent radio reports I was getting.  If the radio wasn’t saying much, it might be an indicator that the worst was over.   It was late afternoon and I debated on trying to make a run past the big city.  I also wanted to top off the tank, which I was surprised to see was hovering just over half a tank.  I didn’t think I’d driven that far since the last fill, but knew for sure that I wanted a full tank to try and get past Oklahoma City, no telling what conditions would be like.  I decided to stop for the day, since I had food, and really needed to clean up anyway.  Looking for a proper place to bunk down might take a while anyway.  My course was going to be over the north by-pass since Interstate 40 came in on the high side, no fancy calculations needed.  

I was just coming into some of the northwestern suburbs, seeing signs for a place called Warr Acres.  That sounded ironic and interesting enough that it was going to be home for the night.  Most of the area was dimly lit, or blacked out, I didn’t know if it was intentional or not.  There was an electronics store though, that had the large yellow sign above it fully on, like a lighthouse for ships.  I took it as a signal and made my way around the backside.  The loading area was empty and only a few cars were parked in the employee area.  There were no signs of anything happening back here and that suited me fine.  I pulled the Jeep up close to the building, and under a pull down fire escape ladder, leaving enough room that it could extend fully without hitting the truck.  Once again I locked up and crawled out of the sunroof on to the truck and pulled down the ladder as quietly as I could.  If there was no zombie trouble here, I sure didn’t want to get pinched for burglary by some cop looking for a place to doze on third shift.

This time I left my pack and other supplies in the truck, taking only the carbine with me as I went up the ladder.  I needed to be sure the roof top was clear of other visitors or accesses for them before I called this place home for the night.  The ladder system creaked and rattled and if someone was above me they surely knew I was coming before I got there.  To my relief, the place was deserted and the fire escape was the only external way to the roof.  I went back for my gear.  Once on the roof, I stripped down to my skivvies and found a quiet spot behind an air conditioner to take care of some personal business.  I used the baby wipes to clean myself as best I could along, and with some antiseptic cleaner and a bit of water rinsed out my hair.  After air-drying, I got dressed in a fresh pair of socks and boxers and pulled on my jeans and wind shirt.  This I told myself was the best it was going to get.

My last business was dinner.  I downed a can of the chicken with some crackers, dessert, was an energy bar.  Then washed down a couple of multi-vitamins with a can of juice I’d gotten with the Bubbas.  Even warm it was a nice treat.  Finally, I brushed my teeth and rolled up in the poncho liner, using my pack for a headrest and nodded off to sleep.



Bart woke with a start.  The dream of flesh eating zombies scared him awake.  He sat in the chair, panting and feeling the pounding of his heart.  It took only a few seconds to remember it wasn’t a dream though.  The clock on his DVD player blazed a bright blue 3:37 at him and he knew he couldn’t get back to sleep.  Realizing he was hungry, sore and stank like a farm animal, he considered priorities.  First, was definitely a shower.

He’d been in there a long time, letting the warm water massage his skin.  He’d seen death in a rancid, unforgettable form earlier and the thought made him feel filthy, somehow savage.  He thought about carrying the baseball bat all the way home, and wondered if that might have been why the others took so long to let him in, as he hadn’t remembered it was in his hand.  Would he really have used it to kill something, he wondered?  Yes, he told himself, feeling instantly better, stronger.  He might not be a Marine, he told himself, but no half human was going to ruin his life, no Sir.

Bart strode from the bathroom with only a towel covering his man parts.  Normally, he wouldn’t have dared walked around without a shirt, always having been self-conscious about his pudgy middle and pasty white skin.  But tonight, he felt alive.  He’d faced death, really close up and mastered his fear, he bragged to himself.  Bart was a changed man, in his own eyes.

Dinner was a thick steak, one he’d bought to impress that prick downstairs.  He grilled it on the Jenn-Aire range; now aware it was the first time he’d ever used the expensive stove.  That didn’t matter; he reveled as the flames scorched the meat, filling the suite with its intoxicating aroma.  A bottle of wine would go great with this, he thought and checked his wine rack on the counter.  That too was unused before tonight, he realized.  He pondered that for a bit and told himself what a schmuck he’d been, buying all this meaningless crap, to impress others, impress whom?  Where were they all last night when he was alone, fighting for his life?  Things were going to change, he resolved.

Clicking on the TV, he found that things were changing, quicker and more intensely than he could ever have imagined.  Every news channel was devoted solely to the crisis.  The zombie crisis.  Bart spent the next 2 hours watching and listening to the emergency broadcasts and news reports.  The events of the previous night had really freaked him out and now he was finding that it was not just an isolated incident, it was worldwide.  There were no firm estimates on the number of dead, before those dead killed even more.  There had to be somewhere safe to go, he thought.  He had family back in Kentucky, he was sure they would know what to do.  

Bart packed a few things into his gym bag, another item he never used before, a soft leather case with brass fittings, and shook his head.  Even as he packed it he wondered if all the name brands were really better made, and if they were going to hold up if he had another night like last night.  He didn’t have much choice at this point, everything he owned was designer label, and so he had to go with it for now.  He chose a pair of black Dockers with pleated fronts, thinking they would give him more flexibility for running and jumping.  All his shirts were the same, white, crisply starched and pressed, and a few pale blue ones, so it didn’t matter which he grabbed.  A spare he folded neatly and placed in the leather shoulder bag.  For footwear it was much the same, he’d been a creature of habits, bad habits and always bought what looked good and felt good.  Shoes were supple, Italian made, with little of no arch support, something he’s never thought of sitting at a desk all day.
He had one pair of athletic shoes that he bought for an introductory day at the health club, and he remembered they were snug and made his feet hurt but he took them anyway because they seemed like they were for the outdoors.

Lastly, he grabbed a jacket, Members Only brand, a bit light but all he had here.  There was an overcoat at the office, which might work better.  He found his extra building and car keys and threw them in the bag with a bottle of Evian water and some fresh granola.  He checked his look in the hall mirror on the way out the door, smiling, thinking he was dressed similar to other days, but he was more rugged today, and walked out.  As soon as the door clicked shut he shook his head and cursed silently.  Opening the door, he reached in and grabbed the ball bat.

He knocked on the manager’s door for several minutes before someone answered.  “Could I get you to give me a lift to work so I can get my car?” he asked through the door.  “I’d be willing to pay you for your time.” He added as incentive, knowing the old codger would do most anything for a buck.  

“How much? Came the answer.  Bart smiled and knew it would work.  

“How about $20 dollars?” he offered.

“How about $50?” came the reply.  Why not? Bart thought, feeling reckless, then remembered he didn’t have a fifty.

“I’ll give you a hundred, if we can go right now.” Bart countered, feeling victorious, and hearing the locks releasing on the door.  Bart smiled inwardly; the old scrooge already had a jacket on and keys in hand at $20 I’d bet.  Sure enough the guy was dressed, jacket and all, as the door swung open.

The ride was without conversation, which suited Bart just fine.  He was tired of people like this, always there to make a profit never there to just be helpful for the good of it.   When they stopped, Bart got out and dug for his wallet and realized he’d forgotten it at home.  He tried to beg forgiveness and said he would take care of it when he got home later today.  The old man was furious and wouldn’t hear a word of it, stomping on the gas, nearly running over Bart’s feet as he bolted away.  “Cheap-ass, little sissy boy!” he heard the man yell out the window.

He was tempted to flip the old jerk a finger, but held off; remembering his bag, along with his building and car keys was still in the truck.  Not again? He cursed himself, as he stood there, alone, his only possession a blue, metal baseball bat.


The morning started much the same as the previous day, ravens and other birds disturbing my slumber with their incessant racket.  I checked my watch and saw it was just after 8:00 a.m.   Not bad, I thought, another decent nights sleep, time-wise, if only I’d had a bed.  Since the day looked to be bright and sunny with no sight or sounds of trouble, maybe things had blown over and were returning to normal.  There was traffic moving; I could hear it even from up here, near the back of the building.  I checked down below and saw the truck was right where I’d left it, and untouched.  I ate a leisurely breakfast of some cheese and crackers, a power bar and some nuts.  Again, I finished off with some water and vitamins, hoping they were helping since my diet had certainly changed in the last week.

After cleaning up, I packed up and again checked over the edge of the roof.  This time, there was movement.  Small packs of Zs were gathered near the adjacent building.  I could see over to the loading dock, but not down the alley between that building and mine.  They must have wandered down that way from the street out front.  I grabbed the carbine and dashed across the roof to the front of the store and was amazed to see several dozen dead aimlessly strolling the sidewalks.  What had seemed like a quiet morning was now a shambles.  I knew I was safe up here, but all the same, I didn’t want to get surrounded and trapped up here either.  This was going to put a kink in my plans for the day.  If there were this many out and about, freely wandering around, it wouldn’t be long before martial law or quarantine was set up.  I had to get on the road.

There was a commotion now, coming from near the back of the building.  I ran back there, keeping low so I wouldn’t be seen as I moved.  Peeking over the edge, I saw that the truck was still there, but a larger mob had gathered in the loading area to this building and the others to either side.  I don’t know what was drawing them in, but it wasn’t good.  Movement to my left caught my attention.  Someone was running down the alley, and right at the crowd gathering by the loading dock.  

He must have seen they were ahead, stopping in the middle of the alleyway, bent over at the waist, gasping for air.  He wasn’t going to be able to stand there long since another group was coming up behind him.  I dug into the chest rig and found my monocular, focusing in on him.  Mid-twenties, overweight, out of breath, dressed in an easy to see white shirt, and quickly running out of options.  Without realizing it, he was trapped.  A high fence that ran along the alley was surely more than he could climb, that left him running or fighting.  He didn’t look like a fighter, or a runner for that matter.

I watched him start up the road to the front of the store, and stop; perhaps more Zs were coming from there, where I’d seen so many earlier.  How did they know where to go, I wondered?  The kid could still outrun them unless they fanned out, blocking his escape.  I was tempted to start shooting, but knew it would only bring more and we’d be trapped here.  The kid made a break for the loading docks; I’m not sure why, or where he thought that would get him, except that there were fewer Zs in his way there.  Three of them staggered down the ramp after him and he was swinging the bat wildly, obviously in full panic mode.  I guess I would have been too with no more options than he had.  He was doing okay, having caught one of the undead in its outstretched arm, breaking it with the bat.  The thing never broke stride though, stumbling forward, arm dangling at its side.  

I figured I had to help this kid; he was the only other living person I could see and that meant something.  I zeroed in on one of the Z’s and fired.



I watched the guy as he lay on the roof, chest rising and falling rapidly.  He was young, out of shape and wide-eyed with fear.  

“Thank you, thank you so much.  I thought they had me for sure.” He exclaimed in a rapid manner.  I looked at him for a few moments before responding.  I’d helped him, saved his life, and I wondered what I had done for my chances to get away from here.

“No problem.  Couldn’t let them get the only other person I’ve seen today.” I said back.  “Just hope I didn’t jinx myself.” I added and felt instantly bad for having done so.  Of course his life, any human life was important and that was the breaks.  That’s how things were going to be and I couldn’t change them.   He bowed his head just enough to let me know I had hurt his feelings, or maybe it was that he understood what I meant and how we were both in a bind now.

“Name’s Verne, glad to have you with me.” I offered, in an apology and hopefully a peace offering by extended my hand.  His head popped right up and he was beaming a broad smile.  Peace it was, as he returned the handshake.

“I’m Bart Linden.  But just call me Bart.  I owe you, big time.  Thanks again.” He said this time, genuinely excited.

I looked over he edge to see that we had gathered a large crowd, all piling up at the truck, where I had lowered the fire ladder for Bart.  They sounded angry, taking out their frustration on the truck and building, pounding bloody fists or stumps in some cases.  I rolled back over, leaning up against the wall, carbine upright between my knees.  Might be a long night, a second in one place, not a pattern I wanted to start.

Bart seemed awed by the rifle and asked what it was, clearly not one familiar with firearms, other than those in the movies.  “This is a mutt.” I told him.  “One I put together from a bunch of parts, to fit the class I was attending.” I finished.  He nodded his head with genuine interest, liking what he was hearing.  “I wanted something lightweight and fast, easy to swing around, with enough barrel to reach out to 250-300 yards or so.” I continued, pulling the 30 round Magpul P-mag out of the gun and handing it to him.  He grabbed it up excitedly, looking it over, seeing the rounds on top and through the level window on the side.  

He handed it back and I re-inserted it in the weapon.  “That little bullet sure does a number on those things.” He said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.  “I’ve seen some guns similar to that on the news, the cops have them, but I’ve never seen one in tan before, is it special?” he asked, referring to the flat dark earth brown paint job.

“Not really, about the same.  This just keeps a lower profile and protects the metal from the weather.” I answered, somewhat impressed, he seemed like a smart guy.  “What brings you around here?” I queried.

“I work here, well worked here.  I'm not sure what’s going to happen now.  I got locked out last night, had a little run-in with these things and just got back for my car.” He replied.  He got up and looked over the edge and pointed down.  “That’s my Beemer, but I don’t have keys with me.” He added.  I gave him a questioning look.  “Long story, don’t ask.” He said and sat back down.  I noticed the increase in volume and intensity below when the creatures saw him.

“Any way to get inside from up here, a key for that maybe?” I asked, pointing to the roof door.  There were no handles on the outside and it was locked.  I could see he was thinking about it, but shook his head, no.  “Ok, then get comfortable, and try not to let them see you, seems to just piss them off.  We need a distraction to see if they’ll leave, then we can get in the truck and I could maybe drop you at home.” I told him and started to get up.  He grabbed my forearm and asked where I was going, genuinely looking nervous.  “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere yet, just checking things out.” I assured him, and headed to the front of the building.

Out front things hadn’t gotten any better.  There were more walking dead than before and they all seemed to be headed down the alleys on both sides of the store I sat atop.  None appeared to be trying to get into the building by the front door; content it seemed, to mob it up out back.  There were too many to try and get down and get into the building right now.  I had an idea and went back to Bart, who seemed to be relieved that I had really returned.

“I think we need to draw them away from the truck.  It will be noisy, but I’m going to shoot the lock off the door so we can get in.” I informed him.  “Once in there, can you rig up a stereo or something that we can bring up here?” I asked.  He got a devilish smile and gave me silent, thumbs up.

I walked over to the door after slipping the backpack on and tightening it down.  It wasn’t like the movies, it took 3 shots to smash the lock and I pulled out my Cold Steel SRK to pry the door open.  Some lights were still on and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.  We went down the stairs to the mezzanine level and had a look over the sales floor.  There was no one, and none of the things wandering around.  Bart said he wanted to check his office and grab some of his things and went left down the hallway.  I had just turned back from watching him open the door when something knocked me off my feet.

Instinctively, I brought the carbine up across my chest to block the attack.
One of the creatures was swinging wildly, trying her hardest to get hold of my neck.  Surprisingly, she was strong, much more than I would have thought.  I still had the pack on, and it wasn’t helping me get up, in fact, I was rolling back and forth over the chunky hump it made on my back, really screwing with my balance.  Managing to push her off me momentarily, I got to one knee and tried to bring the carbine’s muzzle up, but she was on me again, nearly clamping her foul mouth on my right forearm.  I butt-stroked her, hard, and she fell back but was up again and charging as fast as she could, when her head virtually exploded.

Bart had stepped up and mauled her with a healthy shot of his blue bat, scattering her brains on the hallway walls.  He grabbed my arm and helped me up, then pulled his hand back and looked at it.  Blood, or whatever sludge it turns into in a zombie was all over me, and now him too.  “I never liked her anyway, she was a snotty little bitch.” He said with a smile, referring to the former employee that must have been hiding in the bathroom.  I laughed and so did he and I thanked him for helping out.  

We made a quick search of the rest of the business, trying to stay away from the windows and doors.  Bart showed me to his office and private bathroom so I could clean up while he went off to conjure up a distraction device.  I did what I could, but would be carrying the smell of the nasty Z for days.  Most fortunately, I was not injured, but gave myself a liberal cleansing with some alcohol-based hand cleaner.

It was early afternoon before we were ready to move.  Bart showed up with several speakers and some wiring and a half dozen extension cords and we headed back up to the roof.  I wanted to get off the roof and out of the area before dark.  Bart went to the two front corners of the building and wired up the speakers, slowly lowering them half way down the side of the building, and then trailed some wires back to our position in back.  After hooking up the extension cords to power his system, he sat down. I was curious since I didn’t see a stereo or radio to make noise with and then he pulled a small Ipod out of his pocket.  He held it up and smiled.  “This, my new friend should be illegal.  I’m not sure if there are any laws against cruelty to zombies, but this will get them stirred up.” He said, confidently.

He turned on the Ipod and I heard the most awful wailing sounds coming from out front.  The speakers must have been top quality as they blared what I guessed to be perfectly clear noise.  And noise was the only word I could think of right then to describe it.  A series of bellowing, strange and hard to listen to ‘music’ carried over the street out front.  It sounded like someone was being stepped on and gutted at the same time, mixed with cat screeching and maybe some dog woofing.  I shook my head and knew then that I had really aged and knew nothing of the younger generation and its so-called music.  Bart saw my displeasure and finally stopped grinning long enough to explain, in his best beatnik speak, “Hey DaddyO, she’s from your generation not mine.”

“She?” I questioned.  “I thought someone was killing a cat.” I added.

Bart laughed heartily.  “It’s Yoko Ono, dude.  A whole album side of this, and I looped it to play continuous.  That’ll either draw them ‘round front or chase them away completely.” He said and laughed some more.   I wondered if I would live long enough to clear it out of my mind, or at least tolerate it long enough to get off this roof.

fast45,

Please don't feel that your efforts are all for nothing. I am truely enjoying this story and I am sure others are as well!! Keep up the good work and post updates as often as humanly unhumanly possible!!!

AKASL

LIVE FREE OR DIE

Good stuff. I like the different perspectives!

Glad its keeping some interest.  I have about 12 chapters typed but Im going through them for spell checks and such.  I will have another chapter up in the next day or so.
Thanks for the support.

Damn good story! You've got me hooked. I check for updates daily.
Thanks for sharing. Ray

Great Story, keep up the good work. thank you for the submission

This is really good stuff. I love the Chinese plastic tie in, very original.  Keep up the good work.

Chapter 6
Footrace Through No Mans Land


Bart’s little distraction worked.  It was obvious to me that human noise, no matter the source or the style, would draw these creatures like a magnet, and in great numbers.  I wondered if the city and federal governments had figured that much out yet, using the process to lure the things out of the population centers or into eradication zones.  It seemed a logical way to clamp down on the problem quickly.

We scurried down the fire escape to the truck, now dented and windowless along the entire passenger side.  Annie would not be pleased with the new look.  I was upset that I had again failed to make time to call her.  In all fairness, I had been a little busy.

The fence along the alley behind the businesses was packed with the undead, those trying to join up with others at Bart’s free concert.  They moaned and screeched at us, which I’m sure would draw attention from others on our side of the fence, if they were heard.  But for now, the ‘music’ up front was more enticing.  We loaded up as quickly as possible, after brushing some of the glass away.  I hope the weather held or we would need to find some plastic and duct tape for repairs.  The truck fired right up and I wasted now time clearing out of the area.  Once a block or so away from Electronic Express, few Z’s could be seen.

“Which way to your place?” I asked assuming Bart was ready to get home.

“Which way are you going?” he questioned back.  “There is nothing for me here, if you don’t mind the company.” He added, showing no emotion.  I told him I was headed to North Carolina and could drop him anywhere along the way.  Bart agreed to go along, saying this would be an adventure and a learning experience he never would have dreamed of.  You and me both, Pal.

My first concern was getting around Oklahoma City as soon as possible and Bart acted as navigator, knowing the area pretty well.  We cruised along at highway speeds and things were comfortable enough I decided to call Annie.

My dad answered and told me how things were going back home.  It sounded like they were doing well and I was pleased to hear it, taking much worry off my mind.  Annie got on the line, excitement in her voice.


His closest advisors, and people he considered his friends surrounded Chairman Dou Peng Xi.  This group knew all about his plans to punish the world for its treatment of his homeland.  They also knew his idea; to repopulate the earth with the real masters of the world was not going exactly as laid out.  China wasn’t supposed to be experiencing the death and wrath of the dead; it was supposed to use its massive numbers to take over.  Now so many, important people needed for regrowth, were dying along with the peasants. All the others with him knew he was crazy, several even conspiring, as dangerous as that was to do, against him.  He had to be stopped, and soon if they were to salvage the country, or enough of the world to make all this worth the price they had paid.

For all his accomplishments to this point, Peng Xi was paranoid.  His constant rants about the U.S. and others trying to remove him were simply overlooked anymore.  But today, he seemed especially agitated, bent on bringing the superpower to its knees.  For all the evil that the United States was supposed to represent, Peng Xi wanted the country badly.  Never imagining that his own country, with its vast resources and wealth of brainpower to work with could rival the U.S.  For some reason the others didn’t understand, Peng Xi felt the United States was blessed with every special resource needed to stand alone in the world if need be.  For that reason he wanted her, but only after the population was cleared.

Peng Xi ordered his generals to prepare a preemptive strike.  And order his propaganda people to guise the strike as reactive to U.S. spying or whatever they could come up with to stall the American response.


Annie and I had been talking for several minutes, a nice, normal conversation.  She was telling me what was on the news.

“The Chinese are calling for us to pull back or they are going nuclear, that nut-ball just threatened.” Annie told me excitedly.  Before I could get a word in she screamed and I could hear the emergency tone in the background noise.

“Oh my God, they launched!” she shrieked.  It was all too fast for me to react to and trying to do so over the phone wasn’t working.

“At who? Where?” I questioned.  “I thought all our troops were headed back home.” I added.  The TV reporter wasn’t putting out enough information and I heard Dad in the background yell for everyone to quiet down as he got the radio tuned in.  No one was talking to me, except Bart, who was only hearing one side of the conversation and was sure something bad was happening.  “HEY!” I yelled, snapping Annie back to the phone.

“Sorry.  The Chinese, Oh Verne, the bastards have supposedly launched several missiles of some type.  They said it was against our spy satellites.  Someone is tracking them and confirming they are shooting high altitude stuff.” She explained and seemed relieved.  Perhaps it was the newsperson saying that there was little danger of hits on cities.  And then everything went silent.

The phone cut off and so did the truck.  I struggled with the steering, no longer having the engine running the power steering pump.  Braking too was sluggish as I tried to steer toward the side of the highway.  Bart sensed the change in speed and direction and sat up straight and asked what was happening.  I was fighting with the truck, still rolling at 70 miles an hour but now with little input from me.  I slipped the transmission into neutral and tried to re-start the truck, with no luck, not even a click.  I noticed that none of the dash lights or gauges was working either.  “Dammit” I exclaimed.

“What happened?” Bart asked again.
“I think the Chinese just nuked us.  Some kind of high altitude detonation and the EMP knocked everything out.” I said.  Actually there had been several bursts, as I would find out later.  I managed to get over to the shoulder and threw the truck in park.

Bart knew electronics and said he was familiar with Electo-Magnetic Pulse and the after affects.  “We’re screwed as far as driving.” He said flatly.  That was something I was well aware of.  We sat there for several minutes, neither of us saying a word, me trying to think of what to do, Bart just looking out the windows.  He was apparently worried about the Zs making an early attack on us.  Frankly, I wasn’t even giving them a thought yet.

“Well, no sense putting it off any more.” I announced and started to gather my stuff.

“Put what off?  You aren’t going out there are you?” he asked, his voice wavering slightly.

“Yeah, I am.  It will be dark in a couple hours and I want to find a better place than this.” I explained and got out.  Slinging the pack and carbine first, I grabbed the bags of food and supplies and handed him some.  He took them but stood there.  I was ready to go and he looked like he wasn’t going to go along.  His choice I thought as I stopped at the hood of the Jeep and opened the atlas.  I ripped out the overall map of the United States and as many states as I could remember that would be inline with home.  The trouble now was that the maps weren’t detailed enough to navigate on foot by.  Besides that we were still only about 30 miles east of Oklahoma City, too close to get comfortable.

“You coming?” I asked, stuffing the map pages into my chest rig.  Waiting only a few moments before going back and taking half the bags from him.  He was shocked, but the realization that he was going to be alone and without food must have snapped him out of it.

“So, I’m just a pack mule?” he quipped and I saw the smile on his face as he grabbed the bags back from me, pushing the handles up to his shoulders.  Off we went, and I set a fairly quick pace, which he didn’t like but to his credit, didn’t whine about it, much.

We had gone perhaps a mile, cresting a small rise in the road and coming upon a handful of people standing around their disabled cars.  As we approached, a few jumped back in their vehicles, thinking we were zombies or some other threat.  When we got closer, a few, calmer minds greeted us and told us about the cars dying.  Bart jumped in and told them all about the Chinese nukes and the EMP.  Some were furious, spouting threats of revenge and generally wasting time and energy.  “Does any one know this area very well?” I asked, watching them take turns looking at each other, none uttering a word.

“Right.” I expressed, to no one in particular.  “We are heading east.  I suggest you grab whatever you can carry, but food, blankets and such first, if you have them.” I urged.  A few moved back to their cars and got to it.  I wasn’t looking to Shepard a bunch of sheeple, but everything being what it was, they looked helpless without some guidance.   It was a better fate than waiting here to be found and killed in the dark of night.

I made a quick demonstration on how to tie up a blanket roll for their things, using some clothesline an old guy offered up.  Some did as shown, a few just standing there, with uninterested looks on their faces.  Bart’s inquiry as to what they were doing was prompt for a few answers I didn’t expect.

“And who are you that we should be following you anywhere.  Heck, that guy has a gun, how do we know you aren’t just out to rob us?” said one of the crowd, a tall fella wearing a pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt, Bermuda shorts and sandals.  Another got the courage to throw in with him.

“The authorities will be along soon enough to pick us up, it’s their job.” She said.  She was about 50, with a large, salon-made hairdo, a pair of those skinny black framed glasses the kids are all wearing and a fashionable salmon colored skirt and jacket set.  I’m sure that her white, patent leather shoes cost more than I made in a week, and looked guaranteed to hurt her feet if she walked more than a block, whether she joined us or not.

“Your choice ma’am.” I said, and started up the road checking on some of the others.  I didn’t even look back to see how many were still standing there or getting back in their vehicles.  

Our little group of two was now ten.  One single dad and his twin 12 year old boys, two couples, one in their twenties the other their thirties and a grizzled old guy in his sixties.  The old guy bothered me the most, as his health didn’t appear to be that great, but I admired his courage to make a go of it instead of sitting down to wait for death.  His buzz cut hair reminded me of my dad somewhat.  He wore tattoos from his Navy days; which told me he wouldn’t be discipline problem.  The others were a mixed bag.

The twenties were scared the most, even though the male tried to put on a brave face and talk with lots of profanity.  I didn’t like it and didn’t think the kids needed to hear it either.  I got close to his ear and whispered for him to clean it up.  He wanted to protest; even opened his mouth, but I cut him off with a slow side-to-side motion of my head.  He got the hint.  The girl was a few feet away and strained to hear what I said and then sidled up to her man and wrapped her skinny, black-nail painted fingers around his arm.  He gave her a shush when she started to talk, then told her to get her stuff.

The thirties were packed and ready.  Both appeared to be outdoor types and were dressed appropriate for the walk.  Each had a small daypack, resplendent with all the yuppie bells and whistles.  I hoped some of it would come in handy up the road.  They looked the most eager to get underway.

Mr. Dad and the boys were the biggest problem.  The kids were full of energy, but the kind that made lots of noise at the wrong times.  They both showed a bit of attitude and dad didn’t seem to have the answer to it.  They also had nothing, no spare clothing, and no food and were dressed like they’d just come from the beach.  They were going to get cold quick at night and I feared they would be bitching about it the most, drawing attention to us.  He saw me eyeing them and seemed to sense my displeasure, then walked in between them and put a hand on each kid’s shoulder.  “We’ll be ok, Mr.” He said almost pleading forgiveness already.

There wasn’t time to survey what they decided to bring with them.  I only hoped they had chosen well.  I asked about weapons and Mr. 30 spoke up a bit sheepishly and said he had a Keltec .380, which garnered him a look of astonishment from his wife.  “My dad made me promise to take it when I told him we were driving home.” He said as an explanation.  If she, or any of the others had a problem with guns, they were likely to more interested real soon.

I pulled Bart aside and repacked our food, doubling up a plastic bag and freeing up two others that I handed to the others to carry their belongings.  I wasn’t feeling generous or close enough to the group yet to share our meager food supply however.  He was still looking under-dressed for our upcoming journey, but was too big to fit into any of the excess clothing the others were digging through.

By rough calculation, we had about 2 hours of light left and I wanted to put some distance between us and the city, and those that decided to stay and wait.  Without power to run cars, and radios and other instruments of noise, the Zs would fan out quickly.  That might buy the city dwellers some time, but more likely it would make our small group a more attractive target.  Miss salmon suit and the others would only slow down any pursuers for a short time.

Again I set a decent pace, scanning the sides of the road and lands beyond for any place that would offer a defensible shelter for the evening.  I figured I was weighted down with the most gear and if I could make it the others could too.  The old sailor was our weak link, I guessed, but he surprised me by keeping up, even walking along side me, talking.  Good, I thought to myself, one less thing to worry about.

I have driven the interstate highways for over three decades, sometimes felling bored by the long stretches, but walking it was by far worse.  From the ground, the terrain never seemed to vary underfoot and the view was so much the same.  We pushed on, not seeing much but for a few cars and trucks stranded here and there, the occupants I guessed somewhere ahead, walking too.

The maps from the atlas did us no good; we hadn’t walked far enough to find a point of reference.  Up ahead, maybe a quarter of a mile was the next overpass.  As we neared, a shot rang out and I hit the ground, Bart following quickly.  The others scattered to the ditch outside the roadway shoulder.  There was screaming behind me but I was focused on the bridge, trying to find the shooter.  

Our twenty year old male companion, T.J., stood on the road, I’m not sure why.  A second shot echoed and T.J. let out a holler and crumpled to the tarmac in pain, a bullet having caught his right thigh.  I saw the faint muzzle flash and popped two rounds in the general area it came from, then rolled to the median, finding some concealment in the knee high grass.  Amazingly, some one stood up and waved to us, I assume now believing we weren’t zombies because we could shoot.

Sailor man, Tony rushed over to T.J. and checked him over.  “There’s no exit wound, looks like a 22, he’ll live.” He announced.  He unbuckled the kid’s hemp rope belt, with a little protest and tore a sleeve off the kid’s shirt, drawing more profanity.  Tony tied off the patch of shirt with the rope on T.J.’s wound to stanch the blood that was starting to ooze.  He helped the kid to his feet and we gathered back together to approach the overpass.

On the bridge we found a family of four, lead by a sweaty, overweight man in his forties.  His wife and two younger children stood behind him in a tightly packed unit, while he stood guard with a scoped .22 rifle held at chest level.  “Sorry ‘bout that, we thought you might be some of those things.” He nervously blurted out.  His wife then noticed that T.J. was limping and bandaged.  She turned, yelled at her hubby for being so careless and playing with the gun.  I was thinking something more painful as reinforcement.  She rushed over to T.J. and helped Tony ease him to the ground.

It was too close to dark to stand out and debate gun safety or anything else.  I considered the situation; hiding up under the bridge might not be such a bad place.  The steep incline would certainly give the dead a hard obstacle to negotiate from below and the guard railing and fences would do the same from above.  I ushered everyone up under the bridge, reminding him or her on the impending darkness, and told them to get comfortable.

I spoke with our shooter and told him we didn’t need any more mishaps, as it would only signal unwanted guests.  I told him to make safe the rifle and get his family under shelter and bedded down, with emphasis on being quiet.
He didn’t argue, which was good since I was still tempted to knock him out.  His shots could as easily have struck one of the younger kids or me.

Since there were now more than a dozen of us, we wouldn’t all fit under one of the abutments.  Bart, Tony, the thirties couple and I crossed the road and went up under the opposite side.  I felt much more comfortable with this group, leaving the noisy section a hundred and fifty feet away.  On the down side, there was no one that showed any sort of control over them.  They would be noisy and I didn’t like our chances of not being discovered.

The thirties unpacked, pulling out some high-dollar Gore-tex rain suits, fingerless wool gloves and some gorp trail mix.  Bravo, I thought.  They had their own water, each of their packs similar to my Camelbak, just in gaudy, trendy colors.  Their munching signaled my stomach, and Bart’s too, forcing us to break out our own dinners.  Tony had nothing, but a surprise flack of bourbon.  I nodded to Bart, as he seemed to be looking for authorization to share our food with him.  Even though we had just met Tony, everyone liked him and I felt he was a decent guy.  Bart gave him a handful of crackers and a can of cheese spread.  Tony thanked him, but greedily grabbed the food without protest.  He must have been hungry, I knew, I was.

We all finished quickly and packed up afterwards in case we had to leave in a hurry, then sat back for a little whispered conversation and relaxation.  We talked about having someone up on rotation, to keep watch, but agreed that it would be so dark soon, it was pointless.  As the darkness set in, I could already hear the group on the other side.

The rest of us bundled up as best we could.  I lent Bart my poncho liner; Tony had his surplus wool blanket, while the thirties and I had the Gore-tex.  It shouldn’t get that cool, but it always got coldest around 2:00 a.m., I think its some sort of internal thermometer or something.

About 4:00 a.m. the birds started chirping and preparing for the morning hunt for worms and bugs.  I opened my eyes but couldn’t see much yet, the sun still a couple hours from beginning its rise.  I closed back up even though I could hear some shuffling on the other side of the road.  There was no talking and I was satisfied they were fine for a while longer.  Actually, aside from some occasional snoring they were doing well.

The nudge on my shoulder stirred me an hour and a half later.  I opened one eye, enough to see Bart facing me, finger over his lips, showing me to be quiet.  I opened both eyes and saw the others were awake now too in the predawn half-light.  Bart slowly turned his head to the left and pointed his finger in the same direction, across the road.  I figured the other group was bugging out on us or doing something stupid.  But I was astonished to see the road below was packed with zombies.  All had their backs to us.

Unknown to us, the horde of decaying dead had been amassing all night, in the darkness, coming to a stop, I guessed, from the snoring.  They must have heard it but been confused by it, not knowing what it was and waiting for daylight to find out.  There had to be a hundred or more, attention of them all focused up under the bridge.  This was not going to be good when one of the group awakened and showed any sign of human movement or noise.  We had no way to signal them and not nearly enough ammunition to stop the dead once they started their attack.

I didn’t have any answers or solutions that were coming quickly to me.  I thought about gathering our smaller group and making a scramble up to the road above.  Perhaps our movements would draw the rotting, walking corpses away from the kids.  The problem being, we couldn’t see if there were more above us on the road, waiting in the twilight.  And secondly, any commotion was likely to wake the kids and they in turn would panic, causing enough noise to ruin the escape plan.

I pointed up, slowly, indicating we should leave.  They all nodded affirmations to that idea.  Plan was a bit of an overstatement, this was just survival, fear of getting caught, and running from danger.  We loaded up as quickly as possible and took off.  The sun was just lighting the eastern horizon in an orange-pink glow as we scrambled and clawed our way up to the fence.  We must have made enough racket to alert the mob, as there was an angry outburst of growls, moaning and screeching, it sounded like they were right behind me.  I pushed Bart over the fence and tossed him the carbine.  Tony was next and lumbered over the fence, straight past Bart, making for the guardrail.  I thought for a second that he was running off but then stopped and waited for the girl.  She had introduced herself last night as, Tiffany.

Tony extended his hand to her, holding on to the guardrail with the other, pulling Tiffany up to the road.  Screams broke out, as someone on the other side must have awakened to see the throng of undead, dead facing them, cluttering the entire road.  I pushed Andy, Tiffany’s husband over the fence and followed him.  Bart handed me the carbine and we waited for a moment, not sure which way to go.  It was still dark enough that you could only see a few feet and I didn’t want to run smack into another huddle of Zs up here too.  I felt awful, hearing the chorus of screams and shouting under the road, certain the others with me felt the same.  We were helpless to do much without losing ourselves to the flesh eaters too.  I chanced a look with the flashlight and saw the road ahead was clear, in both directions.

“Come on!” I urged, running across the bridge to the other side of the interstate.  The light couldn’t hurt us now and I used it so we could run faster.  Looking over the concrete siding, I saw the mob below was stranded there, but some starting to claw their way up the hillside after the kids.  I couldn’t see what was happening under the bridge though, but guessed from the screams it was getting worse.  I didn’t know if some of them had fallen victim to the hungry horde or just panicking.

Bart and Andy jumped the guardrail and started shouting as they crossed the fence, calling for the others to come to their voices, only receiving more screams in reply.  I saw Bart start to duck under the bridge then quickly jump back and grab the fence to keep from falling down the hill.  He turned and yelled.  It was getting light enough to see now and I could see the dead had made it to the abutment.  “RUN!” Bart screamed, as he jumped the fence and guardrail in two quick leaps, then tripped and skidded onto the roadway.  “Too late.” Was all he said, and all he had to say.  We ran.

There was nothing to see, and I was not even sure where we were headed, or how far we had gone.  It was probably unnecessary really; those things could not catch us, at least not right away.  But they had persistence and a seemingly inexhaustible energy, so eventually they might.  I felt safer with distance between us anyway, having some time to plan our next move, but what it was, I still didn’t know.

We stopped at an intersection and rested.  Tony was having a hard time, heck, so were we all for that matter.  I know I was getting sore and chafed from my equipment digging into my skin.  But Tony didn’t look good; he was pale, and breathing heavily.  He blew off any concerns when I asked how he was doing.  Feeling it was better to let him rest than argue about it further, I dropped the subject.

With only some useless street name signs as guidance, we chose to make a left turn, thinking it would bring us back on a parallel course with the interstate and keeping us headed east, generally everyone’s desired direction.  We needed water most of all, it was hot and dry and we had all shared what we had, going through quite a bit of our supply from the exertion and the heat.

No one talked about what had happened.  Bart being especially sullen.  I can only see in my mind's eye what he had seen.  Life in general was really beginning to suck.  I was getting irritable, depressed and frustrated.  If the last week was any indication of the future, I doubted I would ever get home, breaking a promise to Annie.  Time was just dragging on, I wasn’t even sure what day it was and knew only that I had been on the run for a week and only covered a couple hundred miles.  At this pace, my luck holding, it would take months to get home.

We took a break at noon, the sun was high overhead and hot.  We found an old farmhouse, sitting 200 yards off the road with only an even older barn beside it to suggest this had ever been a farm.  Cautiously, we checked the barn first, its higher upper floor a better position to retreat to if the house turned out to be occupied.  It was clear and we went to the house.
Inside among the clutter, we found signs that one or more of the former occupants had played out their last moments in a ferocious fight.  Blood was splattered throughout the entire kitchen, with several sets of dried footprints leading to other rooms.  We braced ourselves for a fight but couldn’t find anyone else present alive or dead alive.  The former owners appeared to have been elderly judging from the clothing hung on door and chair backs and the general décor.  Aside from some food labels, nothing here suggested much had changed in this place for decades.  That also told me there was likely to be a food pantry or some shelves somewhere, stocked with canned and jarred foods, these kinds of people living a simple, self-sufficient life.  Bart and Tony went to check the basement, Tiffany and Andy the upstairs and I searched the main floor.

Andy came down first, shaking his head.  I knew they had discovered someone up there.  He told me of an old woman, alone in her bed with a gunshot wound in the forehead.  Her husband had shown her mercy that apparently wasn’t extended to him in the kitchen.  He had saved her from enduring the assault of the dead.  Tiffany came down with some blankets, taken from another room.

Bart and Tony reappeared with a half dozen glass jars apiece.  Most were filled with beans or tomatoes, not much of a meal.  Tony said he could whip something together, but wasn’t keen on trying to do so in the conditions the kitchen was in.  I agreed and so did the others.  We went through the cupboards and found some pasta, a few cans of mixed vegetables, dry cereal and some instant coffee.  Tony grabbed a stew pot and tossed everything in to make it easier to carry.

None of us felt good about spending a night in the house with the dead woman and the mess in the kitchen.  We went outside and found a hand pump and ran it to fill our water containers and drink to our content.  We retired to the barn, after checking it out again for lurking zombies.

It was bright daylight outside, so Tony got a fire going to cook our lunch.  The flame shouldn’t be visible to give away our position.  He only had one pot, and so he tossed everything together to make a goulash.  The end result, an hour later was actually tasty and we promoted Tony as head chef.  The concoction wasn’t pretty, but hearty and filling.  We finished it all and I realized it was the first hot meal I’d had in more than a week.

We talked and tried to figure out where we were, based on everyone’s recollections and bearings.  We talked and relaxed, agreeing it was a nice place, with good visibility for long distances.  Tony, Tiffany and Andy wanted to stay the night, still more than 6 hours away.  I didn’t want to get caught, like at the bridge, but in this case surrounded with no avenues of escape.  Bart agreed with me that putting some more miles on seemed a better idea.

I finally went downstairs for a walk to cool off, since the discussion was turning into an argument, and because I needed to think.  I had a bond with these other survivors now, but wasn’t going to get bogged down.  I owed them nothing more than they owed me and I wasn’t going to force them to change their minds.  In the barn below, it appears that there once was a productive horse operation, with several old saddles, and dozens of leather bridles and harnesses.  Partially sticking out from behind some straw bales was a bicycle tire.  I dropped my pack and chest rig, keeping the carbine slung over my back while I dug into the bales.  I couldn’t believe I’d been so dumb.

A bike would allow me to put on more miles in an hour than I could all day   by walking.  I threw bales out of the way, fighting frantically to free up the bike.  Maybe, I hoped, there was one more for Bart.  It took a few minutes of hard work before I reached the first rim, pulling on it, and was disappointed to find it wasn’t attached to anything, not even close to a complete bike.  It wasn’t a bike at all; I was devastated and tossed the wheel back against the wall.

Bart was just coming down the mow ladder and asked what the problem was.  I sat down on a bale, dejected, and told him.  He walked over to the wheel and picked it up, setting it in the open.  Then he dug behind the bales some more, me telling him it was useless, that there wasn’t enough parts for a bike.  He seemed not to be listening and kept pulling pipes and other pieces of metal out, finally finding another wheel and tire.  It all looked like a pile of junk to me, a heap of scrap metal.  And I watched as he laid the parts out and then rearranged them a few times until he had laid out some sort of cart.  “I think they used it to move these bales or bags of feed around.” He announced.  I was interested and joined him.

“Buddy, you’re a genius.” I said, slapping him on the back.

“I know.” Was his grinning reply.  He had managed, with very little help from me, to build the basis of a simple cart.  I’m sure some parts were missing, but it was a cart, two bike tires, separated about two feet, with two handles protruding from one end.  This was great; we had away now to move more supplies, providing we could inflate both tires.  Bart searched the small shop area, in and under cabinets and in drawers and found a single can of stop leak type inflator.  There was enough to get both tires about half full but that was good enough to start with.  I found some chicken wire mesh to fashion a floor and basket, some rope to lash things down and a small plastic tarp to cover it all.

The straight handles, I’m sure, were designed more for short hauls and easy dumping.  I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to pull the contraption with them, but I vowed to make it work.  This was going to greatly enhance our capabilities and survival.

We both scrounged around for containers we could fill with water and seal.  I told Bart to look for a coat of some kind in case the weather changed, which I expected it soon would as fall set in.  When we were loaded and ready, I called up to the others and announced we were leaving, asking if they were joining us.  All three stood in the opening at the top of the ladder and shook their heads, no.  After some best wishes, we bid them goodbye and good luck and set off.

The cart pulled and rolled easy enough, if only a little short to be able to get a full stride without it catching my heels.  I decided to try pushing the cart, the way it was designed, and found that way much more comfortable and efficient.  We took turn and made good time and distance.

We trudged on until dark, looking for a place to stop.  Another farm up ahead looked like the place, but when we arrived, we found there were no buildings.  Only a group of assorted silos and grain bins, many connected with a maze of chutes, tubes and cables.  In the center, a tall support tower jutted straight up with a small platform about 40 feet off the ground.  It was too small for us to even sit on.  I started checking the bin doors and found most were locked, too full of grain to open.

We didn’t have a secure place and hadn’t seen any Zs in hours.  However, I didn’t want to fool ourselves, and get complacent, thinking we could camp out of the ground.  Dusk was becoming the darkest part of the day, in more ways than one.  We had no choice tonight though and decided to split a 50/50 watch, so we could each get some rest.  Since things were calm now, I bunked down first, so I could be awake later if some shooting needed to be done.

Knowing what happens in the night did not allow deep sleep to come and I constantly checked the area, even though there was little to see once the sun was down.  The night was overcast and the half moon gave off only enough light, between passing clouds, to cast eerie shadows everywhere.  It was quiet, only an occasional mouse or other night creature scurrying around in search of food.  The noise they made was just enough to keep me awake, thinking it might be the walking dead sneaking around.

I must have finally dozed off, only to awake to the sound of raindrops smacking against the plastic tarp.  Bart must have somehow unfolded it and draped me with it, without me hearing it.  That was not a comforting thought, and I considered our condition, lacking proper diet and rest, were we getting weak?  The moon was gone completely now, replaced with dark rain clouds, that for now only spit a few drops.  The wind had picked up considerably, flapping the tarp and making quite a din, to me at least.

I moved slightly to check the time, cupping my hand over the watch face and hit the button, illuminating the watch for a fraction of a second and heard a deep growl at the same time, somewhere in front of me.  I didn’t even see the time as I snapped my eyes up to the sound.  Somewhere out in front, was a Z or some animal mimicking their sound.  The animal would run if I reacted, the Z would attack.  I slowly patted my left hand along side of me, searching for Bart, in case he had fallen asleep.  He wasn’t there.  A sense of sorrow and dread engulfed me quickly, thinking he had wandered off in the dark or was already dead and the Z in front of me devouring him.  I reached for the carbine, gripping it tightly, just about to rotate the selector lever off safe when I heard a whisper.  “Don’t” came from behind me.  What a relief, Bart was still here.

“There’s only one and he doesn’t know where we are, the tarp is confusing him, I think.” Bart softly said, cupping a hand over my ear.  I nodded slowly so he could feel that I understood.  This was a new dilemma, but one I could handle.  A single, stinking Z would be easy enough to take down, but it had to be quiet.  I hoped Bart was correct on the number facing us.  I had a plan.

I grabbed Bart's hand, guided it to the corner of the tarp slowly, pinching his fingers over it so he knew to hold on.  Slowly, I inched my way to a standing position, keeping the tarp in front of us as an opaque shield.  I could just make out the rotting intruder’s silhouette against one of the silver colored grain bins, feeling he was staring right in our direction.  I took a step forward and so did Bart, the Z held his ground, whether confused or unable to distinguish what it was seeing.  We moved closer, until we were about a yard away and then I charged forward, wrapping the would-be killer in the tarp.  He went down easily and Bart went to work on the thrashing lump with his bat.  It was over in a few moments and we both sighed in relief.  I just hoped there weren’t more approaching in the darkness.

The rest of the night went quietly, except for the sporadic downpours.  Morning came and I had to wake Bart, shaking him hard to get a rise, the after affects of the adrenaline filled incident.  The blue tarp lay in a contorted pile, corners flapping in the early breeze.  Neither of us was inquisitive enough to check out the results of our nightly handiwork.  We ate a quick snack and packed up, getting away to an early start.


The next few weeks were much the same routine, walking as much as possible by day, sleeping intermittently at night, when and where we safely could.  The encounters with the dead were becoming more frequent, and those with the living, much less so.  We didn’t try to make contacts too many times, having learned the dangers and consequences and feeling the despair of losing living people.

We were both losing weight and getting lean.  Our diets had been like everything else these days, available only when and where safe enough to enjoy them.  We had become fairly adept at foraging.  Our route took us through many smaller towns, groupings of houses pretending to be villages and rural farm properties, seldom with much left to take.  The former residents either packed up on their escape or there were many others like us, picking through the leftovers as they traveled in front of us, unseen.  As much as I looked, I couldn’t find us suitable bikes to ride.  Again, I envisioned those others out there, grabbing up the good ones before we got there.  There were loads of little kids bicycles and we tried them, finding they only created comic relief, not reliable transportation.

While Bart kept trying, I had all but given up on finding a running vehicle.  We had seen evidence they still existed, even hearing them boldly traveling at night.  Bart figured there had to be some that were old enough to not have been affected by the EMP bursts.  But after spending too many hours lugging batteries and parts around to try, all without success, I quit the effort.  My young partner however, was undaunted, and I applaud his determination.

We were starting to see more and more license plates from Arkansas, a sign we must be close to the border or already over it.  Progress was slower than I liked, yet fast as circumstances allowed.  I couldn’t help thinking about home, daydreaming as we walked the long, empty, featureless terrain.  Bart sensed this I think and made conversation often, whether to keep me preoccupied or himself entertained.

I learned a lot about this young fellow and he was learning a lifetime worth of hardship at such a young age, for such an innocent person.  I pitied him for not being able to enjoy his youth.  He left home at 17, on a scholarship for engineering, after graduating early from high school.  In college, he said he had grown quickly disillusioned by the party atmosphere and the lack of commitment by both students and faculty.  He told me that if he could have tested out early, he would have, to save the wasted money and time and just to get it over with and move on.

He spoke of his dreams of success and his desire to go as far as he could so as not to end up toiling his whole life on a share crop farm.  His family was poor, not able to own the land they worked or the house they lived in his entire life.  Electronic Express was only a stepping stone, he said, a means to obtain the cash and status he wanted and needed to help his parents and siblings out of poverty.  Exceptional qualities from an exceptional young man.

We talked much about family and roots and survival.  Neither of us having many answers to the latter problem.  Day to day it was all encompassing and yet becoming routine.  That, I knew, was dangerous.  So far though, we worked well together with little disagreement.

double post

Great story ya got here.  
Chinese tie in

Outstanding!
You are the master!
Please keep it coming!

braaaaaaiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnsssssssssssss

Fast45

What else have you written?  I'm enjoying the story, thank you.

I have a 3 part epic that got out of hand when I was writing it.  The first volume went over 550 pages.  It was mostly a cathartic effort for a bad relationship.  I can't imagine trying to put all that on here.  I hope everyone is enjoying this current effort, my first attempt at zombies.  My other stuff has all been apocalyptic/survival stuff.

Chapter 7
Layover in Paradise.

We had managed, through our wandering course, to get back to Interstate 40.  It had been peaceful and mostly uneventful along the back roads and I wondered if the big road was going to be a problem again.  Our next stop, the sign said, was a place called Paradise Springs, still 25 miles from the Arkansas border, meaning we hadn’t gone as far as we had thought.  That also meant we were closer to Ft. Smith, our first major population center since our scramble out of Oklahoma City.  This time though, we didn’t have the luxury or security of a vehicle.

But first we had to get over the border, going through or around Paradise Springs on the way.  I hoped the name was a good sign.  The number of cars and bodies along the road was increasing, as we got closer to the border.  I supposed that thousands had taken flight out of Ft. Smith, going west, or just going anywhere but there.  We would see this pattern over and over around the cities.  I don’t think many of these people even had an escape plan, other than to just drive fast away from the immediate danger, not knowing they were just running towards it somewhere else.

Paradise Springs seemed to be, at least from the outside, as advertised.  We came in to town on the main street and I noticed right away that things were orderly and clean.  Someone was taking the time and making the effort to keep life as normal as possible.  Cars had been pushed to the curbs and straightened along it making the road easy to negotiate; giving the appearance the citizens had parked them like that.  I thought at first it was an odd bit of concern given everything that had happened, was happening in their lives.  Putting on such an inviting look would certainly encourage passersby to settle here or at least stay on longer.  Maybe, it was the design after all, to replace those souls they had lost in the area.

We were greeted, a few blocks later, by a trio of old trucks, loaded with armed men.  “Stop where you are and put your hands in the air!” someone from the trucks commanded, the others all pointing guns in our direction.  We complied and were ordered to drop all our gear and step forward.  There was no reason to convince ourselves we had any other choice than to do as we were told.

Once we were stripped down to our stocking feet and only shirts and pants, a couple men approached still protected by the rest of the group.  “All clear.” One of the two called out, after doing a hands-on search.  Our gear was unceremoniously piled into our cart, which was in turn tossed roughly into the back of one of the trucks.  We weren’t tied or cuffed, it wasn’t necessary, Bart and I were going with them, one way or the other.  Ushered into the bed of one of the trucks, the whole party turned around and headed in towards town center, no one offering an explanation.

We pulled up in front of the city hall slash police department.  I wasn’t excited about getting locked up, for any length of time.  We, along with escort, but minus our cart and supplies, went inside.  Several uniformed officers met us in the hallway, guiding us to the police side of the building.  “Relax, you aren’t under arrest.” A sergeant said, breaking the silent treatment.  “Yet” he added in a warning tone.  “Any I.D.?” he inquired.  Bart, had none, I handed over my wallet.

The sergeant open it and exclaimed, “well, a deputy sheriff.  Welcome to Paradise Springs.”  He waved us to have a seat in a row of chairs along the wall.  “What brings you through our quiet little town?” he asked with a semi-realistic smile.

“Just passing through.” I answered, using the old cliché.

“As you can tell, that’s a bit of a problem right now” then continued after seeing my eyebrow rise.  “Ft. Smith is overflowing with these walking dead.  A lot of them have wandered our way, creating a constant security problem.  The government there established a quarantine zone, nothing allowed in or out, at this time.” He explained.  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that asinine proposal and had to speak up.

“Whose idea was it to stop healthy, living people from getting out, getting out of the way of the infected ones?  Doesn’t make any sense to force them to look at death either way as a means of solving the problem.  Sounds like a prescription for a riot.” I said and sat back.

“Not mine.  And we do what we can with any refugees that get this far.” He replied with genuine compassion in his voice.  “But, we need to be careful too, it only takes one person to cause a chain reaction outbreak of death, both directly and later.  It’s a tough day when you have to put down someone you know because some outsider turns into one of those things and bites them or rips a limb off.  That’s why we hold you, at least 8 hours, when you first get here, waiting for a change.  If you turn, even get a fever or start acting up, we won’t be having another chat.  It might sound harsh but we can’t take the chance.” He told us flatly, and his tone left no doubt he meant it.  He was finished, not leaving us an opportunity to comment, as two of his officers lead us off to the holding area.

“What about our stuff.” I called back over my shoulder.  

“It’ll be safe.” One of the officers said, putting us in a cell and closing the door.  

It would do no good to get angry or start any trouble, and I could see Bart was seething.  “Calm down. Let’s play it out.” I advised, taking a seat on one of the wall-mounted benches.  “Besides, look here, we have a bed with a mattress.” I smiled and got comfortable.  Might as well make up for some much needed, proper rest.  I saw Bart’s shoulder droop, a sign he had relaxed, and he took up the other bunk.

At least 8 hours, as the sergeant had said, turned into more than 12.  We could hear a steady chorus of gunfire, muffled by the think cement block walls and bullet resistant windows.  The shooting seemed to come and go in volleys but at irregular intervals.  We couldn’t see anything out of the window as night came; I guess the glass was coated for this security feature.


The metallic clanking of the outer door signaled that someone was finally coming to get us, I hoped.  Either that or someone else was about to join us in observation.  This time a female officer approached, looked us over I assume to be sure we weren’t zombies and then unlocked the cell.  “Glad to see you made it.” She said, now with a friendly smile; which seemed to teleport Bart over to the door.  “Save me from a mess to clean up” she added.

“Can we go now?” Bart asked, doing little to show her his intelligence, since she had just opened the door.

“If you wish to.” She replied, swinging the door all the way open.  “You can clean up in the showers if you want, but try to keep them short, the water isn’t heated.  Your belongings will be that door,” she continued, pointing to a door at the end of the row of cells.  Someone will be along to explain your options.” She finished and turned, walking back out to the lobby.

A shower after some sleep in a mattressed bed sounded ideal and we took advantage of it.  She was right about the water, it wasn’t heated, but it wasn’t freezing either, not a bad deal after more than a week in my own funk, only baby wipes and stream water to clean with.  I shook out my dusty clothes and redressed then went out into a sally port, a large multi-door garage, and found our cart and all our things, weapons included, just as we had last seen them.  An officer, Buckson, a young looking kid wearing a police reserve uniform, approached us, appearing anxious to do his job.

“The Chief said you can keep your weapons since you are a law enforcement officer.  He only requests that you maintain safe handling practices within the city limits.  The city is functioning as well as it can under the current power system problems.  Most businesses get a few hours of electricity per day from the generators, so if you want to shop, make sure you check the times.  Businesses will do trades, barters or offer to purchase things you have.  If you cannot make accommodations that way, you can return here each day before 3:00 p.m. to sign up for the next day’s city work.” He told us in a small speech I’m sure he proudly wrote, himself.

“What kind of city work?” Bart and I asked almost in unison.  Officer Buckson explained that there was an ongoing problem with the zombies approaching the city that needed to be culled and cleaned up.  For each day worked, you earned meals for that day, and some additional canned or packaged food items you could collect and elect to eat, trade or barter with or sell.  Jobs included eradication patrols, sanitation/disposal (removal of corpses) and other activities around town like trash pickup, sentry and maintenance, dependant on your skills.

We talked it over and agreed to stay on for a few days, since we were nearly out of food anyway and this place seemed relatively safe.  Housing would be provided, but conditions were not guaranteed, ranging from a cot in a spartan warehouse to an abandoned family home.  We needed information on the Q-zone and travel areas east of here anyway, as well as the food, so working a few days seemed the best way to accomplish our goals.
We were quartered that first night in a sort of transient barracks, this one a rental storage building with bunk beds and a single overhead light bulb, two chairs and a small table.  Bart took the upper bunk and I dumped my gear on the lower.  He wanted to check out the town, until I reminded him it was almost 8:00 o’ clock, which meant there wouldn’t be much open.  A small handwritten sign above the table advised it was lights out at 10:00 p.m.

My first order of business was my weapons and equipment.  It had been a few days since I’d felt I had enough safe time to tear them down for a good cleaning.  I stripped the carbine down, laying the pieces out as I cleaned each one.  Bart watched, his engineering curiosity kicking in, and he asked to see how the parts fit together.  Next, was the pistol and magazines, each unloaded, disassembled, cleaned and oiled, then put back together.  Lastly, I tore the chest rig and pack apart, emptying all the pockets and dumping out dirt and debris.  I cleaned them as best I could then reassembled and packed everything back together again.  “Bet it feels good to take that stuff off for a while” Bart commented, watching me adjust all the straps and pouch covers.

“I feel a little thin and naked without it.” I responded, then, hung everything from the end of the bunk.  “It’s sort of my link to the ways things were before.  Can’t imagine what it would be like without it now.” I added.  

“Maybe I should get some stuff like that too, seems to come in handy, having everything at your reach.” He suggested.

“We can look around, see what we can come up with.” I offered, and then lay down.  The doors on some of the other bays were shutting, but I didn’t like the idea of being closed in and unable to see or hear what was going on.  Bart agreed and we slept with the door up.


There was no reveille or wake up call in the morning, just the noises of the city coming to life and people starting to move about.  We got dressed and made our way back to the city hall, where a small crowd had gathered in front.  I remembered my younger days, doing much the same for a summer job, waiting to see what was offered and what I wanted to try my hand at.

A clerk came out and started to rattle off a short list of available positions and people broke away from the group and joined foreman or other workers.  Bart opted to try a maintenance position and wandered off after promising to meet back up at dinnertime.  I waited until the end of the list, deciding on a spot with the eradication crew, thinking I’d be picking up and dumping the dead on pyres at the city landfill.

I was told to go with a fellow named, Eric and was ushered to an older, dark blue, Chevy van, along with three other men.  Eric showed up a couple minutes later with six or seven rifle cases slung over both shoulders.  Another man carried two military ammo cans, full I guessed, by his discomfort.  Eric and his helper unburdened themselves at the back of the van and came around to greet us.  “Mornin’ guys, I’m Eric, this is Jay.  We’ll get you down to the fence and introduce you to the others.  Grab a seat.”  We piled into the van and were off.  It seemed strange to being in a moving vehicle again.

About a mile east of the city limits we came to a make shift wall.  It was constructed from hundreds of the disabled vehicles left over from the Chinese EMP strikes, and spanned north and south for hundreds of yards.  Two and three rows wide and as many high, it made a solid, formidable barrier against pedestrian and vehicle penetration.  A series of flat, hay wagons, interspersed with a few freestanding deer stands made up the shooting platforms and watchtowers.  It all looked imposing, but I felt it wasn’t a serious barrier since the ends were open and not that much of a walk to the center gate that was built across the road.

Eric went into tour guide mode and explained the operation.  “We will be doubling you new guys up with some shooters that have been here awhile and they will fill you in on the peculiarities at each position.  We have a pretty good selection of weapons, and I brought a few more with me today, and ammunition is plentiful so don’t be conservative.  The idea here is eradication of threats and the protection of the city.  We’ve found that the dead will use the road, they’ve either figured out its easier or they just follow the sounds.  I’m not concerned with how they navigate, just that they pose the most constant threat right out here.” He said, waving his arm toward the wall and pointing beyond to the road.

We would prefer to knock them down as far out as possible, so use the range markers and windsocks.” Again he pointed.  “Out to 1000 yards, is marked, but this isn’t a competition, but we would like to see a good effort from everyone.  Wounding these bastards won’t do any good as I’m certain everyone has figured out by now, so headshots only, if you would, please.” He said, seriously with no smile.

“If you see them massing, call it out and we’ll get some support down to you.  Likewise, if you see larger groups making for the ends of the barriers, let me know right away.  There will be roving patrols, both on foot and in vehicles if we have them at the time, so be sure of your targets.  Our guys will all have on some blaze orange to help you ID them.” He said and then paused.  “Any questions so far?” Eric asked.  There were none, but I wondered what happened to the bodies.

“The building behind me is Central Control or just CC, they will have food and water, weapons and ammunition and some maps of the layout.  Once you are teamed up, it’s for the whole day and you can change the next day if there are personality conflicts or the need to hear someone else’s stories.” Eric advised, drawing a few chuckles.  “You stick together, always.  You can take breaks as you need them but one of you is watching, always.  Got it?” he asked, and everyone nodded.

“O.K. then.  Gene, here will break you down and make assignments. Good Luck.  Gene?”

I was partnered up with an older guy, about 60, named, Rusty.  Rusty was a former Marine and was squared away and seemed to still be in pretty good shape.  He took me into the CC and showed me around.  We quickly gravitated to the table filled with rifles.  I found a Remington Sendaro in .30-06.  7.62 by 51 was my favorite caliber for a bolt gun, but this rifle looked like it was well maintained and came with a decent Leupold scope on a solid set of rings.  Someone had built a nice set up.  Rusty nodded his approval.  His personal rig was a similar set-up but in .300 Winchester Magnum.

We were told we would have the fourth position to the north side of the road.  There was only one place to our left before the wall ran out.   “Well, let’s start out by seeing if you can hit anything.” Rusty stated.  “Hang that little mouse gun up.” He chided, referring to the carbine.  I did as asked and then picked up the Sendaro and opened the bolt, taking a better look inside and down the barrel for any obstructions.  Rusty had piled a couple of sandbags on the hood of the car we were shooting over, and so I laid the rifle down onto them and got in a good shooting position.  I could see right away the scope wasn’t set for my eye relief and mentioned it.  Rusty opened up a small tool roll and found an Allen wrench and loosened the fittings and we got it set and re-secured.  

When it felt right, I slipped a round in the chamber and looked for a target.  Rusty called one out, nearly 800 yards away.  It was once a middle-aged man, in a dark blue suit.  I dialed the scope magnification up and slowly took up slack on the trigger until it broke free, letting go a 180-grain soft point round.  It struck the target but was more than a foot low.  “Come up 6 clicks and breathe this time.” Rusty advised.  The businessman was still coming; no sign that I’d even staggered him.  The second round hit, this time catching him in the jaw, tearing the lower half of his face off.  He stumbled and spun around, then oriented himself again and continued toward us.  “Come up one more click and left one, if you think that you did your part right.” Rusty said.  I nodded and loaded again.  The third shot was right on target and Rusty let out a hoot as the businessman nose-dived into the dirt.

“Nice shooting, Verne.” Rusty congratulated.  “Now let me try.” He said and readied his 300.  The 300 was in a different class when it came to power at these longer ranges.  It would shoot flatter and still have more energy out at 600 yards than my ‘06 would at half the distance.  He loaded up 2 rounds and settled in behind the scope.  I was spotting with a pair of binoculars and found a pair of targets coming at an angle through a patch of trees at about 550 yards, an easy shot for the 300.  And Rusty made it look easy too, dropping each of the rotting, walking zombies with a round apiece.

And so went the remainder of my first day on the wall.  Between us, we had downed 23 wandering zombies and got better acquainted as we talked about the services, the guns and the loved ones we were away from.  Rusty had been here for 6 weeks, he said, trying to gather enough supplies to make a try for home in southern Minnesota.  He told me how the rationing worked and that it seemed like there never was quite enough extra to bargain for all the stuff he needed.  He was frustrated; thinking that it was set that way so that people the town needed would have to stick around.  Those that weren’t as required usually moved on soon enough since they were expecting an easier life in town.

At the end of the shift we reported back to the CC to store our weapons and receive our pay, a chit, to be used as payment towards goods anywhere in town.  We also got a ticket stub for a dinner at the elementary school.  As I signed for my pay chits, I was asked if I’d be staying on, in which case my rifle would be set aside, if I wanted.  I agreed to go at it for a couple more days.

I met up with Bart at dinner and he was excited to tell me all he had done.  He told me about rewiring some of the generator lines for better efficiency and detailed a power plan to build a telephone system of sort, using some microphones and speakers from the school buildings.  He was some sort of celebrity, as we ate, people were stopping by to thank him.  There was talk of moving us to more comfortable quarters, with real furniture, but we ended up back in the storage room.

A couple of the new guys quit early in the morning the next day.  One guy, had been complaining about the morality of killing these Zs for what he considered, sport.  He was worried that we were killing people that would be saved when an antidote or cure was developed.  I remembered thinking along those lines a few times myself, and heard others voice similar concerns.  I guess for me though, there was no cure coming soon enough that I wanted even one of these creatures as a close friend or visitor in the middle of the night or any other time of the day.  This was simply, kill, or be killed.  Another man just couldn’t handle the gore involved.  He apologized for his weakness but was given a decent send off, for at least being honest.

Rusty and I worked together for about a week and I found his theory on the extra food items to be ringing true.  In the week, I had gathered 12 cans of assorted fruits and 6 of soup, mostly chicken noodle.  While it seemed like a lot, no one it seemed would trade for anything else I needed.  There had to be another way of finding what I needed, and then the idea hit me.  Why not go find what I needed, myself?   I’d go out and get what I needed from the numerous trucks and trailers littering the roads to the west, north and south of town.

The next time we shot together, I told him of my plan and he jumped at the opportunity to throw in with me.  But first, we needed a vehicle or would be forced to use the cart Bart and I built to move whatever we could salvage.  We would talk to Bart at dinner to see if he could help us, I knew he was still determined to get a vehicle running.

Until then, we were busy killing zombies, and talk along the wall was anxious.  The numbers of zombies coming at the town, the other shooters said, was increasing, rapidly.   We were busy, steadily firing both rifles, until early afternoon.  Watching some of the other teams shoot wasn’t very inspiring, and I wondered why Eric or Gene didn’t just tell them to let the Zs get closer so they weren’t wasting ammunition.

Rusty had 18 kills and I, 21, and it wasn’t even close to dark yet.  Gene came around to our platform at 4:00 p.m. and asked if we could stay on until after dark, so he could double the teams and try to break through the onslaught of dead flowing at us.  Dinner with Bart would have to wait and we agreed to hold over.

Onslaught had been a bit light in description to what happened as dusk fell around us.  Gene had a few lights rigged up, taken from the high school football stadium and run off a single generator that had been allotted to us.  We also had 3 spotlights in the trucks, and they worked well identifying targets at farther ranges.  There was a clear killing ground out to 500 yards that reached 100-125 yards wide on each side of the road.  That swath of land provided plenty of shooting opportunities, but it was the scrub pines and scattered oaks that helped hide the bulk of the dead.  It was almost as if they had waited for dark, congregating in the trees, waiting to make a siege on the wall.

Somewhere on the south end of the line the call went out that a large group of rotting Zs were amassing and moving towards the end of the wall.  Everyone, all 5 positions swung their guns to that side and we split our guns to cover the area directly in front of them and still cover our sectors.  As soon as the shooting started down there, it was like a dam of corpses broke loose through the trees along the front of the wall.  We cut loose on them and did a good jobs of killing large numbers of them, so many that they were tripping over the bodies.  But, still them pressed forward.  I entertained thoughts of the medieval castles under siege and we the token force of warriors left to hold them off.  Lucky for us they had no weapons of their own, except teeth and hands, and I hoped they couldn’t get close enough to use those.

Except our castle had no ends.  I had an idea for Gene, if I saw him again in the morning, and providing we made it through the night.   We fired until we started to run low on ammo and the calls were going out at other positions too.  Jay, I considered he was the official ammo bearer, as he was the only one I ever saw lugging cans of the stuff, brought us a can, correctly filled with both our calibers.  Before he could run off, I grabbed his arm and told him to bring me 5.56mm rounds for my carbine, soft points if he had them.

The firing on the right end of the wall reached a point where it was fast and continuous and I wondered how close the Zs were getting, and if the shooting was panic or aimed.  The lighting left much to be desired as the shadows being cast were leaving patches of ground available for the dead to get in close.  There were so many coming at us; I began to think we were not going to make it.  I switched to the carbine, using the faster semi-auto action to clean up the area directly in front our sector.  Jay showed up with a full can of 5.56, but it was military SS109 penetrators, although I wasn’t about to turn it down.  Full jacket, soft point, hollow point, it didn’t matter right now.

“Rusty can you load mags for me.” I shouted above the din of the shooting. He didn’t hesitate and flopped onto the wagon and started.  “Jay, we need some more light, and do you have any night vision goggles or scopes?” I asked in between shots.

“I’ll work on the lights and no on the NVGs” he shot back and tore off towards the CC.

A moment later I heard one of the trucks gun the engine and spin around, tearing off to town.  Others must have seen or heard it as well, as shouts up and down the line rang out.  We weren’t sure if someone was going for help or running for their lives, thinking we were being overrun.  I couldn’t worry about that right now, I was too busy trying to stop the offensive of the undead.  Twenty minutes later, the truck returned with some extra shooters, another generator and some additional lighting.  

Bart showed up a few minutes later, jumped up onto our platform and set up a halogen work light.  It would help close up, which is where the battle was at the moment anyway.  He plugged in the light and turned it outward, letting out a gasp and a whistle.  “Holy shit!” was all he managed to get out before someone down below us yelled at him to get moving.  “We going to make it?” he called out as he climbed down.  

“If I keep this guy supplied with ammo we will.  Find Jay and tell him to bring more.” Rusty answered curtly.  “Like now, boy.” He added when he thought Bart wasn’t moving fast enough.



Morning came, slowly, at first, giving only a hint to the carnage to our front.
Rusty was on his gun, patiently picking off a few walkers, and finishing off a few that still crawled at us, ones some of the others or I had blown a leg off.  I was sitting down, reloading magazines for the carbine and filling my chest rig pockets.  Twice in the night we had come close to running out, and twice Jay had brought us a full can to keep us shooting.  My carbine had served me well, growing sluggish from fouling, unless I kept it doused in oil.  I needed time to clean it properly and wished Rusty had brought a second rifle as well.  He agreed to bring one with him on our next assignment.  We were relieved about eight o’clock by a skeleton crew of inexperienced shooters.  They were mostly teens and a few young men and women, some wearing Police reserve uniforms or patches.

I finally stood up to look out, before climbing down and yielding my spot.
There was a blanket of rotting bodies and body parts covering the ground for as far as I could see without a scope or binoculars, all oozing their vile, stinking goop into the ground.  Looking left and right, I got waves from the other platforms, acknowledging we’d made it through the night.  

We stopped by the CC and found a bunch of the ladies from town had brought us a breakfast I had dreamed of several times over the last month.  I appreciated the fare, but wondered how much this little town was holding back.  None of the fresh foods we were offered had been available during any of my shopping or trading attempts I’d been on.  There was definitely more to be had here and it hardened my resolve to find out how much.  Rusty nodded, looking up from his plate of scrambled eggs, that he was seeing things the same way.

Gene and Eric stopped by our table and thanked us for helping out and told us we could take a day off to rest up, as long as we were available if things turned ugly again.  I took the opportunity to ask about the clean up of the battlefield.  Eric told us that they had two large end loaders from the landfill that would be working all day after the slaughter we had just finished, scraping the kill zone and moving the bodies off to the pit for burning or burying.  He described the metal cages that had been built on the cabs to protect the drivers and security forces that followed along.  Only people that had been town residents or committed to sticking around were offered those jobs and a few others.  It was the few others and their pay I was interested in but didn’t want to push he idea just yet.  Instead I switched topics.

“Gene, Eric, I have an idea and now that I know you have the equipment, I’d like to propose it.” I began, both of them nodding for me to continue.  “Why not make a few improvements to better our chances on the wall.” I said.

“Like what?” Eric asked.  

“Push the dead out to beyond the 1000 yard markers and burn them in place, or dig a pit out there.  It would save time from running a scoop at a time to the landfill.  Clear out some of the trees and brush between here and there and pile the wood on the mound of bodies to get a good fire going.  Then bring the dozers or end loaders back to about 500 yards and dig us a moat, or at least a trench, deep as you can.  That would slow these creatures down for a while.  You could even pre-stage some flammables in the trench to be set off from back here if we get an attack like last night.  You set that fire off and it would backlight any of them that got past the moat, making them easier targets, but also burn the rest as we go, saving the clean up some time the next day.” I explained.  “Just something to chew on.” I said and went back to my breakfast.  They both sat there, nodding with consideration of the ideas.

“Thanks again you two.” Gene said, Eric nodding in agreement as the push away from the table.  I could them muttering to each other as they left the building.  I needed some sleep but wanted to meet with Rusty and Bart at noon if we woke up by then.  I caught a ride back to the sheds, dropped my gear, cleaned my rifle and then crashed onto the bunk.

Bart came by about one o’clock and woke me from a deep sleep.  I felt good though and we wandered into town to find Rusty.  Bart told me he might have a vehicle running in the next couple days, providing he found the parts and the foreman of his crew would lighten up on the work load.  While he enjoyed the challenge of rebuilding this town, he said, he had become the only one on his crew working.  The others stood around talking with the foreman, watching him work.  I told him to approach the foreman with the problem, but he said he already had and found the foreman to be the biggest part of the problem, doing nothing but sneaking slugs of booze every chance he could and napping the rest of the time in the boiler room of the court house.
I spent my day off with Bart. He showed me around his work area and explained more about what he did and what he was trying to accomplish.  “Their power here is the big issue right now.  They have got about a dozen smaller generators, but only 2 decent sized diesels that they run almost constantly.  Most of the smaller ones are already starting to go down and we spend a lot of time trying to rebuild them or keep them running.” He explained.

According to Bart, this city would be without power, except maybe the school and court building in a month if things didn’t change.  The city officials demanded and got constant power to run the offices and keep lights burning.  The fuel supply wasn’t the problem, they had enough to run for a long time, but the machines were about shot, worn out, with no repair parts available.  

That wasn’t good news, first since we hadn’t gotten near enough food or supplies.  Second, because we didn’t have a ride yet either.  And third, the increase in the zombie threat was going to take everyone’s attention and resources.  I told Bart about the lighting system we had out on the wall, and that it should be a top priority if we were to have any chance of holding the hungry hordes at bay.  Bart told me that he agreed wholeheartedly, especially after seeing the jerry-rigged mess we were using.  However, he said, unless someone could convince the city council to change, and quickly it wasn’t going to make any difference.  We would be in the dark, overrun and fleeing for our lives, in mere weeks if Bart were right.

Bart had one bit of good news though, transportation.  It wasn’t a truck or even a car, but a pair of mountain bikes he had managed to assemble, and outfit with a few extras.  The bikes had to be kept hidden or would have been confiscated.  We decided to wait until dark and then move the bikes to our quarters, at the storage shed.  Our cart too, had been fixed up, with new tires, even a spare, and an attachment so we could tow it behind the bikes.

I had done some scrounging of my own and found Bart a small daypack.  From a leather welding apron, I had fashioned him a sort of chest harness, talking one of the elder women into sewing on some pockets and a better set of shoulder straps.  Letting her see my custom rig, she was able to do a fairly good copy, using some nylon material taken from some duffle bags. When I presented it to Bart I thought he was going to cry and looked at me like I was Santa and he was 5.

We were all set except for food and weapons.  After our all-night defense of the wall, everyone wanted a semi-auto; which left little for us to choose from for Bart.  I did come across an older Marlin Model 60.  The small 22 rifle was a tube fed, semi-auto that would be slow to reload but held fifteen rounds in the under-barrel magazine.  The design was light, handy and generally accurate.  There was no scope, but a set of solid, service sights.  My craft lady was able to work up a sling that I attached with some lengths of paracord.

Bart’s little chest harness was stuffed with over 500 rounds of .22 LR ammo, some gloves, a small pair of cheap binoculars, a pair of Robo-grip adjustable pliers he had borrowed from the tool shop.  His bat he had modified by drilling a hole through the handle and affixed a leather wrist straps.  He had even wrapped the handle with some cloth tape for a better grip.  He had gathered some other bits of kit I would find out about later.

Rusty, Bart and I had not signed up for any activities the next day so we could go out and look for food supplies or things we could trade to get what we wanted.  We left the bikes, taking only the upgraded cart, and set out north of town.  We found trucks and trailers, all opened and empty of anything useful.  I guess that others had come up with the same idea as we had, which explained a bit more about the situation in town.

It probably wasn’t going to be worth the energy needed to search further, they had vehicles and could have reached out farther than we could on foot or bike.  So we headed back in, trying to come up with another idea.  Rusty was going to need a bike too, Bart said, and offered to get it as soon as possible.  Meantime, we needed ammo, food, water and maps before we could make our move.  We had to go back to work a few more days, and all agreed to leave at the end of the week, no matter what, taking our chances on the road as before.

I wished I had a way to contact Annie and let her know I was still alive and still on my way.  I was deeply concerned after seeing some of the zombie attacks here, what she might be going through.

great read. keep up the good work.

Great story fast45...this has been the most i have read in a long time. Please keep it coming.

Awesome story.  Thanks!!!!!!

Nice, keep it coming.  Can you edit the title when you make changes?

Do you mean to make mention that I've added a chapter?   No, I can't.
Any comments or criticisms of the work? Anyone?  Feedback will help me know if Im headed in the right direction with this.  Thanks to those reading.

one word

AWESOME

Fast45,

The direction you choose to go with this is yours. As far as feedback goes,,,, I am only finding an occasional grammatical error or typo. Your story flows well and is well written.
Keep up the good work!!

AKASL

LIVE FREE OR DIE

Feedback:
I don't have any real critcism. Good character development, good balance.
Could use some more "Losing". The zombies haven't eaten a brain yet. Some characters are developed so the audience can "Feel" their loss.
More please.

I tried sending a PM and I think it failed.

To comment on the post about loss.  Technically we haven't started the story just yet.  Bart, Lucy, and Verne are still alive regardless at this point (Chapter 1 started the flashback to bring us up to that point).  Heck, we still haven't met Lucy.

I will try another PM later.

Loving the tale.

The "Loss" needn't be a main character. I want some more horror. I'm the type that likes the bad guys to be real mean nasty sons of bitches!
Don't get me wrong, I'm digging the story.

Great story. Thanks for posting this here. My cable is out so this was exactly what I needed. How did you know I was a Zombie nut? Ever consider getting your work published? Have you submitted any in the past?

In terms of "Loss", you can almost tell that "Tony" has become a zombie, and maybe got shot, already

I hope this chapter is the one i spell checked.  I am juggling between proofing this book (#1) and finishing typing #2 so there may be some errors.  Enjoy.

Chapter 8
Paradise Lost

Thursday morning the three of us met at Rusty’s apartment, a small efficiency above a dress shop on Main St.  We drank water as we compiled our lists of garnered supplies, trying to get hydrated for our departure the next day.

The weather had turned cooler, now only getting to the mid 70s by day and dropping into the upper 30s at night.  That meant we had to add extra clothing and equipment to our accumulated stash.  Rusty came through with some wool blankets that he had taken to my favorite seamstress, and had them turned into rough overcoats.  They were nothing that would pass as fashion, but would be completely functional.

He also pulled out a footlocker, (I think all old grunts must have one), and revealed his treasures, a pair of Ruger MkII pistols complete with magazines and holsters.  He tried to give me one but I declined, patting the Sig on my hip.  Bart was overjoyed, grinning with another Christmas smile, when Rusty gave it to him instead.  We would fit it to the chest harness later.  Rusty kept the other handgun and pulled out another surprise, wrapped in an oily canvas.  As he unrolled the package I saw it was a vintage M1 carbine, the mouse gun of his generation, I kidded.  Rusty took it well and laughed as he assembled the little warhorse.

We were scheduled to be on the wall at noon and Bart had chosen to go in to work as well, the reason not given.  Rusty and I hitched a ride and were assigned to position N1, the first tower north of the main gate.  I immediately put in a request for 2 cans of ammo for my carbine and more for both bolt guns.  If we didn’t need it, and things weren’t that busy today, I would rat away some extra for our venture.

Things started out quiet with only a few shots being fired any where along the whole wall, for the first few hours.  As the sun started its descent, we were again faced with increasing numbers of Zs straggling out from the wooded area.  I wasn’t pleased, there had not been any improvements that we had discussed implemented.  So, once again we were assaulted from both sides of the road.

As we were losing our natural light, the attacks began in earnest, not to say it was planned, but the timing was effective once more on the other side.  Our ammo hadn’t been delivered yet and already other platforms were calling out for additional supplies as well.  The floodlights came on and everyone stopped shooting.  Watching in horror, the ground in front of us was packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, with a hungry, growling army of undead dead.  Even though they were still out at the thousand yard markers, we could hear the low-pitched thunder of their growls, a battle cry of snarls and moans.

We got to work, knocking down the first ranks as they approached, tumbling momentarily those behind, but they quickly righted themselves and pressed forward, unfazed by our defensive fire.  Hundreds fell in the initial response to the attack, having no visible affect as the mass surged on.  And then the lights went out and with them the hum of our puny generator.  I silently wished Bart had been a little more accurate, giving a us a couple more weeks before this happened.  Either the generator had run dry or died as Bart had warned.  Now all we had were two of the vehicle mounted spotlights, the third attached to the truck that had left for town.

We did what we could, all along the wall, trying to turn back the tide of foul killers.  We were losing our advantage of distance, firing almost blind into the advancing army of flesh eaters.  I had already dumped the slower bolt action rifle in favor of the M4 clone, using the forearm mounted flashlight to aim with and taken aback when I first switched in on.  The first wave of the dead was already to the 200-yard line with some individuals even closer.

“Ammo! Jay, get us some more 5.56” I yelled above the firing.  He was there in minutes, dumping off two, eight hundred forty round boxes.  I hoped it was enough.  Rusty had also switched to his M1 and was cranking off rounds as fast as he could load or change mags.  “Jay, any M1 carbine ammo?” he called out before Jay got too far away.  

“I’ll look” was all he could offer.  “I’m going for more shooters.”  He said, waiting long enough to see no one was going to argue or question his leaving.  The guy was a tremendous asset in this operation and without him we would have fallen.  He jumped in the truck and roared off, taking with him half of our light.  The groans and cursing along the wall lasted only a few seconds until everyone was too busy to worry about what Jay was doing.

The mob of the dead was at the wall in minutes, trying to reach us, clawing at the metal obstruction blocking them from us.  It made it easier to kill them, even in the dim moonlight they were visible this close up.  I could hear handguns being used at various positions, offering a faster rate of fire as the targets closed in.  I even considered it, so I could let the carbine cool off, now almost too hot to hold on to.

The first Z I actually saw make it to the wall was a huge man, perhaps six foot six, well muscled, I could tell even under his baggy sweats.  I wondered how he had succumbed since he showed no outward injuries.  I also wondered how such a large target had managed to get this close in without drawing a bullet sooner.  He slammed into the stack of cars right under Rusty and I, shaking our platform, before disappearing out of sight.  I started to climb up on top of the cars to finish him off, when Rusty grabbed my belt and pulled me back.  “Stay down we can’t have you slip or get pulled over.  Go down on this side and whack the big bastard through there.” He barked.

No arguing with that logic.  I jumped down off the wagon but couldn’t see a thing without the lights.  Again I used the one on the carbine, passing a beam of bright light through the windows and windshields of the stack. Seeing movement, I fired, striking several of the moving corpses and watched them drop out of sight.

Jay and another truck zoomed back to the area, adding some much needed light and bringing another dozen shooters.  At this point even the .22s would work and it was definitely a target-rich environment.  A call echoed down the wall that Zs were beginning to breech near position N4, my original assigned station.  A few of the cars there were not crushed down enough I guessed and the Zs were pushing through the interiors.  Jay grabbed four guys, with shovels, sledgehammers and bats and raced to the weak spot.

More people showed up, riding in on bikes and atop the end loaders.  Since we were in the center, closest to the road, I shouted for one of them to head down to platform 4.  That huge piece of machinery would be an excellent plug for the breech.

The wall section around me shook again.  Rusty jumped down this time to check it out and I heard him curse.  He started shooting right after that and I knew it couldn’t be good.  I jumped down to help out, using the light again, and was startled to see every space; every vehicle interior in the wall was being filled with stinking, violent creatures.  They were trying to squeeze through, with so many piling up behind them, pushing them forward, that many were hopelessly jammed, being crushed by the force.

It was apparent we were losing this battle quicker than I thought we would.  A generator fired up and some lights came back on, causing a brief cheer from the defender’s side of the wall.  The view now though was not one of order and control, but utter chaos.  Not just at our post or at position N4, but all along the line, the creatures were poking through the heap of stacked metal, wanting only to tear all of us apart.

One of the buses used to make the main gate began to move, being slowly pushed backwards.  I could only assume what number of these dead savages it would take on the other side to move the parked, 40-foot metal box.  I heard a man scream somewhere to my right, seeing only that he had fallen on his platform.  I couldn’t see that several arms and hands had reached through the cracks in our defense to seize him by the legs.  He screamed out a second time and pleaded to be killed, choosing death by one of us over being torn apart while still alive.  Mercifully, someone filled his request, ending his screams but not his bloody fate.

As I stopped long enough to change a magazine, I looked left and right, sizing up our situation.  It was grim, not one shooter left on his platform, all now on the ground behind the wall.  Everyone was shooting fast, too quickly to be aiming and I know it was just wasting ammunition we were surely to need later.  If we were to persevere, we needed to kill these things, here, now, or all would be lost.

I could see the bus was still inching backwards; eventually it was going to open a gap in the wall that would pour loose with hungry cannibals.  Even before that would happen, we were finding enough Zs getting through, pushed from behind by an immense surging force, thousands strong.  We were backing up, yielding ground, not yet intentionally retreating, however, having no other choice.  We couldn’t shoot and reload fast enough to make a difference.  And then, when the generator puked out again, pandemonium began.

There were perhaps 40 of us alive here, and no more reinforcements were coming from town.  Certainly the word of the breakthrough had reached city hall.  I looked around for Rusty, not seeing him anywhere near me.  There wasn’t enough light left now to see much of anything as only one of the trucks was able to move away from the scene, the other encircled by dozens of zombies, attracted by the engine noise.  We were backed up to the CC building now, only 15-20 of us left shooting, all the others in a full run to town.  The idea of sticking around and going under for the selfish city council and other officials struck me as ridiculous.

“LET’S GO!!  We aren’t making any difference here anymore.” Someone shouted.  I agreed, only wishing we had some kind of final option to stall the legions of dead staggering toward us.  We turned and ran, and I knew we could still outrun the dead, but we had a mile or more to go.  I hoped Rusty was in the crowd, and in the darkness, making his way back to town.  Bart should be there already.

The town looked deserted as we few began to arrive, exhausted from the run and groping in the dark.  Except for a few lights on at the courthouse and school building, everything was dark.  I had a bad feeling that we had missed the boat, been abandoned, the others taking flight in whatever vehicles they could find.  I secretly assumed that there were other working vehicles that had been prepared for this eventuality.

It didn’t really matter at this point; this town was about to be overtaken by something that had heretofore only been written of in science fiction novels and movies.  Nothing we did, with so few willing to take the risk, was going to stop it.  Not much more had to be said among the dozen or so of us as we stood out front of the police station.  We drifted apart and made our escapes.


I ran further, down to the storage sheds and was relieved to find Bart there, the cart loaded and attached to his bike.  The other two bikes were ready too, all our belongings lashed onto them.  It was wonderful to have someone like Bart that had that extra sense of doing things without having to be told.

“Where’s Rusty?” he asked me right off.  

“I don’t know, I looked for him and thought he was ahead of me when everyone took off for town.” I replied, now really concerned for our elder partner.  I was tempted to go back and look for him but understood it would be foolish and perhaps suicidal.  We decided to wait until we saw the first flesh eater in our area, but then we would have to go, with or without Rusty.
We didn’t get to wait long.  A group of four ashen ghouls rounded the corner from the town end of our street, headed straight for us.  We saddled up and peddled off in the other direction, leaving Rusty’s bike and supplies in the shed bay.  We left the door unlocked, pulled down, knowing Zs wouldn’t bother it but Rusty could get in if need be.

Bart led the way, going northeast.  He said he had found some maps at the courthouse but only for this county, which we were almost to the edge of anyway.  They were the only detailed maps either of us had seen since we met, an unfortunately they would be no good in a few miles.  Looks like my luck was the same.  We managed to make roughly 8 miles, and came to a bridge across a small river. We were making much better time on the bikes and would soon be over the Arkansas border.  The worst of the situation was, that we were still way too close to Ft. Smith and it’s hundreds of thousands of dead or potential victims.  We had just seen what enough of them could do, even to a determined defense.  

Our biggest dilemma now, was having to use back roads and try to skirt around as many as we could and make it until morning.  We couldn’t stop, not this close to such a big city, as I was sure many of the foul, stinking beings were out and about.  For a few miles though, it looked as though the majority of them were headed to Paradise Springs and the commotion we had made.  We struggled up a mid-sized hill, I even got off my bike and tossed it on the cart and pushed as Bart peddled.  Once we were on top, we could see back to Paradise Springs.  There were at least six large fires burning, lighting the horizon.  We had no doubt, Paradise, was lost.

"We had no doubt, Paradise, was lost"

Powerful ending for a great chapter! Keep up the good work! Also your typos were few and far between. Great job Dude!

AKASL

LIVE FREE OR DIE

Originally Posted By AKASL:
Keep up the good work! Also your typos were few and far between. Great job Dude!


+1

+1

NEXT CHAPTER PLEASE!!!





Great read so far. You got me hooked. I check for new chapters every day before and after work. Keep up the great work.

Chapter 9  Slow Progress

We took refuge for the night under a bridge over a small river, leaving the cart and bikes off the road at the approach.  I knew the Zs wouldn’t bother with them, but still had to worry about living, breathing, people happening by on their evacuation from danger.   There wasn’t much sleep to be had, as the walking carcasses wandered across the bridge in droves.  They were headed the same way we had planned on going at daylight, not a comforting thought that so many would be up ahead, waiting for us somewhere.

This is where we first became acquainted with tying ourselves onto structures and trees.  The first few nights were rough, the makeshift harnesses digging uncomfortably into my ribs and crotch.  It was the only way though, that we could manage to stay attached to such limited confines without falling to the water or ground.  Everything we did taught us that we had lived life too easily; too cozy, and we were paying a price.  I kept mental lists on nights like this, promising myself to write the items down when I awoke or had enough light.  Too often, either from exhaustion or plain absentmindedness, I would forget.  I knew that at some point, we had plenty of shopping to do.

I thought about Paradise Springs and Rusty, hoping he had made it out ok, but fearing that were not the case.  The number of dead had been nothing short of terrifying, and there was little chance anyone that had decided to hold up in town had made it.  The constant surging, crushing nature of the dead would have battered down any door, busted through any window or opening, even pushing their flow up stairways eventually.  Whatever destruction they hadn’t caused themselves, was likely to have been finished by the fires.  

Our little layover in town had seemed almost normal, given the circumstances.  But meals with other people, even heated food, mattresses, showers and other rudimentary comforts now seemed like a distant memory, as I shifted position on the concrete abutment, wedging myself up against a steel girder.  There was no need for talk between Bart and I this night; we both knew the dangers of getting surrounded here, with so many creatures moving about.

When morning finally came, we discovered a rather ghastly reminder that the dead had been through the area.  The entire grated surface of the bridge’s roadway was thick with a black, slimy goop, dripping into the water below.  Bart and I were covered with the mess and had to climb down to the water to wash up.  The river, really more a small stream was refreshing but we dared not drink from it or ingest the water.  I wondered how long, or even if the toxic infection could live outside the body, even a deceased one.  I could see that many of the creatures were decomposing even though they could still function.  It gave me hope that they could eventually die or perhaps wither away.  But their contamination in the water troubled me, and there was no way to warn anyone downstream.

We loaded up and rode east, following the black trail, seeing body parts that had been discarded or falling off the still-functioning cadavers as they moved.  I didn’t like the fact there were so many going east as well and had no way to tell what was drawing them.  Perhaps another city was under siege as these reinforcements traveled to the battle.

The morning was cool, and we needed jackets until we had worked up a sweat.  Our goal was to put on as many miles as we could each day before dusk.  With the bikes and trailer, we were averaging about 8 miles an hour, headed into the rising sun as our compass.  The road we were on was due to end at another river, and stop at a T intersection.  We would have to figure out which way to go when got there.  We crested a small, but steep hill, and saw that the terrain opened up to a wide valley.  There were dozens of small groups of Zs roaming around, generally converging to the road.  “We can out run them, and get to the next hill.” Bart announced.  He was right, but we didn’t know what was past that hill and could be running into a flood of these horrible, hungry monsters.  I turned around to see that there was already a few behind us, shambling up the road toward us.  

“Do you feel comfortable with that trailer in tow?” I asked.  Bart shook his head and slowly started to get the heavy cart moving.  We had only a small descent to pick up any speed, and then it would be an all-out sprint, about a mile, to the next rise.  I could see Bart was having trouble with the awkward cart; it’s weight rolling with him, but not smoothly.  “Do you want to switch bikes?” I called over to him.  He just shook his head and peddled harder, determined, I think, not to let me down.  “This is no time for heroics, I can take the cart for awhile.” I yelled.  

“I’m all right.  I think the axle needs some grease, it’s pulling really heavy.” He answered.  I noticed we were slowing down, in spite of Bart’s attempt to keep his legs pumping.

“Let’s cut it loose.” I offered, not for a second really wanting to jettison all of our supplies.  We were dangerously close to being cut off now as some of the rotting beings were getting to the road ahead, still struggling with the embankment.  A few of them, I reasoned, we could blow past, kicking them clear.  However, if too many made it and clogged the road, we’d be the ones, going over the embankment, and again on foot.  “Stop” I said, and Bart shook his head.  “Just for a second, I’ve got an idea.” I continued.

We were in the clear, but definitely drawing attention.  I jumped off my bike, grabbed a piece of rope from the cart and tied it to the front railing.  Letting out some rope, I hopped back on my bike and peddled, struggling against the weight.  Together, we were making better progress, as I pulled from out in front.  Some of the flesh eaters grabbed for us as we passed, causing us to lose momentum.  Finally one of them managed to grab a hold of the cart and nearly had both of us tip over.  Bart swung his bat, breaking the things arm, but not it’s grasp.  

Two more got to the road, closing with us as fast as they could.  I didn’t want to shoot, fearing it would signal another flood of the undead, rallying against us.  Bart toppled off his bike as I jumped off my own, ready to battle the creatures.  I put a boot to the one hanging on to the trailer and finally got him loose from it, although it only seemed to anger the nasty thing and he struggled to his feet, coming at me.  I pulled the Sig and fired a quick shot to its head, and heard a string of growls and hisses across the open fields.

Three more had made it to the road ahead of us as we got the bikes moving again and I rode ahead, gaining as much speed and distance as I could.  I thought Bart might think I was leaving without him, but he never said a word.  I peddled straight for the trio of zombies and at the last second, turned the bike hard and jammed on the brakes, sliding into them.  It was a perfect strike and they all fell, two of them rolling into the ditch.  I butt-stroked the third before he could get to his feet, hearing the sickening crunch as the skull gave way.

Bart was just getting to me, and I yelled for him to keep going, fast.  The other two Zs were determined and got back to the road, where I killed them with a bullet each to the forehead.  Gathering up my bike, I jumped on but couldn’t peddle, seeing and feeling the chain had slipped off the sprockets.  I pushed it and ran, trying to get some room to work on it.  It didn’t appear there was going to be time for that until I got across the valley, as small groups of undead dead were forming up behind me and advancing.

These nasty ex-humans weren’t smart; they didn’t understand they could have cut us off by angling ahead to the road.  But they were persistent, driven by their ravenous hungry, and by their desire to tear me to pieces.  They moved in straight lines toward my noise and motion.  Speed would be my only advantage, so I ran, pushing the bike.

I could see Bart on the crest of the next rise in the road ahead.  He had stopped, and I cursed at him, even though he couldn’t hear me.  Why he stopped and lost our momentum wasn’t clear to me yet.  I glanced back, over my right shoulder, seeing perhaps 30 Zs stumbling after me.  Over my left, were another two dozen.  Most would soon find the road and begin to amass there, in relentless pursuit of warm blood and flesh.

Several minutes later, I reached Bart, who had pulled back from the top of the rise.  “What are you doing?” I wondered aloud.  “We have to keep going.” I added.  He shook his head, not in defiance or anger; the look in his eyes was more like defeat.

“Take a look.” Was all he said, swinging his head toward the crest.  “The intersection and river are up ahead.  But we can’t get there.” He said and dropped his head.  A bit frustrated, thinking the road was out or blocked, I stepped up to the crest and looked over.  The road below, less than a quarter mile distant, was packed with an undulating mass of the dead.  With more soon to catch up from behind us, and no doubt signaling those in front with their noise, we were nearly surrounded.

Those ahead were all facing the river, where a small boat was anchored in midstream.  There had to be living, warm blooded people on board to hold the attention of so many.  The river was flowing slowly enough we could swim to the boat, if we got that chance.  “We could try shooting, to signal them.  Maybe they can pick us up.” Bart suggested, almost pleading, and almost reading my mind.

It was worth a try, as we would be shooting in a struggle for our lives in a couple of minutes anyway.  The group behind drew closer.  “OK, drop the trailer, grab what you can carry.” I conceded.  I refit the chain on my bike and grabbed my pack.  We could still traverse the fields on the bikes, angling up river.  “Ready?” I asked, seeing Bart was back on his bike.  He nodded and I fired on the approaching group from behind us.

Four or five went down in the first volley, still more than forty pressing our way.  The crowd at the river turned in sloppy unison, several hundred new foes fixed their gazes on us.  I fired on the forty behind us, killing a few more, then watched for a reaction from the boat.  Nothing, no sign of life appeared.  We peddled, tearing across a cut wheat field, making for the riverbank a couple hundred yards from the mob at the intersection.  

We were half way across the field when I heard an air horn blast.  I looked in the direction of the boat and saw two people on the foredeck waving their arms overhead.  I waved back, pointing up river, hoping they could see me and get the hint.  According to our crude maps, there should be a crossing about one and a half to two miles north.  I hoped the boat crew would come get us, and not think us a worthless cause.



The river was calm, quiet and peaceful as we floated slowly downstream.  When we passed the intersection where we were almost trapped, there were only a few dozen Zs milling about.  Our hosts were a middle-aged couple from southern Missouri.  Ray was tall, tanned and graying at the temples of his handsome face, looking much the part of a movie star.  Despite our dire circumstances, his bright and constant smile was infectious, relaxing everyone.  His spouse, Jillian, was slim, equally tanned and cheerful.  I didn’t really understand the optimism they exuded, knowing they had to have experienced some of the horrors and tragedy we all had.  But as we floated lazily down the river, it didn’t show; yet there was something odd about them I couldn’t figure out.

Ray and Jillian could have been the typical Hollywood couple in appearance and manner.  Their boat was brand-new and their pride and joy, and they referred to it like a child.  When the outbreak occurred, they had just picked up the boat and decided to take a couple weeks off to get acquainted.  They had a well-stocked galley, a fully stocked bar and all the amenities for their vacation cruise.  With no set destination planned, they just drifted around, soaking up the sun and scenery.

At dinnertime, we anchored again at midstream.  Jillian prepared some pasta and sauce, crackers, and wine.  I was starting to understand how they could feel relaxed.  Without the sounds of a city or the more recent moaning of blood-lusting hordes, and any other distractions, you couldn’t tell there was anything amiss.  The gentle slapping of the water on the hull was causing the slightest sway, like a hammock on a summer day.  When I saw Jillian wash down a mix of pills with some wine, it hit me.  They were self-medicating themselves into this numbness, that hid their real grief.

Any other day it might have deserved a warning or a comment, but now, after all we living had endured, I couldn’t say a thing.  Everyone coped a different way, and I had no way to know what ugliness or tragedy this pair had been through, or why they wanted to block it in this manner.  The demons we faced these days, weren’t all walking around, trying to kill us.  Some were far closer.

We stayed with the couple for two days, and then decided we would be going too far south if we went longer.  We put ashore on the east bank, saving us from finding another crossing, and putting us closer to a road we wanted.  We still had our bikes with a few things lashed on them and our packed supplies.  Gone was our extra water, one of our wool overcoats, and the bulk of our hard-earned food.  A month wasted, a month more away from Annie, family and home.

We traveled by day, making many miles but every time I looked at a map, it seemed we were getting nowhere.  Encouraging signs of other living people were visible, now and then.  We found small fire pits, piles of trash, mostly food wrappers, empty water bottles and bits of clothing.  We rarely saw any real people though.  Our routine was likely much the same as other survivors, staying clear, avoiding contact, never sure if the few people we saw at a distance were real or some ghastly reincarnation.

I had lost track of the days of the week.  The time of the day was of little concern except at dusk, but a watch wasn’t needed to tell when that was.  I tried to figure out how long it had been since the world changed.  Shockingly, and depressingly, I concluded I had been away from home for more than two months, give or take a week.  I hadn’t talked to Annie in well over half that time.  Almost totally dejected, I sat with my head in my hands, worrying I might never see her again.  A feeling of dread and helplessness came over me and I dropped back, letting my body go limp in resignation.  With my eyes closed, I tried to envision Annie and my family, trying to force a mental connection between us, in vain, I guessed, but with hope she would sense I was still alive.  I prayed for it to be true.

Our journey was long and boring, most of the time, punctuated by moments of sheer terror.  It was strange, traveling so many miles in a country of 300 million people, and seeing next to none.  Never before, even working a graveyard shift in a bad neighborhood, had I felt the need to be constantly alert and always armed.  I’d faced thugs with knives, gang bangers with guns, and drunks with deadly vehicles, but they all had a moment when they realized fighting the odds wasn’t worth the outcome.  But Zs, they had no fear, no concern for their health or safety.

I refused to believe there were so few of us left to fight these things and rebuild the country, and the world.  There had to be more than this to have any chance of returning to a normal life, or anything close to what we had enjoyed such a short time ago.  Were there places, climates, conditions that didn’t allow the reanimation of the dead?  What of the third world countries that had so little to hope for before this calamity?  

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by a snap of a twig out in front of me, in the darkness.  This routine was getting really old, really fast.  We were in the middle of nowhere, couldn’t we be afforded a night’s rest without interference?  I brought the Sig up to shoulder level, lining up the tritium sights, trying to zero in on the noise.

I could hear it, heavy, almost panting breaths in the thicket less than twenty yards from me.  I couldn’t see it though, and I am still in amazement how these creatures manage to navigate at night, almost silently.  I reminded myself not to focus on any one spot, letting my eyes track back and forth in a gentle figure-eight motion, hoping to catch even the slightest movement.  Bart’s moving closer to me was enough to startle or alert whatever was out there, this phantom in the brush.  The quick change of position was enough to convince me this wasn’t a rotting, walking cadaver, they would have boldly charged at me, oblivious to the knowledge I would destroy them.  

It might not be a Z, but that didn’t mean it didn’t intend us harm.  People were desperate everywhere.  But I still couldn’t challenge it, call out to whoever was there without the risk of summoning any Zs in earshot.  Without warning it crashed through the brush and branches, right at us, making enough racket to raise the dead, for real.  I couldn’t see a thing, but then I felt something slam into my lower legs and stop on top of my feet.

Our phantom, a black Labrador pup, only a few months old, panted and nudged closer to me, as if it were about to be beaten.  This was good and bad at the same time.  The dog was scared, which meant it had run into something, how far away wasn’t certain.  The pup would definitely provide us a form of early warning system, if it stuck close to us, and providing it didn’t bark.  As it seemed right now, this dog wasn’t planning on making a peep.

So far it had not made more than a few whimpers and some heavy panting.  Bart felt over the dog in the darkness, searching for injuries.  He whispered that the pup was in good shape.  We calmed back down, the dog curled up between us, his head on my lap.

We all nodded off.  I must have subconsciously believed the dog’s hearing and senses would provide us an adequate early warning of danger.  The first scurry of small rodents and birds woke me.  The sun wasn’t quite yet fully up, but I could see well enough to venture to a tree to relieve my bladder.  It never occurred to me that the dog was gone.  I wasn’t quite finished when the thought came to mind.

When all the birds took flight and all the other small creatures went silent at the same time, I knew something was wrong.  Before I could fully zip my trousers, three Zs crashed through the underbrush, one of them seizing my wrist.  “BART!” I yelled to wake him, seeing more of the filthy things headed right at him.  My rifle was leaning on the log next to Bart’s head.

I struggled to break free, amazed at the strength this thing had to hold onto me.  The next one closed, arms outstretched like Frankenstein’s monster.  I kicked as hard as I could to its chest, feeling my foot cave in the breastbone.  The thing let out a deep howl, but not of pain.  It seemed to know I was stuck, one foot off the ground, the other hobbling to keep balance, all the time with one of my arms in a death grip of a lifeless wretch.

The one I was impaled in couldn’t reach me, and couldn’t bend far enough to sink its teeth into my leg.  I punched the third one in the side of the head, sending her to the ground.  I had to keep spinning to keep my living bracelet off balance so it couldn’t bite me either.  I punched him a few times too, having little or no influence.  Somewhere in the struggle I stumbled, going to the ground on top of Z #1, I reached for my SRK.  Number 1’s snapping jaws just missed taking a chunk out of my shoulder as I lay on top of him.  Jamming my forearm across his throat to hold him at bay, gave me enough time to kick loose from #2.  3 was coming around, scrambling forward on her hands and knees at our pile.  My free hand pulled the SRK from the sheath in time for me to thrust it out as 3 lunged, catching her in the right eye.  She fell forward, running the knife deeper and I had to let go of it to punch #2 again.

I managed to get to one knee and drove a vicious side kick into #2, then forced the same knee into #1’s temple.  His grip loosened slightly and I ripped my hand free, then gave him another, harder knee.  I got to my feet and jumped away, rolling to a stop at the log.  Grabbing up the carbine, I finished off the pair.

Bart was down, lying supine, with a wound to his forehead.  There were two dead Zs near him.  I could see he was groggy, slowly rolling his head side to side.  I feared he may have been bitten, and was turning into one of these creatures.  His face was a bloody mess, and both eye sockets had turned dark purple.  Fearing the worst, I stood over him, carbine ready.  If he opened his eyes and they were anything but the green I was used to seeing, our relationship would be sadly and quickly over.

He let out a moan and I stepped back.  “Oh man, my head hurts.” He managed to get out.  I knew he was at least alive if he could talk, so I lowered the carbine muzzle and chuckled.

“You look like shit too,” I said.  “Are you bitten?” I asked, gesturing to the head wound.

“No.  I hit… well, one of them slammed me into the tree.” He answered, pointing to one of the dead Zs.  He told me that when I yelled to him, 2 Zs were already rushing him.  He swung and connected with one, just as the second tripped and bowled into him, forcing his head into the tree.  He couldn’t explain what happened to the second Z, since he went unconscious.  I rolled the corpse over and found it had fallen on a branch, sending a wooden stake through its mouth and into the brain.

We cleaned up and packed.  As for the dog, we never saw it again.