First Zombie novel tryout (Page 2 of 4)
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Chapter 10
Marathon To Memphis We biked through rural, northwestern Arkansas with very few incidents for several days. The population, alive and dead alive, seemed to have tapered off, leaving us with only questions. Were the Zs dying out, from natural (but still very unnatural) causes? Had they wiped out all the living and then moved on? Or were we just lucky? The landscape had changed to sandy-soiled pine forests and many more hills. On a positive note, water was more plentiful and food seemed easier to find. We passed scores of small towns, each giving up some meager supplies of food, enough to sustain us and keep the burden off our backs. Bart was getting slimmer and more solid, so too was I. We both had punched new holes in our belts to keep our pants up. Our biggest concern now was the weather, which was turning so cool at night that we could barely sleep. Our combined clothing, down to one set to wear and parts of another to wash and rotate. We had only one of the wool overcoats, and one poncho liner, so we shivered most nights. For two weeks we traveled a maze of back roads, fields and bridges, until we came to a barricade. Our first encounter with a Quarantine Zone we thought, was a few hours before dusk one day after an especially grueling day’s ride. We were tired, chilled and famished, but now faced a series of barbed wire fences, road closed signs and other signs warning us not to proceed. There was no end in sight, north or south, and no safe place to stop for the evening outside the wire. We looked at each other, shrugged, then carefully moved through the fence and peddled on. After going another few miles, we came upon a second row of fencing, barricades and signs, this time warning we would be arrested or shot, if we went farther. Not seeing any choice again, we pushed on, violating the supposed law of the land. There were no signs that anyone, living, had checked on or maintained this sector. The road was covered with wind-blown dirt and leaves, giving no indication that anyone had gone before us for some time. We rode on, leaving an easy-to-follow trail that I wasn’t real keen on. The third barricade, two miles further down the road, was more imposing. A wall, similar to the one in Paradise Springs, blocked the approach to a metal, 2-span bridge. Cars, trucks, wagons and pieces of farm machinery were piled in a rough semicircle from the riverbanks on both sides of the bridgehead. The grass, trees and brush along the banks on both sides of the river was burned back for 200 yards, no doubt for a clear field of fire. We weren’t challenged as we neared the kill zone, another indicator this place too was abandoned. At this point, I’d rather someone, anyone, stop us, talk to us, even order us away, just to know there were others left alive. Getting the bikes over the obstacle was no problem, and for once I was glad our transportation was so light and portable. We rolled into a small town, deserted and dirty, like something from a sci-fi movie. I realized we were in a real-life version of such a film. Most of the houses and all of the storefronts were completely burned or charred enough to make them uninhabitable. What few cars and trucks remained were also burned, useless hulks of rusting and blackened metal. The air was foul with the smell if rotting bodies, something I had thought to get accustomed to over time, but glad I hadn’t. Sense of smell was just another survival tool. Although it appeared nothing had lived here for weeks or longer, the stench said otherwise. What had once been a large brickwork church sat a block off the main street, near the center of town. The odors seemed to be coming from there. The streets and terraces and sidewalks all bore drag marks, the same rancid slime we had seen before coated all the flat surfaces leading up to the church. I couldn’t see any moving zombies in the area, but as we neared the remains of the church to investigate, a series of growls and moans began. Slowly at first, then becoming more intense the closer we got. “Stop right there!” a voice called out, his exact location unknown, but somewhere to our left. We froze in place, showing no aggression. “We mean you no harm.” Bart called out. “Then stay clear of things that aren’t your concern, sonny.” Came a reply. “You being here will cause harm enough.” A second voice chimed in, this time to our right. I had no illusion that they weren’t armed and feeling threatened by our presence, wouldn’t hesitate to shoot us. We remained rigid, allowing them to size us up and make the next move. We were disarmed and lead by a small party of men to a house a few blocks away. A brick wall surrounded the property, an old, stately Victorian mansion. Inside, we were ushered to a parlor and one of the men told us to be seated, awaiting Dr. Reynolds, the man in charge. Reynolds showed up soon afterward, escorted by another armed guard party, which he quickly dismissed. “Welcome.” He greeted us and extended his hand in friendship. “You’ll have to forgive my friends, we’ve been through a lot together and one can ever be too careful nowadays.” He continued. We returned the handshakes and pleasantries and apologized for our intrusion. We talked for over an hour, Reynolds genuinely interested in hearing tales of our journey and more curious about our observations on Zombie mannerisms and abilities. He explained that there were 23 people left in town, from the original population of 312. Thirty some others were still residing in the church but had turned to death-dealing scavengers, walking dead. Formerly a scientist, and still one of sorts, I guessed, he wanted to find a cure or answer to the zombie problem. The able-bodied citizens left here in town were his loyal supporters. Reynolds explained that they had discovered that the zombies would eventually die if they didn’t feed on warm flesh. That flesh though could include human, dogs, cats and even smaller rodents and wild animals. However, what he found most disturbing was their cannibalism. If left alone, separated from a food source long enough, they would attack each other, instinctively going after the weakest or most vulnerable first, though the feeding would not sustain them for any longer time period. Reynolds best guess was that rage, motivated them during these attacks, and rage I was more than familiar with. Reynolds continued his dissertation on the dead but really had no new information that seemed useful to Bart or I. He confirmed they seemed to possess excellent hearing and low-light sight, but were all but blind in the dark. He concurred that Zs couldn’t climb, individually, but would manage to push and crawl over each other when the desire for food was great. One bit of information I did find of interest was use of fire. Reynolds stated that fire could be used to make barriers and to destroy the bodies of the dead, keeping them from reanimating. I had seen some evidence of them backing away from it but thought it to be just instinctive. I told Reynolds of the experience with the tarp one night, and how it confused the Z at the grain bins. He made some notes in a ledger and promised to try some experiments. We were provided a meal and a room for the evening, where I slept well, in the rare comfort of a bed, followed by a decent breakfast the next morning. Afterwards, we were shown to the church/laboratory. Reynolds explained how the basement of the century-old church was turned into an open-air zombie prison, nothing more than a square, deep, stonework pit. Milling around inside were roughly three-dozen Zs, in various stages of decomposition. There, remains of many more were strewn about the floor, being slowly pulverized by the incessant pacing of the still mobile remainder. It was a grotesque display of cruelty, as I saw it, and I’d just as soon kill them quickly and be done with it. Reynolds became offended by my suggestion, again citing his ongoing research and a need to know all that could be gathered about zombie mortality. We wouldn’t reach any agreements on the subject, but I didn’t want to push the issue and jeopardize our position. We were given our belongings and permission to leave. Bart and I spoke about what we had seen and agreed we wanted no part of the perverted experiments going on here. We packed and left quickly, with no goodbyes and no forewarning. The chest thumping rumble of a helicopter early one morning had us scrambling, searching the skies for the source. A flight of four U.S. Army Blackhawks swooped over us at low level, the staccato beat of the rotors fading as they went out of sight over a stand of trees. They had given no indication they had seen us, no dips or turns in their flight path suggesting they would turn back on us. Probably a good thing for us since I didn’t want to be detained again, or have our firearms confiscated. Since it was morning now, we ate quickly and set off. I wasn’t sure where the Quarantine Zone or containment area extended too, but we were coming into a volatile area for sure. These were the first government troops we’d seen, which wasn’t all bad. Perhaps some sort of order had been established. If not, we were in for some rougher times, coming into a triangle of population area, between Jonesboro, Little Rock and Memphis. We had stumbled into the outer edge of a large Q zone without realizing it. There had been no signs, no fencing or other demarcation to let us, or anyone else know. Signs of vehicle traffic had become frequent and overflights continued, luckily we were not seen as a threat or fired upon. I expected at some point to be stopped, but wanted to keep moving in case our luck held. As we neared State Highway 67, the main northbound thoroughfare out of Little Rock, it became apparent that another great exodus had taken place here. Even by rough estimate, we were still miles away from the highway; the fields and back roads were littered with the useless hulls of hundreds of cars and trucks and motorcycles, all probably abandoned after the Chinese attack. Most had been picked clean, only those with putrefied bodies inside, left idle. There was little need to try and find a runner, if one had been available, it would have been long gone. Instead, we looked for items we could use, clothing, blankets and sleeping bags and food. Food and fresh water were always on our short lists for immediate re-supply. Since losing our trailer, we had no way to carry the heavy liquid in sufficient quantities. Vitamins too, since we weren’t eating regularly or well and seldom had the luxury of cooked meals. Bart was looking gaunt, thinning in his face, and his hands looking skeletal. I supposed I wasn’t any more handsome a sight. We encountered fewer Z now too, which I thought odd at first. I then guessed that most had converged on Little Rock and the prospect of a warm, human meal. Just as well since we needed to get past here and then past Memphis, which was sure to present its share of problems too. I just wanted to ride as fast and as far as possible, to get home and put all this behind me. Bart seemed to be edgier too; the closer we got to Kentucky, and his home and family. We got to the main highway between Little Rock and Jonesboro, around noon, just in time for a heavy, cold rain shower. Neither of us had anything close to rain gear. Visibility was down to a few yards, as winds carried the rain sideways in front of us and into us. We had to walk the bikes, pushing forward, heads bowed against the stinging wind-whipped drops. We needed shelter and a chance to warm up or we stood a good chance of hypothermia. The conditions were perfect for it, our weakened physical state, being wet, and the temperature that hovered in the upper 40s. As much as I hated to repeat a previous mistake, our only choice was an overpass, tucking us onto the narrow ledge. I hoped the outcome wasn’t going to be the same. Dragging the bikes up under with us, we lashed them to the beams. We were both shivering, soaked completely. Bart complained that his wool overcoat was drenched as well and I told him to get wrapped in it anyway. The wool would still provide him a chance to generate some warmth. I did the same with the poncho liner, after stripping off my wet top and throwing on the wind shirt. It was the best we could do without a fire and I encouraged him to snack on some of the canned fruits to get his body working from the inside. The rains continued until well after dark, not giving us much opportunity for warmth or comfort. We were slowly warming and drying our clothing through body heat, a slow process. The temperature had dropped almost to freezing, and we were still shivering every time we moved even the slightest. We needed to get out of the wind. Our only alternative was to find a house or building or a large vehicle. I didn’t like being down in a less defensible position, but we didn’t have much choice. Bart was complaining of cramps, the few times he managed to speak between shakes. Bart stayed with the bikes while I scouted for some place to take refuge. At least moving around I could generate some warmth. Almost a quarter mile up the road I found a Kenworth semi-tractor rig with a double sleeper cab. Cautiously, I cracked the door open, relieved that it didn’t expel the stench of death. Using the G3, I made a quick search inside, satisfied, that it was abandoned. Making a visual sweep of the area for unwanted company first, I hopped down and went back for Bart. He was still shivering but got up and ready to move without too much complaining. As he untied his bike from the overhead beam, it slipped from his trembling hands and slid and skittered down the rocky incline, crashing against the guardrail at the bottom. We froze, listening for any indicator the noise had attracted attention. Not hearing or seeing anything, except Bart apologizing profusely, we slipped onto the road and made our way to the truck. I grabbed my pack and handed it up to Bart. I stacked both the bikes behind the rig’s rear wheels and then followed Bart up into the cab. He had already discovered the mattress double bed and rolled on to it. I was too tired and cold to get into a territorial dispute. Stripping down to the wind shirt and boxers, I draped the rest of my wet things over the front seats, rolled up in the poncho liner and faded to sleep. Bart woke me with an unintentional kick in the back, his reaction to a strong leg cramp. I felt rested and it had warmed a few degrees in the cab. The sun was also out now, adding a few more degrees of warmth, not enough that my clothes were dried yet. I spread them out on the dash, hoping the solar rays would finish the job. Going through my pack, I found breakfast, a can of peaches, some nuts and the last spoonful of peanut butter. Bart was still out, so I let him sleep while I cleaned out my pack and oiled our weapons. After a quick inventory, I found that somewhere, I had lost two fully loaded magazines for the carbine. That was 58 rounds of ammunition I hoped I wouldn’t need any time soon. I had kept a bandolier, 140 rounds, from the stocks at Paradise Springs, so I was still ok, but we were coming to a pair of large population centers and re-supply was going to be tight, if at all. Once I was repacked, I cracked open the door letting in some fresh air. Bart woke and I told him to get some more rest while I checked out the area. Dressing in a T-shirt, wind shirt and the still damp trousers, I dropped to the ground and stopped to scan the area and listen for any strange noises. Things seemed normal, as normal was now, birds flying and small rodents running back and forth across the road. Animals had become a pretty good indicator of danger and I watched them closely, listening too for their warning noises or movements. To the north, I saw there were a half dozen other semi trailers and four or five times that number of passenger cars, trucks and SUVs. I was most interested in the trailers, hoping they contained food or other supplies we could make use of. I checked out the smaller vehicles too, but more as a safety precaution than for any goods. The first trailer was padlocked, and I knew any means I could find to open it was going to create too much noise so I left it for later. The second one had on a pair of those locking metal bands, used to temporarily secure doors between drops, easily defeated with the SRK. I opened the first door to find the trailer was loaded top to bottom and front to back with palletized, crated lawn mowers. I went through the tractor cab, knowing truckers often carried handguns, but realized they probably would have taken them if they walked away from the trucks. I did find three cans of energy drink, and stuck them in my pack. On the front seat of an SUV, I spied a large black and white umbrella, a little late, but probably worth keeping. After and hour or so of searching, I returned to the semi and found Bart was still asleep. My movements and noise eventually awakened him and he complained of a headache, something that had plagued him since running into the tree. I laid out my loot on the mattress next to him. He immediately seized on partial bottle of Ibuprofen and chewed a couple tablets without water. The rest was odds and ends, half packs of gum or candy, a few bottles of assorted medications, and several butane lighters. We went through the medications first, and didn’t recognize very many, deciding to toss them rather than chance a reaction. We split up everything into equal portions and wrapped our goodies in plastic bags. Then we rested up for another night, drying out and recuperating. How many?” he asked. “Just 2, both armed.” Came the reply. The scout reported to the patrol leader on what he had observed. “And don’t worry, they had no idea I was watching.” He added. “Fine, good work. Get some chow and some rest.” His commander told him. “We can take them easily right now, or wait until they get back on their bikes and see which way they go.” The assistant patrol leader suggested. “We’ll wait. Have Rex keep an eye on them and let me know if they make a move.” The patrol leader ordered. Corporal Rex Cleary was out of his element. Rex was an admin clerk with an Army Reserve unit based in Atlanta, Georgia. Not only was he uncomfortable with guns, but also the whole idea of being outside, during inclement weather and with deadly zombies walking around, was not what he signed up for. And now, he sat in the wet grass and mud of a no longer used Interstate highway watching living people trying to survive. He was not at all happy about the way his new command operated. Their heavy- handed approach to this crisis made little sense to him. “Shouldn’t we be helping these folks instead of trying to hassle them with the new rules of martial law?” He wondered to himself. These civilians he was sent to spy on probably had no idea about the new rules, heck neither did he. They weren’t even written down. No, Rex didn’t agree with this at all, feeling instantly sorry for the two guys struggling to make some sort of life, camped out in a semi. The scout that relieved him had said the two men were armed. “So what?” he thought to himself. He wouldn’t be wandering around without a few guns himself. This was different than in the cities, where looting had been a problem early on. However, now, no one was worried about stealing TVs or expensive electronics, guns were used to kill zombies. It just wasn’t right, and he wasn’t sure what to do. There were five others in his patrol, certainly out-gunning the two hapless men in the truck. If he could only signal them somehow, let them know they were soon to be taken in to the detainment center in Little Rock. It would not go good for him, Rex knew. A court martial, maybe worse, if he got caught. He had about two hours of darkness left before daylight and the orders to capture the men. Rex slipped off his helmet and heavy armor plate carrier, taking only his weapon and mesh over vest. No one else would be awake now, he knew he was alone, and that scared him almost as much as breaking his orders. Crawling quickly through the grass, making his way to the truck, he was committed. Twice, the creaking sound of metal froze him in place, fearing someone was moving to intercept him, only to find a door or piece of metal was being blown by the breeze. Rex crept up to the side of the semi, away from his patrol’s view. He raised a hand up to the side of the fiberglass sleeper compartment, and waited, not sure yet that he could do it. Once, twice, three times he started to knock, stopping himself each time. Finally, summoning up his courage, he tapped lightly three times, waited a second and repeated. The tone had to sound man made, so he tried again, this time feeling the truck shift slightly, rocking as the occupants moved. No doubt he had their attention, just hoping they didn’t shoot first and look out the door after. The mechanical clicking of the door latch releasing sounded like a hammer blow in the quiet night air. The muzzle of a rifle, much like his own, inched out of the open door, followed by a brilliant, momentary flash of blinding white light. He squinted quickly trying to regain his vision, but only seeing spots. “I’m a friend.” He uttered, slightly more than a whisper. Verne opened the door a bit more, using the red lens on the G3 to see our “friend”, finding a young soldier, weapon slung muzzle down. “What can I do for you corporal?” he asked, seeing his collar insignia. “You have to leave here, now.” The soldier pleaded. “I saw you and so have some others. Come daylight, you’ll be arrested and transported to Little Rock Detention Center.” He explained, trying to be calm, but I could see he was nervous and hear it in his voice. “Why arrested, we haven’t done anything wrong?” I blurted back, a bit more sternly than I should have. Bart had overheard the conversation and was already packing. “You’re armed, a violation of the orders of martial law and my sergeant is a big believer in disarming people that aren’t wearing our uniform. You’re technically in a quarantine zone, even though we haven’t marked it out this far yet.” The young trooper explained. “Trust me, if you are still here in two hours, you will be taken into custody, and if you resist… Well, just don’t resist if it comes to that.” He continued, sounding genuinely concerned for us. Say no more, is all I was thinking. I turned to Bart and checked his progress and when I spun back around to our messenger, he was gone. We were on our bikes within minutes, heading cross-country to avoid being run down easily on a road. I was sure if we were spotted later, they’d have vehicles capable of following us in the fields too. I wanted as much time and distance as possible before daybreak. That young kid had stuck his neck out for us, asking nothing in return, and I didn’t want his help to go in vain. I said a silent prayer that he would fare well if his part in our escape was discovered. The going was slower than I liked, the ground was still soft from the rains, making it difficult to get up any speed. We made our way northeast, hoping any search parties would figure us to head to the closest city. The small brass compass I remembered was in my kit was crude and only gave cardinal directions, not accurate enough to do any serious land navigation with, especially in the dark. By first light, I estimated we’d made 12-13 miles, not much, but making a search for us harder. I didn’t know if they’d seen our bikes, and if not, they’d assume we were closer. We stopped to rest under a grove of trees on the side of a hill overlooking a wide valley. There was likely a river down there, among the forest, but we couldn’t see it. Twice we saw helicopters, tiny black specks in the distance behind us, but too far away for them to see us. They were looking for us, searching where we had been. I only hoped the scouts weren’t very good or couldn’t find our tracks. Hopefully too, this patrol wouldn’t really be that interested in us enough to keep looking. Off again, we found a gravel lane and sped along as quickly as possible, increasing our lead. The lane was actually a very long driveway. Coming to end at a farm with a large two-story house and several outbuildings, that would have been a great place to stop any other day, but now it would have been a natural place the searchers would expect us to hide. Reluctantly, we bypassed it and kept going. I could hear the choppers every now and then, sounding closer, meaning they were expanding the search area, pushing us to move faster and farther. I hoped that they hadn’t found our tracks and were trying to herd us into another force up ahead. We rode all day, zigzagging down farm lanes, cow paths, back roads, and through fields. We were exhausted, wet and caked in mud, by the time we broke for dinner. It would be dark soon, too dark to continue. We needed a place to lie up, rest up and plan our next move. If our pursuers were still after us, and using the helicopters, they probably had forward-looking-infra-red (FLIR) capabilities. We found a small barn, standing alone in a field, the crumbling foundation of a long-collapsed house nearby, trees growing up through the old, stone walls. Inside and around the back of the barn were stacks of straw bales. We made a thorough check of the area and the inside. The upper floor had mostly collapsed down to the ground level, quite some time ago. The smell of more straw, some of it rotting, filled the damp, musty air inside the structure. After stashing the bikes in a corner and covering them with loose straw, we burrowed out a snug little spot for us under part of the hanging upper deck. I pulled out a Mylar space blanket from my kit and stretched it over our hide hole and tossed more straw on top to conceal it. Bart gave me a quizzical look. I explained about the FLIR and how the blanket might reflect the light and also would cover our body heat signature enough to make us invisible or at least smaller. A smaller signature might have the pilot thinking we were small mammals and bypass us. As much as we enjoyed the cushy bedding, the warmth it provided was even more welcome, giving us a chance at a decent night’s rest. There was no sound of helicopters throughout the night; however, I think I slept so soundly, I might not have noticed if they had landed one right outside. By morning we were warm, rested and hungry. I took a quick peek out from under our shelter, making sure we hadn’t been surrounded by troops or accompanied by some emaciated walking dead. We ate a few small handfuls of nuts and split one can of the energy drink. I was disappointed we were down to such meager supplies. We had to find something to eat and stock up on soon, the prospect of starving was not very exciting. We could forage for wild berries and other natural foods, but would probably spend more calories and energy than we gained. Also, we didn’t have the time, not knowing if we were still being followed. Our maps were useless, not showing any of the roads we were using of crossing. We had outrun them and I didn’t have a good idea where we were. We could maintain a rough eastbound heading and pray it brought us somewhere near some food. By noon, we had put on nearly twenty miles, feeling more comfortable that we had given our hunters the slip. The sounds of vehicle traffic got us off our bikes and into a tree line as we approached a hilltop. On our bellies, we crept through the forest until we found a vantage point, overlooking a section of four-lane highway. There were trucks, Humvees, and semi-trailer rigs flowing southbound in a long convoy. This was the largest concentration of living, breathing people we had seen in months. What a relief, a positive symbol of life, things from days past. And yet, we dared not approach or make contact for fear we would be arrested and taken to some government facility. Of course, the troops involved probably believed they were making things safer for the people they collected, but I’d just as soon take my chances on my own. The sides of the road were cluttered with countless dead and decaying Z bodies. The shoulders were lined with shipping containers, semi trailers, buses, Hesco baskets, and other obstacles to keep the dead off the roadway. Any gaps were crisscrossed with coils of barbed wire. Atop some of the barrier were armed soldiers, patrolling, pacing to and fro. An occasional shot was fired along the line, but didn’t seem to garner much attention. Our problem was going to be getting across the road without being seen, stopped or shot. That meant spending the next few hours observing patterns of patrol, looking for weak spots or a place we could exploit. Right now, it didn’t look good, as the barriers ran as far as I could see in both directions. There was no telling how far we would have to go to find a way around it if we couldn’t go through it. I searched the maps again and tried to determine what road this was and how far we were from any city. If I was right, we were watching Interstate 55, close to Memphis. If I was wrong I was completely lost. If I was right, we were more or less screwed. Besides trying to get across this road and barrier, our next hurdle would be even more dangerous. A few miles past the Interstate was the Mississippi River! If we made it past these problems, we would be coming into our largest intensity of bloodthirsty zombies. The only good news today was that there had to be stores and shops and places we could go to find, trade or steal food and supplies, if they weren’t already picked clean. I almost hoped that the citizens of Memphis had been too busy they hadn’t gotten out to scavenge everything. But first, we had to get over the blocked road. Almost predictably, as dusk encroached, the flesh eaters started to show up, drawn by the sounds of the many convoys rolling through or some other instinct. Why they always preferred dark, or where they stayed during the day, I didn’t know, but was certainly curious about. At six o’clock sharp, a claxon sounded, exciting and infuriating the Zs. The guard force atop the trailers climbed down and assembled on the roadway. Already a larger rival contingent had gathered outside the barriers, pounding, moaning and growling and just milling around. I could see that about forty soldiers had filed into ranks and were called to attention. Although I couldn’t hear the commands, I knew by the sharp military movements. Perhaps a changing of the unit was taking place. Within minutes, they broke apart, loaded onto vehicles and headed south. We saw no other convoys or traffic after this. I could only assume that this was part of the daily routine, since they didn’t appear panicked or hurried as if responding to an emergency. We must be in the Q zone, but was glad we were left more or less alone, only the zombies that were now quiet and patiently waiting for the humans to return to keep us company. We decided to wait a while longer and were rewarded when the dead began to break up and drift away. Unfortunately, when we were ready to move they would become active, looking at us for a quick meal. It certainly wasn’t going to make our passage any easier. We selected a portion of barbed fencing as our entry point. I pulled out my multi-tool and rigged a short wrist strap so I wouldn’t lose them if we had to brawl with some of the assembled creatures. We readied our gear and bikes and moved a few yards at a time to the fence, each time stopping to check for any movement at us. Hopefully, if we didn’t make noise or any quick movements, we wouldn’t be interesting. Taking nearly an hour, we got to the fence and I had Bart hold one side or the wire and I the other as I cut a swath. I was relieved that no booby traps or flares were attached to the fencing. Apparently the guard force was not worried about a breech at night because they weren’t here. After passing the bikes through, we did our best to weave the fence back together to disguise our intrusion and to give us a little more time if the Zs made at us. Once on the road, it was much easier to move on the hard surface. There was no similar fencing on the other side of the road and so we rode along slowly, trying to be quiet until we found a place to cross. I was certain the guard force, if regularly assigned this same section, would have staged some supplies, maybe MRE meals or bottled water, yet sadly it was too dark to see or search for. Not knowing the schedule either, I didn’t want us to get caught here. More than a mile south, we found an intersection that looked like a good place to exit the convoy road. A fairly steep embankment was a natural zombie deterrent and wasn’t barricaded. We would be able to slide down the slope easy enough. It was decision time. We could stay on the highway and make some fast miles but face possible roadblocks, or we could go over land and take our chances with the Zs, mobile troops and the unknown. We chose the latter and went over the edge into the darkness. We found quickly that the roads weren’t marked, or the markers had been taken down, and I still didn’t have a clue where we were. It had become a constant in our lives and I tried not to let it bother me. I found no point in fretting over things I couldn’t control. We had to keep our guard up now, knowing there could be troops in the area, not knowing where they garrisoned. Using the roads was going to be risky at night, and even though they were easier for travel, our progress would be slow. More time away from family, and I was tired of the seemingly endless trek, wishing only to be home. We were breaking our routine by traveling at night, but there wasn’t much else we could do at this time. We needed to get away from any force that would hinder or endanger our freedom. Riding for hours, we saw plenty of Zs, but must have surprised them from their dozing wanderings, as we coasted by, nearly silent on the bikes. We were actually making good time and distance this way, enough to make me rethink such travel more often. There were a few scary moments when we bumped into a small pack of Z mongrels. Six or seven of the hideous wretches came down the road at us, shoulder to shoulder, or some similar formation, because Bart and I hit them like a wall was in front of us. We all tumbled, fumbling for solid footing. My carbine plowed into the stomach of one of the things and it screeched, flailing arms at me. I could only just make out its movements, looking up and silhouetting its outline against the starry sky. I heard a couple of thuds to my left, assuming Bart was swinging like a madman at any noise in front of him. I couldn’t free the rifle barrel from my adversary, but managed to bump the fore end light momentarily, giving me an instant flash bulb second to assess the threat. It also blew my night vision, leaving me with only blinking lights in front of me. I figured there was no sense fighting fair at this point and dug for the G3. Even with the red lens cover in place, I was able to make out the rest of the villains in my way. My carbine was stuck fast because the Z that was affixed to it was holding on with both hands. I squeezed the quick-release buckle on the sling around my neck and let it go, sending the jerk stumbling backward. Bart had downed two of the rotted figures already and moved toward a third with the aid of the light. I grabbed my SRK and went after another that was trying to get to its feet, jamming the thick blade down into the base of its skull. Mr. Carbine grabber was having a hard time rolling over to get to his feet with the length of gun metal sticking out of him, so I left him for last and rammed a shoulder into one of the others, knocking him down and going to work on him with a string of kicks to the head. Bart meanwhile, clubbed the last one into pieces with the bat. I approached the gun thief and he must have known death was close as he hissed and drooled at me, until I stabbed the knife into his head. I recovered the carbine and reattached the sling around my neck but didn’t know if I could carry it there long, the stench from the dead was all over it. Come daylight, I would need to clean it meticulously. |
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Originally Posted By fast45:
Im glad you are all enjoying the story. Ive had some requests to publish it. Given the expense, I would like some ideas as to what you think. Next chapter will be up soon as I check one more time for typos. I would have no problem shelling out $$$ to get a published version of this. Its as good if not better than the last few Zombie books I have read(World War Z , etc.). I hope that answers your question...now give us the next chapter!!!!! 
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Chapter 11
Big Muddy and Miss B Basically, we had only made more work for ourselves, we had reached the Mississippi river and not at a crossing. We were, as close as I could figure, somewhere just north of Memphis, and the only other crossing I remembered was forty some miles north. 40 miles on a meandering river road, unable to see what lie ahead in the curves was not much of an invitation. And Memphis would be a bustle of activity from multitudes of Zs in daylight and at night, and government troops patrolling the perimeter. We chose the river road, knowing painfully well, that it would add two days more to our quest. The only bright side was that there were many houses along the banks of the river and some of them had to have food and a boat. If we could find one, we’d cut that time off quickly, being able to shoot straight across the big watercourse in short order. It didn’t take long to regret getting off the straight, smooth and mostly deserted interstate. While the scenery was awesome, the river road wound and turned, following the course of the waterway. If we weren’t negotiating the curves, we were fighting the ups and downs of the rolling hills, some of them quite long and grueling. My legs ached from the exertion as well as from our improper diet. To add even more delay and distress to our ride, a relatively constant flow of walking dead ambled down the asphalt, with us dodging them and avoiding their attempts to grab us off our bikes. There was no reason to their direction, some going north, others south. I would love to know what motivation guided these things. With so many out and about we had to be careful of which houses we wanted to stop at to look for a boat. We agreed to only check those places with longer driveways, offering some seclusion, and then only if there were no Zs around to see where we went off the road. We certainly didn’t want to get pinned with our backs to the river. We took turns riding point, that person only to be concerned with watching the road for Zs or vehicles. The rear bike could then concentrate on finding houses, looking for boats and searching for possible sources of food. Bart located a place and whistled me back to him. We checked the road, making sure we were alone, before dropping off to the tree-lined driveway. The incline was a nice touch, perfect for coasting down to the house, giving our weary legs a break. We rolled down to a very nicely done log style cabin with matching boathouse. There were no vehicles visible and no signs of life from the house or the surroundings. We went around back to further conceal us from the road. I knocked on the back door, hoping not to catch a bullet if the place was still occupied. After getting no answer, I tried the knob and found it was unlocked. We entered and locked the door and began a quick search, not finding anyone home. The place was so well maintained and neatly appointed, I almost felt guilty intruding. The décor suggested an older couple, probably retired and well to do, had resided here. Every wall had pictures of family and grandkids and good times, making me long once more for my own place and kin. We must have been the first or only people here since the outbreak and the breakdown of civilization. I got the feeling that the owners were close by, but we didn’t find them in the house. We did find food, lots of it, actually more than we would be able to carry. Dinner would be here tonight. We were secluded and had the run of the place, not seeing a soul or Z since we arrived. Bart tried the stove but said there was no electricity. I tried and heard the soft hiss of propane, just no igniters. Checking the drawers, I found a box of strike anywhere matches and lit the stove. “Sweet” Bart exclaimed, flashing one of his big grins. Tonight it was going to be a hot meal. I dumped 3 cans of hearty vegetable soup in a pan and put it on for a slow simmer while we inspected the cupboards, and emptied the contents onto the table and counters. We could eat our fill and decide what to take after supper. After a couple bowls of soup, with crackers and soda, we lounged in the front room, overlooking the river. I needed to rest my feet and clean my boots and was finally able to change into some clean, dry socks thanks to our absent hosts. I still wanted to check out the boathouse before dark, but a few minutes of much appreciated comfort in an overstuffed leather recliner convinced me to wait. Giving ourselves plenty of time before dark, we set out to the boathouse. It seemed like any other autumn day, two guys strolling down to the river to hop in a boat and doing some fishing. The boathouse was nice, with an upper floor, completely furnished, and above the three-sided walkway around the boat launch. Sadly, the old residents were here, the female laid out in a recliner, the male on the floor beside her. Both were dead from single gunshots to the head, a small revolver still in the man’s grasp. The forces of nature and some animals had helped break down the bodies. We covered them with a pair of curtains and said a quick prayer over their remains, thanking them for the food and supplies they were unknowingly providing to us. I took the pistol, a Ruger SP101 with 3 rounds still in the cylinder, and stuffed it in my pocket. Down in the lower section we found a beautifully restored, or perhaps original, wooden Chris Craft boat, almost too pretty to leave abandoned as our plans called for. Someday, someone was going to have himself or herself a real nice piece of history, but it wasn’t going to be us today. The engine had been pulled and sat covered on a stand in the corner. Another of those irritating ups and downs that were so much a part of my life lately. On the river side of the building, we found our transport, a dull green, flat-bottomed, aluminum johnboat; compete with a tiny four horsepower outboard motor. This was more like it, the plain Jane, rugged and dependable option, provided the engine would fire. We wouldn’t have the luxury of trying it until just before we were ready to go, but if it didn’t work we could still paddle. I planned to stretch my back and arms later, just in case. We went back inside the house to finish packing and get some rest. This place was even equipped with a backup generator that I would loved to have started up and then cranked up a radio, TV or anything to have a few minutes of normalcy, but using it would only draw the dead. We filled the sinks and water containers with as much water as we could before the pressure dropped off. There were a couple 12 packs of bottled half liters of water we planned to stash away for the journey. What we couldn’t drink we used to clean up with. Everything was going smoothly so I knew something was probably wrong. We, or should I say I, discovered that Bart no longer had his rifle. I had assumed he had broken it down to fit in his pack, but he sheepishly confessed to having forgotten it when we discarded the cart. Did he still have his .22 pistol? Of course, not. When we were forced to leave Paradise ahead of schedule, it was never attached to his chest rig. Instead, it was rolled up with the rifle and now left to rust away on the cart, on some forgotten back road. I could have gotten really upset at this point and was surprised I didn’t, although he sensed my displeasure. He wasn’t a member of the gun culture. He had no experience with firearms, and wasn’t used to carrying one everyday, so forgetting it wasn’t so far fetched. His weapons, aside from the bat, were gone and there was no need to worry or complain about them now. We ate another, smaller meal and readied our stuff by the back door. We each used one of the bathrooms and enjoyed a few minutes of that ancient memory, even though there was no water, there was real toilet paper, something I managed to rat away a couple rolls of for later. I found a couple clean T-shirts and boxers, stuffing them into my pack, and a fresh pair of socks in each thigh pocket of my trousers. While going through the house, I found a partial box of .38 special shells for the owner’s revolver. Although it was chambered for the more powerful .357 Magnum cartridge, these less potent 38s would work just fine. I topped off the cylinder and tossed the other 19 rounds in my vest pocket. We were all set now and sacked out for a few hours, waiting for our scheduled go time, 4 a.m. I wanted to time our trip so that we could move under the cover of darkness, but make it to the other side in time for daybreak so we could see what faced us. If all went well, we should be across the mile-wide expanse in 20 minutes and could then anchor off shore until dawn. If we had to row, or ran into difficulties, we should still have enough time. We managed to wake up and leave on time, finding the air was chill and a good breeze was in our face. Rowing, if it came to that, would be a bit of challenge. But, the little motor fired up and ran smoothly and quiet, chugging us easily against the current. Coming up to the opposite shore we could just make out the looming, forested banks, offering us no place to land. We drifted downstream, finally finding a flatter spot with a sandy beach area, backed by a few pavilions and parking areas of some sort of County Park. The roar of a pair of low flying fighter jets caused us to duck just as the sun was breaking over the eastern horizon. Another day in Memphis Q zone was starting. I knew we were closer than we should be when we could hear the buzz of the guns and booms of rockets in the distance. We had no choice and set out to get it over with. The first few miles were easy; we were well rested, clean, and dry and had eaten our fill for change. The easy wore off rather quickly as we started up the hills away from the river valley. We reached the plateau and could, with no trouble, see the Memphis cityscape. Black coils of smoke rose up from numerous locations, and bent over in the breeze to follow the last of the early dawn clouds. The fight for Memphis was still on. We watched for a number of minutes as the jets streaked toward the downtown, then arced upward, racing away in big loops. I imagined they were making gun runs on packs of howling zombies that had defiantly refused to seek cover, or camera ships making a photo assay of the carnage. I could here the booms and cracks but we were so far off the exact location was hard to pinpoint. About a mile south of us, we could see the interstate curving north from the eastern bank, crossing the river and disappearing to the west bank beyond a wooded ridgeline. The area opened up into a light industrial complex with suburban streets laid out in standard grid formations. Some of the streets still had name signs and advised general direction. We kept to the east-west travel ways as much as possible and were able to ride comfortably on the paved surfaces. There were a few vehicles moving around, but no one approached us as they darted behind buildings, small plants and trucking warehouses. I was sure they were scavenging, moving through the buildings to find what they needed to survive or trade to make life bearable. A few Zs roamed around and we were able to steer clear of them and they soon gave up chasing us as we peddled away. We came to a small strip mall, sporting a couple of dozen specialty shops, and a large supermarket, which had burned to the foundation. I spotted an outdoor recreational store and wanted to stop. We went around back but couldn’t get in from there. Back in front, I had to break the glass on the front door for entry. I directed Bart to the boot area and suggested he find some proper footwear, anything better than the worn loafers he clung to. I looked for the two best down sleeping bags I could find, something that could be packed small and light but provided decent cold protection. A scream out front interrupted our shopping. I shouldered the carbine and moved to the door. I didn’t see anyone, only a small mob of dead pacing around at the end of the parking lot. They weren’t interested in us and I started to turn back when another scream called out. Bart was next to me now, searching for the woman making the pleas for help. “I don’t see her,” he said. I couldn’t either, but I did see the group of Z answered in unison with deep growls. There had to be someone near them that we weren’t able to see, but had possibly seen us. Another yell, not really any recognizable words, but an impatient, frustrated call. I checked the parking area in both directions, seeing only two more Zs headed into the area. That made eight, none of them even aware we were here. We had to help; any living person was rare enough to deserve that. We made a quick plan and I jogged across the lot to the back of a service station, while Bart moved up along the storefronts. We both started to yell, to distract the rotting, gray monsters away from their gathering. Two of us, in two locations would give them something to work on and with any luck, would split up the group. They all snapped around like a dinner bell had gone off, and started to break from their little clutch. I didn’t want to shoot, not yet at least, and chance drawing too large a crowd from elsewhere, so I armed myself with a rusty piece of square pipe from a scrap pile behind the shop. Our plan was working, I just desired it to end the way we wanted and none of these things got lucky. No sooner had the group of flesh feasters began to walk at us, the girl in trouble called out again, re-attracting them. I still couldn’t see her, thinking she must be trapped in one of the many cars left in the mall parking lot. I yelled to her, telling her to be quiet and that we were going to help her. Just the sound of my voice was enough to excite them again to my direction. And then Bart shouted too, for an instant the savages paused, not sure which way to go. They chose their sides for whatever reasoning or attractiveness to a meal they used, five stumbling towards me in a ragged wedge formation. Three others went for Bart, more or less, shoulder to shoulder. I moved closer, trying to get to the nearest one first. He was close to my height, a shade over six-foot, wearing a tattered dark blue business suit, a nice tie and no shoes. His feet had once been bloody and cut, but now they were nearly black, from dried blood or Z ooze, with chunks of flesh missing. I caught him in the neck and shoulder, missing his head and surprised that he had ducked back slightly, as if knowing the blow was coming. The strike was hard enough to knock him down and trip up another one of the creatures. Two of the three still standing had their arms outstretched and came at me with no regard for their fallen brethren. I moved right, quickly getting a bit behind the next closest and smacked her with the bar, right above the ear, dropping her in a heap. She was still writhing until I turned the bar vertical and jammed it down into the back of her head. Glancing over at Bart, I saw that he had dropped one already but was back-peddling from the other two. I made another quick change of direction and slammed the metal tube against the back of the neck of my third target, his head dropping to his chest and he collapsed. I found it easy to outmaneuver them if I made sudden changes in speed and directions. They would turn at only about half my speed and I managed to get behind them and swing. My fourth assailant was a younger male, with long, dirty, blond hair tied in a messy ponytail, and a wispy mustache and beard. He was wearing a dark gray work shirt from the service station we were fighting behind. The nametag on his shirt read, MEL. MEL came at me snarling and snapping his teeth angrily. His fingertips were bloody and pieces of bone protruded from where the nails once were, telling me he had either clawed his way out of somewhere or spent some time clawing at a living person recently. His color was not as pale or gray as the others and I only guessed that this meant he had died a short time ago, most likely from the gapping hole in his stomach. Just as I was about to swing the pipe at MEL, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Another creature was almost on me; one I hadn’t seen before, letting me know our fight was making more commotion than I wanted and drawing others. I lunged forward from its reaching grab and felt a tug as it seized onto my backpack shoulder strap. I fumbled for the belt buckle to drop the pack, but was pulled back and off my balance, landing on top of the slimy killer. The mechanic ghoul, MEL, took the opportunity to go for my legs and I kicked at him to keep his teeth off me, feeling his bony fingers scrape the toes of my boots, clawing for a handhold. The thing under me was wrapping my arms up tightly, slowing my ability to fight. I head-butted him but I think it hurt me much more than him, because he never loosened his grip. I kicked MEL in the face and sent him rolling away. The other ghoul was now almost on me, and I managed to stand the pipe on end just as he dropped down towards my mid-section with teeth bared, catching him in the mouth. He was finished but keeled over ripping the bar out of my hands, still embedded in his face. The thickness of my pack was protecting my back and neck, not letting the miserable, stinking, wretch under me sink his nasty teeth into me. But he was holding me down, making it hard to do much but kick to defend myself. I fought for some clearance, enough arm swing to grab for my Sig, making a quick shot into MEL’s face just as I cleared the Kydex holster. The creature under me went berserk, I think from the sound of the shot, not from fear that I could kill him just as easily. His arms flailed and I tried to slam an elbow into his head, his neck, anything that might make him release me. Looking back, I saw the last of my group standing over my head, his hands slowly reaching for my face. I canted the pistol up, firing an SXT hollow point, nearly pointblank, into his face, instinctively closing my eyes and mouth for the expected shower of filth. Thankfully, the entry wound was small and most of the thing’s gray matter, or in this case, black matter, sprayed out behind him. That left only the persistent bastard under me. I couldn’t holster the weapon with him fighting me and I didn’t want to try and fire at him so close to my ears, so I tossed the pistol to a nearby curb. I fought again for the buckles and cut myself loose, rolling out of the pack and away. I scrambled to the curb and grabbed up the pistol while my enemy was busy wrestling with my backpack, no doubt thinking he had ripped a chunk off me. I stepped over and aimed at his forehead and fired. After making a quick 360-degree sweep of the area for more Zs, I looked for Bart, but didn’t see him right away. Then, he stood up from between a couple of parked cars, and I watched his making a few overhead swings with the bat, finishing off whatever was between the cars with him. It was over, for now, and I knew we had to hurry; the gunshots would certainly draw more of these deadly, hideous creatures to us. I gathered up my pack and noticed how exhausted I was trying to put it on, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the buckles. We had to move quickly, before the adrenaline wore off and we would want to crash, hard. “You ok, pal?” I called to Bart. He waved and started over to where the girl’s screams had come. I started checking cars and trucks and didn’t see her. “Lady, where are you at?” I yelled. I heard some kind of noise, more grunting than words from my right, but still didn’t see her. “Come on, we haven’t much time, tell me where you are.” I urged. She let out a frustrated scream and I looked for the source, seeing a movement, then eight scrawny fingers sticking out of grated drain at the end of a row of parking stalls. “Bart, over here” I shouted. I rushed over and looked down to see a half naked girl, no more than 20, clinging to the grate, her feet wedged against the cement walls so she could reach the surface. Bart and I lifted the heavy iron grate off and each reached in a hand to pull her out. Once her feet hit the ground, she bolted off to the service station, without a word. “Fine thanks we get for rescuing the fair maiden.” Bart smiled. We didn’t have time to go after her and she seemed to know where she was going. We walked quickly back to the bikes and finished shopping. I found a section with climbing equipment and cut two twenty foot section of decent rope, so each of us could tie off easier when trying to sleep, hanging from a tree or bridgework. Climbing harnesses would have been ideal but I couldn’t find them. I grabbed a handful of carabiners; some wired wedges and other fastening devices and started to clip them onto my pack and chest rig. I hoped Bart was finding some good, sturdy footwear, including some decent socks for us both. Before all these troubles, I could have spent half a day in a place like this, but we didn’t have that kind of time today. “How are you doing over there?’ I asked. Bart gave me thumbs up and held up a boot. Good, one problem down. We needed sleep gear and rain wear as well. I jogged over to a hanging sleeping bag display and found a couple good ones that compacted well. Rainwear was not my usual color choices of earth tones, but I guessed that at the discounted prices we were getting, I couldn’t be too picky. I managed to find a pair of suits in Navy blue and grabbed a couple floppy hats to match. My arms were full, so I carried the stuff up to the bikes by the front door. As I dropped this load off, I looked outside and saw we had company in the area. About a dozen Zs had come together in our earlier killing grounds, looking as if they were investigating a crime scene and trying to find a trail to a suspect. And no sooner had I thought it, than they turned and walked right over to Bart’s first kill. Some how they knew where to find the bodies. Not a good time for us. I tossed a clothes hanger over towards Bart to get his attention and motioned for him to be quiet and join me. Since I had broken the door earlier, we couldn’t even lock it or stall them if they found us. “Let’s move our stuff to the back of the store” I whispered. We were almost done shopping it seemed, but we needed much more. The store had several carriers that could attach to our bikes, and I just hoped one of them had the fittings in place so we could affix it quickly. I put Bart on the project. Grabbing a couple of mesh laundry bags, I went over to the freeze-dried foods are and started stuffing them full. It was lightweight and not bad tasting, provided we could get enough potable water. I threw in a small camp stove and some spare bottles of compressed gas for it. Some plastic tableware and cups went in the bag as well. There was so much more we could use, but a growl from near the front door told me the sale was over. I ducked and hurried down the aisle to the bikes and saw Bart had managed to get the blue and yellow kid cart onto my bike. Stuffing all the supplies inside the cart, I told him we had to go. I would check the back entrance and if it was clear, we were gone. The commotion out front was louder and I could hear several different growling voices so I knew they were massing. I chanced a look and wished I hadn’t, as at least a dozen foul looking mugs were staring back at me. And the choir of hisses and screeches that followed as I ducked back down told me that they had already seen me. The push bar on the door wasn’t going to hold them long now. A squeal of car tires out back surprised us and I bolted for the door to look. It was our missing damsel, returned to rescue us now, backing up to the door in an old beat up Chevrolet pickup. She signaled us to come, and the rapid waving of her arms told me she wasn’t going to wait long. I yelled for Bart to grab his bike and go. I ran back into the store, hoping our ride didn’t leave. We burst out the back, lugging our stuff and I saw the girl sprint past me, into the store. She was dressed now, in a long, gray, work shirt from the service station. We struggled to load the bikes and new trailer into the back of the truck and our driver returned quickly, and tossed a few items in the bed. She had a gallon can of lantern gas in her hand, and using a screwdriver, punched a couple holes in it and tossed it in the back door of the store, followed by a burning book of matches. With a whoosh, the fuel ignited and she ran to the truck, hopped in behind the wheel and stomped on the gas. We raced out from behind the mall and I could see scores of walking dead congregating on the parking lot where we had killed the others. Not a word was said for a few minutes, even though we all must have had questions. It just seemed unnecessary at the time, until we were a safe distance away. We stopped at the edge of the improved area, where the more rural roads and surroundings had not yet given themselves to man’s encroachment. At first, I thought this girl was going to throw us out, but she put the truck in park and turned in the seat to face us. She mouthed the words; “Thank You” but no sound accompanied it. I smiled and nodded, extending my hand and introduced my companion and myself. She didn’t answer, only nodded back, showing little emotion. I pointed to the nametag on her oversized shirt and then at her. She shook her head no, then pointed out the front windshield and turned both palms up, indication she wanted to know which way we were going. I answered, “east, and you?” She nodded and shifted in her seat, setting the truck in motion. East it was then. |
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WOW great update!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Keep up the good work!! Not trying to nitpik here but I only found 1 spelling error that I can remember. "I went over to the freeze-dried foods are and started stuffing them full." I'll assume that is supposed to read area. AKASL LIVE ZOMBIE FREE OR DIE |
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Chapter 12
Back to Where This Started We were in the middle of a Q zone, north and east of Memphis. Lucy seemed to know the roads around this area and still we had to go slow. Unlike us, she preferred to travel at night, using the darkness to avoid government patrols, which were frequent. She had control of the vehicle and any progress we made was all right by me. Lucy would hop from one station in her former chain to another, affording us entry and so we could pull the truck inside, out of the view of any passing vehicles or people, living or living dead. It also made for a series of places to sleep. Out of the weather, as an added benefit, we didn’t need to be as quiet, tucked away in inner offices, as we rested. Our soft conversations and movements were concealed nicely within the building walls. We raided the vending machines and drank our fill of water from coolers and spare tanks. Life was a little easier and much more relaxed, except at night. Driving with the lights off on roads I knew nothing about was nerve-racking and I hated it even though I understood the need. We had avoided detection during the days, but constantly ran into wandering corpses on the roads. For the most part, Lucy used the truck to bump many of them from our path, or simply passed by their reaching grabs. Try as we might, she wouldn’t speak to us and was often moody and sullen. She would write out short messages about where we were headed or how far we had left to go, but never anything personal. I was sure she could talk, since I had heard her scream, but admitted to myself that that alone really didn’t mean much. Bart was enthralled with her, doing all manner of little helpful deeds for her, most of which she ignored or shook her head at or gave him strange looks. I thought it was cute and did not discourage his attempts to get her to open up or at least relax. Whenever she wandered off to do her personal business or check out a new room, she always took with her the titanium golf club. It was a good choice for her diminutive form, in that it was strong and fast and hit hard. This she demonstrated a few times against some unwitting bad guys. She didn’t fight fair and Bart and I both appreciated that about her. She would break bones with ease and I don’t remember her ever having to make a second strike on any headshot. We rode along, always trying to make progress to the east, but often making lengthy detours around downed bridges or other impasses. We had some new road maps, taken from one of the last stations we visited before exhausting Lucy’s memory banks. I opened one up and asked her where she wanted to go. She took a marker and drew a line across the sheet, bisecting it completely. Obviously, she had no plans for Kentucky or Tennessee. She then wrote out the letters IN and circled them. I didn’t have the maps but knew Indiana was north of us, through Tennessee. I accepted that we would travel together a bit longer, but at some point she was going to split. Bart too had checked out the maps and decided going home was going to be harder than originally planned, the Q zones forcing us away. For his help thus far, I offered to go the distance with him and help him get back if at all possible. He tried to put me off the topic but I was insistent and meant it. He had saved my life and I figured that meant something. He didn’t have to like it. At the end of out first week we had only made about 100 miles. Not at all fast enough, or far enough for me. But I was certain it was as safe as we could go seeing more and more helicopters and light planes above us during the daylight. Pushing our chances would only get us seen, or worse, stopped. I didn’t know if the area patrols were as unfriendly as the one behind us and was happy not to find out the hard way. Some things though are out of ones control and the spotlight from a helicopter the next night had us centered in bright white light, even as we rolled along slowly, pretending not to notice. When the angry looking machine raced ahead and descended to a low hover just over the road in front of us, we had to stop. This wasn’t a troop carrier, but a Marine Corps AH1W Super Cobra gunship, one of the meanest and most lethal such aircraft out there. I figured we were done for, knowing they would most likely just hold us here until a ground unit arrived and carted us away. It was time to try a personal approach and plead our cause. I shucked out of my war gear and stepped out, armed only with the 9mm pistol, securely holstered and in plain view. I interlocked my fingers behind my head and stepped a few feet out in front of the truck, watching uncomfortably as the three-barreled cannon in the chopper’s chin turret stayed centered on my chest. No voice commands came as I approached a few more steps, certain that they understood they owned this situation. The bird settled to the roadway and the rotor slowed only slightly, but still kept a swirl of grass and debris floating around me. “STOP, make no moves closer. Unholster the weapon slowly and place it on the ground to your left.” Commanded one of the men inside. I wasn’t moving a muscle more than they said; even as the main rotor dropped significant speed, winding down to an eventual stop. A minute later, the front hatch opened and the pilot climbed out. “You either have a set of stone balls mister or aren’t impressed by this death machine” he said to me patting the side of the helicopter. “Neither one, Sir, and Semper Fi” I replied, using a time honored Marine greeting. “Just a guy trying to get home and some hot shot lands in the middle of my road” I said in my best Gunny Ermy voice. “Your road is it?” the major chuckled back, stepping out from under the rotor blade. “Only a old and bold jarhead would dare to want to claim ownership of this forsaken, useless piece of shit you call a road. That would make you a grunt, for only a ground pounder could appreciate this piece of terrain for its beauty.” The major laughed. “Put your hands down, pick up your weapon.” He said and offered a hand. “Major Evan Elmer” he advised. I took his hand and introduced my companions and myself. The major asked that Bart and Lucy step out, unarmed. Once they did, he walked over to the truck and picked up my carbine, giving it a quick look over before stripping the magazine out and ejecting the green tip round. “This my friend, will cause you all kinds of hell.” He advised, then paused and added, “If some of the dog faces catch you with it.” “Fill us in please. There hasn’t been any sign warning of martial law, other than from troops. Not one sign, or pamphlet, nothing. How are we supposed to travel?” I asked. The major was happy to do so and waved to the co-pilot to join us. “First thing is, they don’t want you traveling, spreading the disease. And it is some nasty disease, based on a very aggressive strain of HIV and Bird Flu, with some other ugly additives, thanks to our former trading partner, China. So far, there is no cure, nothing that even slows it down, except a bullet to the brain. As of this time, they think the mechanism of transmittal is saliva based, and takes only an hour to work. But I bet I’m not telling you much you probably haven’t witnessed or figured out yet.” He said. While that much was true, I wanted to hear it, and from someone that had actually seen or experienced something outside of the small exposure I had been living. “As a plan to contain the spread was totally inadequate, a total shutdown was ordered about a month ago. That was 2 months too late. Anyway, it was silly, way too over-aggressive if you ask me or most anyone else, since the source of the infection was everywhere. They knew that and so did every single person exposed or experiencing it. Just about every family had lost someone. “As far as moving, I can’t say why not, since its pretty fucking easy to recognize one of the infected ones. Sorry Ma’am” he apologized to Lucy for the language and she smiled warmly, a first for her. “And I’m not about to be the insensitive jerk who tells you that you can’t go home” he said. “So, how do we get through?” Bart asked. “Just like you are doing now, slowly, quietly, and cautiously. Night is your best bet, as you seemed to have found out. You only need another 25-35 miles to get out of this zone and then you’re free sailing for a while until you get near the Jackson Control area. Try and swing south of JC to avoid any patrols, and once past there, you have a long, tough slog through some rugged back country before you get to the Tennessee River. Steal a boat and get across that and then, proving you’re making about 20 miles a day, you should come to I65, around Columbia Control area. Go south of that or you won’t like where you end up” he warned, pulling the map over so I could see it and take some notes. The Q zone and Control areas were smaller as they went east until Chattanooga, where we would have to move north quite a distance. “There are relocation facilities, basically detention or holding centers, here, here, here and here” the major advised, pointing them out on the map. “I’ve never agreed with the reasoning, but someone in Washington thought it was a grand idea to take everyone there and then they could easier define the free fire zones for the zombies or rotters or whatever you want to call them. To me, it’s like a lure to draw the damn things out to be slaughtered. Not all in all a bad idea, except it never seems to work out that the good people, the real people all make it. I’ve seen reports and heard it from other pilots, that in some places they can’t kill them fast enough to stop them from getting through and tearing up some good guys.” He finished. “And the plan does work pretty darned well, most of the time” the co-pilot, Warrant Officer Pat Greeson, added. “It’s damned discouraging though to go out and gun down a couple thousand or your former fellow Americans, then come back the next day and see just as many more coming right at you. Gives me a whole new respect for the guys at Rourke’s Drift or the Little Big Horn,” he stated. Everyone nodded in agreement. I could only imagine what the citizens inside the detention area felt, seeing the creatures coming for them each day, having little to do to defend themselves and relying solely on others for their daily existence. He was right; we didn’t want any part of it. Major Elmer was genuinely concerned for us trying to make it through the layered zones and control areas east of here. He had shown us a route, albeit long and arduous, let us copy his maps as much as we could, but didn’t seem very optimistic about our chances. “If you make it past the next fifty to sixty miles, you’ll be in good shape for a piece, otherwise, plan for a very long winter. I haven’t heard what plans are after that, and I’m sure no one really knows what to expect. Are you sure that old truck can make it?” he asked, looking at Lucy. She was quiet as ever, but nodded to him and gave him a look that said she was confident is the old workhorse. “You’ve made it this far, so I know you have the determination. I just hope your luck holds. Wish there was more we could do.” He concluded “You’ve done wonders, Major, and I really appreciate the Intel. I only wish you could run interference for us with that beast.” I smiled, pointing to the Cobra. “But we should be fine, now that we know where we’re going.” I told him. “Our little bird there only draws attention, but we can certainly make some noise to distract any rotters for a while.” He offered. It would help and we all got up, preparing to break up our little gathering. Since it would be light soon, we decided to push on and still make some miles. We rolled along at as fast a pace as we safely could. The next twenty miles was smooth and fast sailing and we made up for the break, getting through the first half of the danger area the Marine pilot had told us of. The last easy mile came to an end at dawn as we crossed another small bridge, coming face to face with a few hundred Zs, being led by a couple of Army Humvees with loudspeakers on top. Like the pied piper, these soldiers had a flood of vermin following them south, along a road on the opposite side of the river. No armed troops could be seen as the windows were rolled up tight on both trucks. We watched in awe as the crowded parade ambled after the trucks, fixed on catching it and growling and moaning as they staggered along. We were so intent on watching the procession in front of us, we forgot all about behind us. The loudspeakers had lured more zombies from our side of the waterway too. They were so close when we finally heard them, we couldn’t even back up without hitting them. A thud at the tailgate snapped me out of the trance and I spun around to see a handful of dead beings going around the sides of the truck. I think my surprise and the use of some choice expletives alerted Bart and Lucy. We rolled the windows up just as the first slimy fists banged on the glass and doors. Lucy, to her credit, didn’t panic. She slowly slipped the truck into reverse and started backing up. Gradually we made our way back off the bridge, finding even more Zs stumbling at us. They came from down the road, from tree lines on both sides of it. Growls and hisses, gurgles and moans were directed at us as Lucy smacked into a few of them or ran over their feet. She kept going, so slowly that some of them passed, almost uninterested in us, hearing the more enchanting noise ahead. I could barely make out the Army-made concert of free music but obviously the zombies still could. We back tracked to the first intersection and went north, trying to get around the mobs heading south. We traveled eight or nine miles before finding another road to take us back east. No sooner had we done so, than we ran into more Zs, this time in ones and twos and small groups. They shambled down the gravel road, raising a low-lying billow of dust. Others were emerging from wooded areas, and across fields, pressing south. I thought maybe another Army troop was leading them, but couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t imagine these creatures could either, but here they were. Maybe they just followed those ahead, but I saw no reason to give them anything else to focus on or change direction for. We sat silent for more than an hour, until the flow petered out and we decided it was safe to continue. We pushed on until dusk then looked for a place to lie up. There were still dead moving around and chancing a breakdown in the dark wasn’t appealing. We found a large tree, next to a deep ravine. |
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Originally Posted By Blanksguy:
I've been lurking and reading this one for a while. This has been the best read I've seen here. Haha, same here. Very nicely done, with the exception of a few spelling/grammar errors that I'm sure will disappear with proofreading. I'm most certainly hooked, and if published, I'd definitely pick up a copy. Can't wait for the next chapter! |
I was so looking forward to reading the next chapter today...
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Chapter 13 Heavy Losses For the next two weeks we made slower progress than hoped for, the rains, colder temperatures and the Z traffic hindering our movements. It was frustrating and Lucy finally conveyed that she wanted to make for home in southern Indiana. We could go with her, she said in a note, and she would drop us anywhere we wanted before her turn off. Her plan was to use the hard surface of I65 and make better time, but I knew it wouldn’t be that easy with patrols and the chance of more easily being spotted on the open road. Riding in her truck had been nice and I hated to lose it so soon, but in reality, we weren’t making as much advancement as we did with the bikes, which were a lower profile and didn’t leave a telltale dust trail behind us. We were quieter and could move faster at night without lights. We decided to stick with her for a while further, knowing there was strength in numbers and that any progress east was still getting closer to home for all of us. Bart was taking quite an interest in our little driver and tried everything he could to get her to open up more. I had already resigned myself to the fact that she was not going to, for whatever reason, and dealt with her as I needed to. We passed several small villages in the next week and found no one alive or willing to make contact. I didn’t know if they were all, dead, or feared us, thinking we were with the government and would round them up. Either way it was still demoralizing to consider human contact had become so scarce and so scary. We were past the huge Memphis zone and decided our personal courses. Lucy was still adamant that she was going home, and so was I. At our next stop we’d unload my gear and I was thinking about what Bart would do, when a bullet struck the windshield, passing through the rearview mirror, showering all of us with shards of glass and plastic. Lucy instinctively slammed on the brakes, hurling Bart and I into the dash and finishing off the windshield. Another bullet slapped the roofline, followed quickly by another into the grill and probably the engine. Steam and smoke billowed and hissed out the front, giving us a momentary smoke screen, but also letting the shooter know he had his range right. We were stranded and I flung open the door and raced to the back of the truck for cover and concealment. Shouldering the carbine, I swept the area back and forth across our front, looking for any sign of the shooter. I didn’t see anyone, and no movement caught my attention. I blamed myself for not paying attention to the situation. We were stuck now, in the open ground, only a line of trees about 200 yards to our left offering any kind of hiding place. But getting to it meant running and taking a chance that our ambushers hadn’t already planned for that. If they were any good, they would have. We had only a few minutes of light left, and that seemed to be the only positive thing about this situation, sort of. Dark meant we could move off, but also meant that the dead would be moving too, certainly having heard the shots would get them excited. I think our ambushers had screwed up by disabling the truck; they probably wanted it for themselves, since they were shooting high to start. I only hoped that they realized their mistake and left us alone. So far, I hadn’t fired back, so they were the only ones making noise, and they would have to know that would draw attention, it only remained to be seen if they would wait us out. They also didn’t know if we were armed, so I doubted they would brave an encounter, especially at night. No more shots came as darkness enveloped us. As quiet as we could, we pulled out the bikes and walked them down the road, ever watchful and listening for any signs we were not alone. We came upon a deserted Cadillac about 300-yards on, over a small rise in the road. It was still pinging and creaking as it cooled down. There was no one around and they must have wandered off after their semi-failed attempt to bushwhack our truck. They would be somewhere up ahead, not a comforting thought, knowing they were noisy and not concerned about shooting at other people. I made a quick rummage through the Caddy, but found nothing of any value, suggesting these people were more destitute than we were. Desperate people are dangerous and unpredictable. The keys were still in the ignition and I tried to start it. The engine turned over but wouldn’t fire up. The gas gauge read empty, and that gave me an idea. We still had gas in the truck, but needed to find a way to transfer it over to this car. I stood by while Bart checked the trunk for cans or bottles we could fill. There were none, but he did come up with a length of garden hose already anointed with the smell of gas. Apparently the previous owners had used it to siphon fuel for this ride. We either had to push the car back to the truck or vice versa, or we had to find containers. I wasn’t keen on using any of our current water carriers for the purpose, as important as water was to maintain. Lucy B. steered while Bart and I pushed, laboriously struggling against the loose gravel and muddy ruts. It was dark and we were so engrossed in our effort, we wouldn’t have known if any of the rotting killers were on us until it happened. For a change we weren’t bothered, except for one ancient looking lady that Bart quietly dispatched, almost without losing momentum with the car. Using the piece of hose, we transferred the remainder of the now useless truck’s fuel, nearly half a tank, into the car. I should have known, when we tried to start the car, we got no joy. The gas gauge still said empty, so that wasn’t the problem. Lucy popped the hood and took a look, then closed it. It was too dark to see any obvious problems with the red lens of the G3. We were stranded, no decent objects of height to hide in or on for some sleep or rest. That meant hiding out in the vehicles for the night, which gave some shelter and protection but we could be in trouble if we got surrounded. A light rain started around midnight and I got wet enough to get up and close the window. Before I got back to sleep, I noticed the temperature went up a few degrees and made things more comfortable. I dozed off again, even though I thought one of us should keep an eye open in case our shooter snuck back to inspect his handiwork, thinking we would have walked away. We were all just too tired, wet and cold to stay awake. Bart woke me a little after dawn and said all was clear. When we got out to stretch we found dozens of sets of footprints all around the car in the damp dirt. The windows of the car and truck had trails of black, slimy saliva and ooze running down them. We’d had visitors throughout the night but must have been quiet and still enough and the windows fogged up enough that they lost interest and moved on. Lucy got back under the hood while Bart and I took inventory and held security. After a quarter hour, she slammed the hood down and shook her head like a movie doctor, pronouncing the patient was dead. No need to bury or mourn our loss this time. We packed up, loaded the bikes and set off. Lucy got to ride, in the kid cart after much denial and argument from her. It made peddling harder, but once we got rolling and got used to the feel, things went smoothly. I gave her the little Ruger revolver and told her to keep watch, to ease her disgruntled mood, and make her feel she was contributing, and not just riding. The wind was at out backs, but it was cold and strong, cutting through our clothing and chilling us. Only by continually pushing ourselves, could we generate enough body heat to go on. The trade off is that we were burning lots of calories to make our miles. When we stopped, we would have to eat and drink more than usual to keep our strength. I was feeling more tired than I felt I should and figured the cramped and inadequate sleep had something to do with it. More than at any point in this odyssey, I was going to be out of food, short on good water, and into terrain that would probably not work with the bike, meaning being afoot. All that and soon I would also be alone, losing the luxury of other pairs of eyes and ears. We made it to the first sign denoting the northbound Interstate that was to be Lucy’s departure point. She insisted on getting out now and walking alongside us to the next sign, getting herself limbered up. I admired her spunk but felt it was useless bravado at this juncture. Neither Bart nor I questioned her ability or her composure under adversity. All she was doing, in my opinion, was burning needed energy, creating a thirst that would use more of our precious water supply and making her feet sore. While Bart attempted to cajole her back to the cart, she would hear none of it and trudged on. We peddled on, pulling a ways ahead of her and then stopped to wait for her to catch up. When we were out of the earshot, Bart told me he wanted to go with her. He said he had dropped the idea of going to his own home and just sticking with me, but now he thought he would tag along with Lucy. She was headed north, he said, and that would allow him to help her out and give him time to reconsider going home. I just smiled at him. He was trying to let me know, without letting me know, how much her cared for her. I didn’t understand what he thought he had seen in her attitude towards him that made him think she wanted him along. But maybe I had missed some clues, or not seen some subtle eye contacts or coy smiles. I must be older that I really am, kids nowadays did things different. “If she’ll let you, go ahead and go with her, bud.” I told him. I just hope she doesn’t kick your butt and leave you somewhere.” I joked. For a second I think he thought I was serious and he looked at Lucy as she approached. When she saw us looking at her, she scowled and raised her hands, palms up. Bart swallowed hard, while I just laughed and shook my head. It was near midday and probably as warm as it was going to get today so we stopped for a break. We stripped everything off the bikes and cart and laid it out. I traded bikes with Bart so he could keep the cart and neither of them would have to walk the whole distance. We split the remainder of our food and water, and I gave Lucy the rest of the shells for the Ruger. We ate a light lunch and talked for a few minutes while Lucy copied some of the maps and made a list of the cities and towns along their route. Then it was time to go, and we said our goodbyes. I shook hands with Bart who then grabbed me in a modern version of a handshake and we banged shoulders while he patted me on the back. Lucy tipped her head, directing him to get on the bike and when he walked past her, she stepped over and hugged me too. She shoved me back and grabbed both sides of my face and pulled my head down, placing a soft kiss on my forehead. Just before she turned to leave, she handed me a note and then mumbled her first words. With a thick-tongued accent, I made out, “Thank you.” I silently mouthed the same words back to her and smiled. She returned the smile, but I saw tears welling in her eyes as she turned away. Bart was straddling the bike and looked at me, as surprised as I, but showing more emotion than Lucy. She was about to step into the cart, seeing he was still looking over at me, punched him playfully in the belly and waved her hand forward like an old dowager getting the rickshaw boy moving. I could only wish them well as they got up to speed and rolled away. Once they were out of sight, I unrolled her note. Dear Verne, I want to tell you how very grateful I am to you for rescuing me and allowing me to ride with you this far. You are a wonderful and caring man and I hope you make it home and all is well with your family. I’m sure they miss you terribly. None of us knows how all this will turn out, but I pray that I will find more courageous men like you and Bart who will be there, to help rebuild the world and keep us all safe. I think it will be rare to find men willing to go out of their way for others like you have. As for Bart, he is sweet, clumsy, and fun to have around, although I don’t want to get seriously involved with anyone anymore. The pain of losing friends and loved ones is just too hard. But he is kind of cute in his own way. You wanted me to talk, but I can’t, at least not well enough to converse. When I was 15, I was kidnapped, and the man tried to rape me. When I fought back and screamed for help, he flipped out and cut off part of my tongue. It’s too embarrassing to try and talk or explain it to people until I know I can trust they won’t ridicule me about it. I know you would never do that and I am sorry for not telling you sooner because I know it was frustrating for you too. Forgive me? I wish you the best of luck and will pray often for your safe journey and homecoming. Good Luck, Bethany (Not Lucy, haha) Bethany, that fit her, better than Lucy B. or Lucy’s shirt. I smiled and rolled the note back up and shoved it in my shirt pocket. Good luck to you too. |
Chances are, I am who pissed in their cheerios...
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| Sorry for the delay. THe weather here has kept me busy. Also my better half is worried you'll all hate what happens at the end of this book (only 3 chapters left). But fear not, the sequel is 85% written but needs spellchecks and clean up. Next chapter coming soon. Hang in there. |
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Originally Posted By fast45:
Sorry for the delay. THe weather here has kept me busy. Also my better half is worried you'll all hate what happens at the end of this book (only 3 chapters left). But fear not, the sequel is 85% written but needs spellchecks and clean up. Next chapter coming soon. Hang in there. fast45, The snow will melt in the spring  and I know, I for one would really appreciate the next 3 chapters!! 
This is a great story and I'm sure the sequel will be just as good. AKASL LIVE FREE OR DIE |
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Originally Posted By fast45:
Sorry for the delay. THe weather here has kept me busy. Also my better half is worried you'll all hate what happens at the end of this book (only 3 chapters left). But fear not, the sequel is 85% written but needs spellchecks and clean up. Next chapter coming soon. Hang in there. Have you ever thought of getting your own website to post your stories on? Maybe setup a donation system? I would be happy to toss a couple duckits your way for the time you put into writing this. Thanks.
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| Im looking at finding a publisher/printer to make this a real thing. I'll spring for 100 copies to see how it goes, but Ive read so much about those places ripping people off that I'm going to be careful. I will try and have the next chapter up tonight for you faithful fans. |
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Originally Posted By fast45:
Im looking at finding a publisher/printer to make this a real thing. I'll spring for 100 copies to see how it goes, but Ive read so much about those places ripping people off that I'm going to be careful. I will try and have the next chapter up tonight for you faithful fans. Can't wait to read the next chapter. Also, if you spring for the 100 copies...put me down for 2 autographed if you could.
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Chapter 14 Solo Flights I still had several hours of daylight and decided to make a few miles. Even though there was a higher chance of being spotted, but being alone now, it would be easier for me to outrun them or avoid detection. Without the cart, I was able to open up the speed a little more and still be comfortable. The roads were worse than most I had encountered thus far. Also, the terrain was getting more difficult, rolling hills and valleys told me I was only in the foothills of some much larger ridges and mountains. The towns and villages were smaller and few offered anything worth stopping for. Only a few times did I see anyone at these places, and mostly they only stared, as I passed, not even a wave to acknowledge my presence. I was seeing much more vehicle traffic though, or signs of it. I could hear most of them or see dust clouds they kicked up from long enough distances that I could get off the road and conceal my bike and myself. Most of the time these were old cars and even some antique trucks, many driven by people my age or older. These were hill and backwoods people, going on like they had for all their lives. It was a good sign to me, thinking that maybe the majority of the calamity was centered in the bigger cities. These down-to-earth people were good stock and probably good prospects for getting things back on track when the time came. Around four o’clock, I ran into a heavy rainstorm on the eastern side of a hill during a long downhill descent. The road turned to slop and the going got too hard to proceed. I pulled off the road, finding refuge in the cab of a disused combine tractor, heavily overgrown with weeds. I was drenched, not having had time to put on the rain gear. I was chilled and shaking severely. I wrapped up in the poncho liner and tossed the raincoat over that to try and hold some heat in. I shook for a long time and must have dozed off from exhaustion at some point, for when I opened my eyes again, it was pitch black outside. And it was still raining, hard. I was still shivering and couldn’t manage to get warmed up. My throat was sore too and I feared I was catching a flu or cold. In all reality, it should have happened long before now, I thought. The lack of proper food, and some suspect water sources along the way, and constant exposure to the elements, being wet, cold, and dirty at any given time. My joints stiffened and my muscled ached, from the bike riding, and the cramped confines of the tractor cab. The thoughts started to cross my mind that I’d been exposed to the Z virus. It was silly but possible I supposed, since I had not been in any close scrapes lately. I talked to myself, reasoning that I was okay, just a little off and it was making me daydream about such nonsense. When I awoke again, it was daylight and I assumed it was the next morning until I looked at my watch calendar and saw that I had missed an entire day. I was stiff and sore, but I was warm and mostly dry. I certainly had needed some rest too. I changed into some dry wool socks and a dry T-shirt, but I kept the raincoat on to hold in the heat even though I knew it was make me damp quicker. I was hungry and fished into my pack for something that would perk me up and my last can of energy drink did the trick. The drink only stayed with me a few minutes though before I felt my stomach turning and had to swing open the door to vomit. I also had other body urges, whether from the power drink, the flu or two days in the truck, but I stumbled outside to take care of it. Now I was really hungry, but everything was going through me or coming back up, so I decided not to waste any more food. I sipped water to keep hydrated, but was feeling weaker by each passing hour. I had no medications and had to let whatever this was run its course, hoping it would not be to long. My fourth day I felt a little better, at least I could open my eyes without feeling dizzy or nauseous. The sun was out and so were the Zs. I had an audience of about eight of them out in front of the combine, trying to discern what I was, a navy blue and camouflage bundle up in the cab of the tractor. I didn’t uncover my face or make any fast movements, not that I was feeling up to it anyway. I hoped they would lose interest if they couldn’t recognize me as food. By now, given their appearance, anything would be welcomed as a food source. At least for now, they were content to wait and see what developed, a strange change in Z behavior, unless they were dying and no longer had the energy. Sitting back slowly, getting as comfortable as I could in the utilitarian appointments of the two decade old tractor, I kept one eye uncovered enough to keep watch. Three of them were transfixed, staring intently up at the cab, while the others milled around, glancing up occasionally. Slowly, whenever I could, I moved the slightest bit to spread the poncho liner. I wanted to see if I could hang it up, across the windshield, to block out their prying view. Failing that, I would have to kill them and move on. At the time though, I really didn’t feel like moving at all as my head was still spinning and I was too weak for much of a fight or flight. I managed to drape the poncho liner over the sun visors and mirror, making an opaque screen to the front. Once up, the creatures began to move around, to the sides, trying to see past it. They were curious but not yet too excited. Once the sides were covered too, and they couldn’t see in at all, a few of them abandoned the vigil and wandered off. The three healthiest looking though, if you could call it that, and the most stubborn maintained their glares up at me. Those three were going to be a problem, they seemed to sense I was here and were patient enough to wait me out. At least now, I could move around a little, able to stretch and adjust position. I nibbled on some stale chocolate covered peanuts and sipped water to see if I could hold it down. I was relieved when it stayed with me, hoping I was getting my strength back. After a time, when I hadn’t heard anything outside, I pulled back the corner of the blanket to take a look. My three henchmen were still there, staring intently still, but were now joined by a fourth onlooker. To my relief though, they were the only creatures left, at least as far as I could see. I was feeling better but had to urinate, and I realized there was no place to go. There were no old bottles or cans to use and finally I was forced to try and go near the doorjamb, hoping it would run out. It did and the noise outside grew quickly, like the smell or the sound was alerting the Zs to human presence. I finished quickly and took a peek outside, seeing that the four watchers were now six and some had moved closer, trying to get to the cab, but doing so by way of the working end of the tractor. That gave me time to pack up, check my weapons and ready myself for an exit. Six to one odds wasn’t great, but I didn’t want to wait for it to double or more. I pulled down the liner and quickly stuffed it in my pack, listening to the angry growls raise up. They were still confused as to how to get at me, while I made a quick look around the side and back of the combine. There were several more of the rotting beasts in the field across the road, but were hundreds of yard distant and not much of a threat if I got out of the area right away. Opening the door and climbing out to the back of the machine, behind the cab, I was out of the immediate view of the closest bunch as I worked to get down to the bike. They came in a group now, knowing where I was on the ground. I pulled the bike off the back of the combine and tried to get going, but the mud slowed me and the first Z was just coming around the end of the picker head. I dropped the bike and brought the rifle up and fired a snap shot, striking him in the chest with the 62-grain penetrator, seeing no response from him. I knew better but hadn’t adjusted for how close he was. I fired again and watched his head split. The other were incensed and seemed to pick up their pace, going around both sides of the machine. The rest, behind me, were now coming, alerted by the gunfire. I grabbed the bike and pulled, finding it was tangled in some slack coils of barbed wire that had been stacked under the tractor, and wouldn’t come loose. Abandoning the bike, I jogged about 30 yards away and knelt down, taking aim on the next walking cadaver. She was a matronly looking gal wearing a dark blue dress. One of her legs had a large gouge out of the thigh and she had several more, smaller wounds along her arms and lower legs. I fired two quick rounds, out of habit, watching her brown wig fly off what was left of her head. I had to control my shooting and get used to the fact that one well placed bullet was all that was needed. I hadn’t counted my ammunition of late, and made a mental promise to do so soon. The next one came from the left, drooling saliva and ooze. The other three were the ones that had been staring at me for the last couple days and they moved forward now, 2 left and 1 right, using the tractor as cover it seemed. They’d let the others run interference and now closed the gap much faster that I though that they could. In fact, all of them seemed to be getting along a little quicker and more fluid. This group looked well fed and that was not a good thought. I couldn’t tell if they were fresher deaths or some sort of mutation. Perhaps it was just my own weakened condition and slower reflexes. The one to my left, a solidly built black male in a red tracksuit came into my sights and I fired once, in the head, and he fell over my bike. I only had time to swing back to the right and slam a round into the fourth target, dropping him and getting splashed with his fluids and slime. I freaked out a bit, thinking my weakened immune system from the recent flu would leave me vulnerable to infection from some of the black goop. I tried to wipe it off my arms and face, realizing I was just smearing it around and if I were going to get it, I’d already be exposed. The last two were still closing and I had to snap shoot again, hitting one in the neck, nearly severing his head off. The thing didn’t die right away, and I turned to the last of the bunch to finish him off. His wounded partner lay on the ground, his body almost on top of the head, but I could see his eyes were still following me and his jaws were snapping. I stepped back to avoid the spray and shot him between the eyes. I checked across the road as I made a magazine change, stuffing the partially loaded one in my thigh pocket. I had time before the rest got over here, enough time that I could collect the bike and leave without another fight. Mr. red tracksuit was face down across the bike and I tried to roll him off with the toe of my boot. I managed to turn him and he rolled onto his back. As I reached for the bike, his eyes snapped open, along with his nasty mouth, filled with a row of gold-capped teeth. He reached and grabbed my left ankle and pulled my foot towards his hungry mouth. The right side of his head had a deep furrow from eyebrow to behind his ear but I realized it was only superficial, despite the ghastly appearance it wasn’t fatal. As he pulled my leg it jerked me off balance and I went in his direction, stepping down on his face with my free foot. I could feel the pressure of his jaws, crushing his teeth into the rubber heel of the boot. My carbine had swung on the sling to my left hip; so I went for the pistol, but I knew it would not be an easy shot, with us wrestling around and my feet so close to the target area of his head. This guy was strong, keeping a tight grip on my boot and keeping me from kicking his face in. I used my other foot, standing on his lower jaw, trying to force him to let go or at least not get a good bite in. The others from across the road were getting close. I bent over and stuck the Sig in his mouth, jamming it in like a wedge and knowing he couldn’t bite through it would give me enough time to get one foot clear. When I squeezed the trigger, the effect was not as good as I wanted, only blowing a hole out the back of his neck, missing the spinal column. At any other time in my life, the wound would have been serious enough to stop the fight, but this guy only flinched at the noise and clamped down on the slide of the handgun. I pulled it out violently, the front sight tearing away some of the expensive gold covering, revealing some truly rotten, brown teeth. I inched the pistol up, resting the muzzle on his temple and fired, ending the ordeal. There was only enough time to get the bike free now before I was surrounded again, not something I wanted and I knew the shooting was drawing every rotting creature in the area. There were more than a dozen closing on me from all sides. I could have taken time to kill them all, but it would only bring more. I had to leave the bike, seeing that Mr. red tracksuit had damaged the rear spokes when he fell onto it earlier. I didn’t have the tools of knowledge to fix it anyway, instead grabbing the blanket roll from it and took off running. After a few hundred yards, I stopped and looked back, seeing that now, nearly thirty undead dead had arrived at the tractor and some had already turned to begin their pursuit. Where they all had come from I didn’t know. Hadn’t I predicted this, being alone, on foot and hungry again? And let’s not forget cold. While I was stopped I noticed how much cooler it was, the wind chilling the sweat from my exertion. No such luck that I’d be warm and comfortable. To top it off, I still felt like crap, without any choice I pushed on, hoping to work out the remnants of the flu. First order of business was to find some food. There wasn’t much to be had and I felt weaker as the miles passed. The energy to walk and stay warm was being used faster than I could replace it, yet I couldn’t just stop and rest. I found an old apple tree with some withered fruit still attached. I tried to choke down a couple, but the texture was horrible and I didn’t feel the browned flesh was going to provide much value. I had one packet of food left, the one I always kept for that emergency, which before now never seemed serious enough to use it for. Either from actual hunger or my constant thoughts of it, I wrestled with the idea of digging into it now. I knew that once I opened it and started, I would eat it all over a short time span, and then I would truly be out of food. I talked myself into waiting another day. I still had enough water and could replenish it if more rains came or I found a source, so I drank more than usual. This helped fill me for a while, stopping the pangs in my stomach. I found a few houses, set back into the hollows along the steeper ridges of the hill I was now coming in to. The first appeared to have been recently occupied but no one was here now. I went through the cupboards quickly, no longer as bashful about taking what I needed to survive. I grabbed a can of baked beans, something that always seemed to be the last thing on everyone’s shelf, but I liked them and found them filling. The only other item I could find was half a can of lemonade drink powder, hardened to a solid chunk from disuse. What the heck, I thought, and took it too. I could chip it into some powder again later and add some flavor to my meals. On the way back down the drive to the road I saw an old station wagon with the keys still in it. I tried it but the battery was dead, so I kept walking, not having the energy to monkey around with it. I was tempted to stop and eat the beans here and now, then decided against it in case the owners returned. One can wasn’t going to be enough for me to share with them. Miles went by slowly on foot. I tried to find objects on the horizon and use them as markers, but after counting thousands of steps, the process only aggravated me more. I was miserable and edgy, truly bored by the thought of the rest of the trip being like this, slow and monotonous, agonizingly so. Doubt was again creeping into my thoughts. As much as I longed for home, I wasn’t as anxious to get there anymore. And that bothered me greatly, more than the horrible things I’d seen and been part of. I wondered how anyone could still or would still be alive when I got there. Forcing myself to believe all this melancholy was just hunger, I was able to continue. But my spirits were still down as I trudged on. I was so lost in thought that I didn’t hear the sound of planes overhead or the truck rolling up behind me until it was so close I couldn’t take to the side of the road to hide from it. The squeal of brakes and the crunch of gravel under the tires told me they were stopping right behind me. I slowly brought my hands out to my sides and turned to show them no aggression. I was face to face with a military Humvee, and watched the doors open and four armed men climbed out, wearing Air Force combat uniforms. None of them seemed to be too anxious or concerned that I was armed, I assumed because they knew they had the upper hand. I must have looked a sight in any regard. I’d lost about 30 pounds and my clothes hung like ugly curtains on my frame, my pants worn out at the knees and held up with a frayed nylon belt. The elbows of my shirtsleeves were threadbare and my once fine boots looked like roughed out suede. I had a shabby, gray streaked beard that must have made me look like a mad mountain man. If I looked as out of place as I felt, these guys didn’t react to it. They asked me to set the weapons down, but didn’t act overbearing about it, and I understood their safety concerns, doing what I was asked. I senior sergeant approached, but never having understood the Air Force’s hierarchy of stripes and rockers, I couldn’t properly address him. He was a tall, good looking kid with blond hair under his black beret, and asked if I was crazy and what I was doing out here. As for the first part, I wasn’t sure anymore but professed I was okay, then, told him of my quest for home. I gave him the short version of my journey thus far and he seemed astonished and said as much, wondering how I managed to stay alive this long. They all appeared relaxed yet professional, and listened to what I said with interest, not just to be polite. The sergeant then asked if I had heard of seen any aircraft in distress or any go down in the last day. I told him I hadn’t paid much attention to anything overhead, but didn’t recall anything unusual. The sergeant told me his team and two others had been dropped off a C141 transport and were sent out to locate the crash site. Since the Chinese attack had knocked out much of the sophisticated tracking equipment it was harder to locate. I was offered a ride to the edge of their search area, but declined, knowing how important their mission was and that they really wanted to locate the pilot as quickly as possible. When I was asked if there was anything they could do for me, my immediate answer was food, and water if they could spare either. They had plenty of both and I was given 5 MREs (Meals-Ready to-Eat) and allowed to top off my water containers. The sergeant also slipped me a box of 9mm ammunition, seeing that I was carrying the same caliber as their M9 Berettas. His radio cut in and he advised some one on the other end of his location and that he was moving. It was time for them to go and I hoped they found the pilot or crew of the missing plane before the stumbling dead. They turned and were off with a half salute. They made no mention of any quarantine zones or martial law and so neither did I. The meals were too bulky to fit into my pack as they were packaged, so I tore them apart and stuffed the smaller packets into pockets and pouches and the rest into my pack. Some of the crackers and snack items went to my trouser and shirt pockets to be eaten as I walked. The main entrees I put in my pack for a larger meal once I stopped. I took the opportunity to put on my wind shirt, which now had enough holes worn in it I wondered if it was doing any good, but it was the only other layer of clothing I had to add over my two T-shirts and field shirt. I was now wearing everything I had and could still feel the cold air getting through to me. My spirits were better now and I decided I needed to find another form of transport while I had the energy and supplies, not waiting to become weakened again. I also wanted to get home now more than ever. I had been having feelings that all was not well there, and just had to find out. I might even have to steal something if nothing presented itself quick enough. After four moths sitting idle though, not many car batteries were going to fire up an old car, so finding something that already ran would be better. Moving until dusk, I was tired and thirsty and hungry. This wasn’t the best time to stop, but I needed to take care of myself and that included my aching feet. Some dry socks would feel wonderful. Later, coming in to the small village of Atkins, I noticed some activity. A fire was burning in the main intersection and about a dozen people were gathered around. No one panicked when I walked down the center of the street, in fact their kids ran out to greet me, even against the parent’s calls. The fire had been started in an old truck, piled high in the back with the motionless carcasses of at least twenty dead Zs. I approached, staying upwind to avoid the sooty stench, but close enough to enjoy the warmth. “Howdy” someone called out. “Hi there” I returned and watched as everyone embraced the fire, showing me little concern or interest. When the flames began to die down, the gathering broke up and people moved off to a building on the southeast corner of the intersection. One that was reinforced with barricades of cars and cattle fencing interlaced with barbed wire and pickets fashioned from metal posts and street sign poles. They were prepared for an onslaught. A woman in her 40s with a small child in her arms waved me in with the rest of the group. Without even thinking about it, I joined them, and was surprised at myself. How things had changed and me along with them. Never before would I have so simply or quickly trusted such a group, but the very fact they were warm-blooded, cordial and friendly was so inviting. Once inside, I watched a small group of men adjust some of the barricade material to cover the front door. They then closed and bolted two heavy wooden doors and braced them with some solid metal bars. No doubt this was a routine for the village. I watched the women retreat to the kitchen area and now recognized I was in a local VFW post. The building was post-WWII concrete and block construction and still had the black and yellow Civil Defense fallout shelter signs over the stairs leading to the lower level. “Welcome” said a woman, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Thank you,” I replied with a smile. “What happens now?” I asked, seeing that nearly every person was doing something. “Supper will be first and then there would be services for anyone we lost this week. Luckily, we all made it through. So the kids will eat and then break into smaller groups for some schoolwork. The men will take care of the security if there is any problem or need, while the women clean up and get the place ready for the night.” She explained. “Since you are armed and appear to have used those before, I’m sure Carl will want to talk to you. We’ve lost some people and could use a hand, and don’t fret none, they’ll compensate you for your time.” She continued. “Thanks, and I guess I better see Carl then” I smiled. She pointed to another stairway, leading up to the second floor. The stairwell was used as a storage area, each tread stacked with canned goods or boxes of dry supplies. The landing where the stairs changed direction had a half dozen long guns leaning into the corner, with magazines or boxed ammo stacked under them. When I reached the top, two men, both senior citizens, met me and both were pleasant as they ushered me down a long hallway to the end office. “Carl, new man to see you, looks like he could use a meal and a shower.” One of them announced. I wasn’t offended, because they were absolutely on the money. Carl pushed out from his desk and leaned over it, offering me his hand. Carl Laidlaw, at your service.” He introduced himself. “Verne Rudigg, nice to meet you and thanks for the invitation. I was told that it’s I that could be at your service.” I replied. “That depends, you any good with that thing?” he asked, pointing the pencil in his hand at my carbine. “As a matter of fact, I’m pretty fair.” I answered. “Good, good. We get some activity here nearly every night, sometimes a lot of it. If you’d be staying on for any time we could use you. And meals are free, either way. You aren’t obligated to anything. But fair is fair, if you know the meaning.” He told me with a raised eyebrow that politely asked for an answer. I understood and told him as much and that I had no problem paying for my keep. I only asked that they not expect me to deplete all of my ammunition. One of the elders spoke up and assured me that I would be taken care of. The elder, a short gentleman with white hair, named Franklin, showed me down the hall to the single male quarters and introduced me to the other three men resting there, then to the shower area. He even went so far as handing me a visitors bag, containing a hotel-sized bar of soap, a disposable shaver, a cheap toothbrush, and sample size toothpaste, hand lotion and shampoo. Like my last shower, and I couldn’t remember exactly how long ago that had been, I was told to keep it short, but this time the water was heated, somewhat. Back in the sleeping area, they told me where I could stow my gear and advised that dinner was in 15 minutes, if I planned to attend. In the locker provided with the bunk, I tossed everything except the SIG and my boot knife, a Cold Steel Roach Belly, grabbed a towel and headed to the shower. No one said anything about the handgun and no one seemed to be interested in going through my stuff when I turned my back. I showered and shaved, feeling truly clean for the first time in a long time. When I finished, I went back out to my bunk and found that someone had laid out some clean flannel shirts and clean socks. What I needed was a pair of pants, as mine had begun to disintegrate from constant use and wear. But I wasn’t complaining and could smell the aroma of real, heated food wafting up to me. Everyone else from the room had already gone. After dressing, I checked my locker and saw that everything was just as I’d left it, so I let it sit, this being the first time without the carbine at hand or the pack strapped on my back. I kept the SIG and the Roach Belly though and tried to conceal them as best I could so no one would be offended. When I reached the bottom stairs and entered the main hall, a few of the assembled group looked over, but most just kept at their meals. “Wasn’t sure you were coming down, even a ratty old cot must be a powerful lure after a long day walking.” A man to my left said. He was right, yet the smell of the food was more so, and I said so aloud, drawing smiles from some of the women, probably those responsible for the feast. “Trays are at the end of the serving table. Take what you want.” An elderly lady seated closest to me advised. “You look much nicer all cleaned up, bet that shower felt good.” She commented, and I watched several other women nodding too. “Thank you ma’am, the shower was, well, uplifting.” I replied and tipped my head to her as I passed, heading to the food table. It was a huge spread, including soup, stews, vegetables and canned fruits and pudding for dessert. I hadn’t seen this much food since an Independence Day cookout back home before the outbreak. I went for the stew first, made with chunks of real meat, probably canned too but I wasn’t about to pass it for that reason. After filling the tray with what I thought was a decent size meal, I looked for a seat and Franklin waved me over to the head table. He introduced everyone around the table but I was certain I wouldn’t remember a single name ten minutes later. “You know, what Carl said about the food was true. You hardly have enough for a hungry man there.” Franklin commented, eliciting a few chuckles. I thought I had plenty enough to not look too greedy, but I just smiled and said I was fine. “I’m a little awed. I haven’t seen this much food in months, let alone cooked. How…” I started to ask when another elder spoke up. “We have more than enough. And the way these gals put it all together, it goes even farther without much waste.” He began. “Our little community was blessed with a couple of large trucking transfer warehouses for some of the major supermarket chains. We’ve had to assimilate some of the goods for unpaid taxes and costs,” he continued, bringing out more chuckles and laughter from the crowd. “We’ve moved several months worth of stock here and can go back for more when we need. We have power from some generators and plenty of fuel. Our biggest problem is security and dealing with the hideous things when they come around. Its tapered off a bit as of late, and we all want to see that trend continue.’ The man explained. “What about you, what’s your story, Mister?” a red headed teenager asked, instantly getting a series of shaken heads from the other diners. I filled them in on my travels and troubles as we ate. Over the next half an hour we ate and I asked and answered questions, feeling more and more comfortable with the settings and the people. Normal, living, breathing, people. A loud clatter outside went on, almost as if none of the folks here had heard it. “Ughhhh…” Carl groaned, finally. “Looks like time to go to work” he announced, drawing a few more gentle protests. However, I noticed no one was in much of a hurry as they cleared their dishes from the tables. “Mr. Rudigg, would you be so kind as to join us with your little rifle?” Carl asked politely. Myself and another man went upstairs, followed a few minutes later by Carl and his cadre. We went out on to the roof and surveyed the town below. Directly under us, already entangled in some strands of wire near the front doors, were four rotting creatures. I could see about a dozen more at varying distances down the streets, all headed towards the building we stood atop. “Every night, about this time, we get a few visitors. We have a few rifles but I don’t think anyone here can shoot well enough to get rid of these things.” Carl explained. “Some of them have been shot several times and still manage to come back. Every once in a while we get lucky and put one down.” He said. I was curious about this new dilemma; Zs that wouldn’t die was something I had to see. “There are more out at the warehouses and we have to work around them to get in for supplies. Usually we make noise at one end of the building to draw their attention, but I think they’re getting wise to us.” He continued. That was odd too, if the Zs were anticipating or learning patterns of behavior. I was somewhat dumbfounded by the collective ignorance of this group after watching them shoot for a few minutes at the killing creatures below. They had not yet figured out that only headshots killed these things. A few lucky kills he mentioned had probably been lucky but errant shots to the head of a few Zs. There was enough light for me to see fairly clear with the ACOG scope and so I sighted in on one of the closer dead coming down the street and fired, striking him just above the bridge of the nose, and he fell over backwards. The group went into a chorus of hoots and congratulations, but I ignored them and found a second target, firing and getting another instant kill. The men seemed in awe and I almost didn’t have the heart to tell them how dumb they’d been. But, I didn’t know how much exposure this community had seen and it was possible, I guessed, that they just didn’t have enough experience to have figured out this basic tactic. These were gentle people, a close-knit community and I didn’t see any of them as being aggressive types, and so I had to tell them. For the next twenty minutes, the men, armed with deer hunting rifles and some new information, tried their hand and wasted a good bit of ammunition with mixed results. While we shot to kill the gathered Zs, I told them of what I’d seen work and not work for security measures. Carl was very interested and said he wanted to meet with me in the morning to try and change some things. By 8 p.m., we had killed 13 walking dead and couldn’t see or hear any others. I told the men to expect more, having possibly drawn them from great distances by shooting. Carl and a few others profusely thanked me for the work and my knowledge of Zombie behavior. Carl again asked as we broke up if I would meet him in the morning to discuss things in more detail. Honestly, I wanted to try and sleep in and get myself back to a hundred percent, but when he offered a bribe of breakfast with real coffee, I told him I’d be there and even write stuff down and draw pictures if he needed. That night, a night I felt was a turning point of hope, and should have been relaxing, turned out otherwise. I was plagued with terrible dreams that woke me several times. Each time, I envisioned making it home only to find no one was there, the worst of all things I could imagine. My meeting with Carl and having a sit down breakfast where I didn’t have to constantly look over my shoulder, was the most civil experience I’d had in this entire ordeal. It gave me a little lift, one I really needed that morning. We chatted and leisurely sipped coffee, while eating bowls of fruits, scrambled, powdered eggs with genuine, imitation bacon bits, orange juice and home made biscuits with jelly. My story of Paradise Springs really hit Carl, and he was committed to making any upgrades I could suggest, that would help protect his small village from the same fate. The first thing I thought of was to move their barricades back a couple blocks and add some early warning alarms. I suggested they use disabled vehicles to fortify the barriers and then string some wire and soup cans with pebbles inside. It was an old trick but since the undead dead weren’t going to try a stealth approach, it was simple and effective. Now that all the guard force was aware of the proper way to kill zombies, I suggested they go out to the warehouses and hunt down any creatures that had interfered with the town’s recovery operations. No one stepped up or seemed too eager to take on such a project. I offered to lead a hunting party for the task if there was any possibility I could get some kind of transportation working so that I could get home without much more delay. Later in the morning, the men and I went out to adjust the barricades and set the alarm systems. They now had a couple of hundred more yards of reaction space and killing ground. One of the elders said he could rig up some lights and a generator as well, so any night attacks or intrusions could be dealt with. In the afternoon, I took a trip with Carl out to the industrial park area, where I found four large warehouses and some freight transfer facilities. The two largest buildings were close to a quarter mile long each, lined with dozens of loading docks and having trailers backed in among many of them along both sides of the building. Carl explained that several of the trailers had yielded most of the goods the town had subsisted on for the last few months. He wanted to explore many of the others, but had constantly run into a roving force of angry and hungry Zs inside the buildings. It stood to reason that a place this large would have had a large work force and with the influx of truckers in and out, the sudden spread of disease could have affected them quickly. Heck, perhaps some truckloads of Chinese “plastic” had come in and done it directly. I opened the door and peered inside. There were no lights on, only the natural sunlight coming in through a series of translucent skylight panels. I checked the G3 and fore end light on the carbine and found they were both working. The only problem was that they both ran off lithium batteries that would provide nearly full power right up until they died. I hadn’t used them all that much; yet, I also had no spares, not wanting to run out of light in the middle of a fight. As long as the sunlight held, we would be in good shape in the building, but checking inside any trailers would be risky. There was movement up ahead, about a third of the way down the aisle to my front. The place was so expansive, I couldn’t see to the far side. A small group of Zs were milling around in the break area. They hadn’t seen us yet and so I took advantage of that and ducked behind some stacked pallets, where I could watch them through the slots. Carl was scared, I could hear his breathing behind me and feel his body heat as he stayed close to me. “Stay here. If anything happened, go back outside and wait in the truck.” I advised, giving him an option to leave if he was too frightened to help me. I counted five of the enemy, but could hear a couple more that were behind a partition. Just because I knew where this group was didn’t mean there weren’t others lurking in the shadowy aisles or between some of the stacks of pallets and boxes. I’d rather get them outside if I could so their bodies, when I eventually killed them, wouldn’t contaminate the food or other items inside the warehouse. Why they had stayed in the building this long was a mystery to me since the man doors all around the building opened outward with press levers they would only have had to bump into to release them. They were very quiet, the only noise coming from the scuffle of their heavy work boots on the cement. I had to move around, to see as many as I could and search out avenues of escape if things didn’t work out as planned. Looking around, I saw my best option, as most often the case, was to go up. In this case, I could climb up the stacks or pallets and crates and have a good area to move along the length of the building. Only near the center of the building would I need to climb down to negotiate around the offices and others rooms built inside the complex. Going back over to Carl, I told him he could leave the building and move the truck out to the main fence and block the gate with it, then wait for my return. He looked at me to be sure I was serious, then quietly left. I first needed some attraction devices. I wanted to get as many of these deadly things in one area as I could. A pallet of glass dinnerware would do nicely and I used my SRK to open some of the boxes. I grabbed a stack of dessert plates and had just started to climb when I was slammed from behind into the boxes. Dropping the plates created a crash I had hoped it would, but not at the time I wanted. Now, an angry factory worker in a gray jumpsuit, who was sure to have alerted his friends, was assaulting me. I hadn’t worn my pack today, not expecting to be out long, and I no longer had its protection, feeling this guy’s bony fingers clawing into my lower back. I tried to turn but was forced against the boxes again. I had to get him off me before the rest of the workforce came to help him. Spinning around quickly, I caught him with an elbow in the side of the head and felt a shock shoot down my arm, leaving my fingers tingling. But I got the distance I sought and ran to the next aisle while my opponent struggled to his feet. I tried to bring the carbine up, however, my hand wouldn’t grip it tight enough. Switching to my off hand, I fired from the hip and hit the ex-human in the pelvis. He went down howling mad, not from pain, but frustrated that he could get at me. I turned and scrambled up the pallets for safety just as the small mob rounded the corner. It looked like my plan to get them all together was working, if not a little prematurely. I wasn’t hiding anymore, just trying to get out of sight as I ran across the tops of the crates, praying I would fall through a stack of light bulbs or something equally bad. I couldn’t afford to break a leg or get jammed somewhere. Getting enough distance to catch a breath, I listened for the angry flesh eaters. They were pissed, smashing into the pallets and overturning boxes and stacked crates trying to get to me. Calming myself, I realized there was no rush now; I had the advantage of height, distance and firepower. I only had to take my time and pick them off, but in the process, trashing my desire to get them outside. I wondered about Carl. He must have heard the single gunshot and then nothing, and may have assumed I was overtaken. I hoped he wouldn’t have taken off without checking first. I thought about calling it quits for the day and trying again later, when the stack of crates I was on swayed, nearly knocking me off. Flattening out, I looked over the edge and saw that several new angry cadavers were clawing at the base of the stack. I was getting back the feeling in my hand, but didn’t want to chance dropping a weapon over the edge until I was in better control. Instead, I jumped to the next stack and then the one beyond it, looking for a way to see, without being seen. As I neared the office structures, I noticed that there was a catwalk suspended from the ceiling grid work. The walkway would allow me to get to the opposite side of the building in short order, easily outrunning my predatory pursuers. I could hear the growls all around now and realized that there were far more creatures in the building than I was going to comfortably handle. From here though, I could snipe at a few of them and cull the herd, also drawing them away from the door I wanted to get out. I zeroed in on one large man, standing with his back to me and fired, dropping him between some boxes. The rest of the crowd turned as one and snarled at the sound, even though I was sure they hadn’t seen my location yet. Number two was a thirtyish gal with a long braided ponytail, and I ended her tormented life, or death. The rest must have seen the muzzle flash and started making their way over to my side of the building. I waited for them, and noted that the assembly had grown to about twenty; all but a couple dressed in gray jumpsuits, the others in white shirts and dark slacks. As they collected under me, I tightened up my sling and checked my chest rig was cinched down. My hand was working better now, but my elbow was so sore I could barely bend it. When I was sure they were all here, at least those that were coming, I ran along the catwalk to the other side and jumped to the crates to get down. I crashed out the door in case there was any out there trying to get in. I ran towards the gate and didn’t see the truck. Any other time I might have been angry, but I already knew Carl wasn’t made for this kind of work and in reality he had probably left after the first shot. Making it to the gate was no problem and I pushed the gates together and flipped down the latch out of habit. Then I heard the truck coming, from around the far side of the building, Carl fighting the steering wheel as the truck spun sideways. He raced to the gate and barely slowed as I pulled it back open. Re-securing the gate, I walked over to get in and saw Carl was in full panic mode, yelling for me to hurry. I didn’t see the need to rush until I saw him glance over his shoulder, back at the building. A large cluster of former workers was coming at us. We raced down the road far enough that the mob lost sight of us. I wanted to stop and had a hard time convincing Carl to do so. I needed to see if the killing horde was still following us, and if so I wanted to knock down a few of them out here, away from town. Here, they were all in the open and I didn’t have to worry about over-penetration or hitting any townspeople. We waited for a few minutes, until we were certain we were alone on the road, then, proceeded in at a more relaxed and safer pace. I’d deal with the Zs later, Carl was in no mood to stop. |
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Chapter 15
Strangely, the workers of the warehouse didn’t follow us back to town. We did encounter a few stragglers, walking dead that I supposed had been in the area and heard the noise, and just gravitated to it. They were quickly dispatched. Something was different with this area, maybe the Zs in general were changing or adapting. I even considered that the affects of the toxic disease were dying out and the creatures might heal. But, I knew that was nonsense, every one of them had injuries that had killed them originally and would still be fatal. Wouldn’t they? Who knew? Who would have imagined they would rise in the first place or survive this long? Back at the VFW, we discussed the options. As far as I was concerned, the beasts had to die or the town would, either through eventual starvation or attrition, as they would be picked off on their forays for food. Everyone seemed to agree; yet no one wanted to do what had to be done. It saddened me some to think that all these people would choose to sit by and die out, lacking the collective or individual courage to deal with the dead. This hardened my resolve to get home and made me realize that for any goodness this place had, I couldn’t stay here long. “Carl, you’ve seen how many there are. You’ve seen that they won’t follow us out of the fence. What’s so hard about going back and destroying them and giving this town a chance to survive?” I asked bluntly. “It’s so dangerous.” He blurted out, and then knew the rest were watching him, counting on his guidance and leadership. “They almost got me and you today. Your plan didn’t work, and now you want to risk more of us by going back out there?” he said, encouraging a few grumbled agreements. This was not what I wanted to hear but had expected. “Fine. I’ll do it myself, but not for you. When its done, I’m out of here and need a working truck loaded with provisions.” I told them, watching for anything but nods of acceptance. There were no signs that any of them would help me, and they didn’t balk at my terms. I went upstairs to rest and then get ready. After cleaning up and repacking my gear, I went down to dinner. Things sounded like business as usual until they saw me, then the room went quiet. I didn’t care now, their façade of decency and community was a sham and a shame and they knew it. I considered just taking the truck and supplies, knowing none of this brood would challenge or stop me. But I had made my deal, good or bad, and was bound by it, reluctantly so, this time. I ate my fill and retired to my bunk to rest and think. Franklin came to see me a while later and apologized for his self and fellow citizens. “I’m sure you are upset at us and disappointed too. I don’t blame you, no one does. If I were a younger man, I’d go with you, so would some of the others. I just don’t have it in me anymore, Verne.” He confessed. I knew this was hard for him and I knew he was telling me the truth, as useless as it was. “Franklin, I thank you for coming to me. But you are not in shape for this mission, I know that, and didn’t expect you to go. But there are others, and I’ve shown them how easy this would be. This isn’t my town, but I’ll fight for it because it has to be done, here, and everywhere.” I told him. “I know, I know so well and I can only offer my personal thanks and best wishes. That you succeed, is paramount for our survival and should you fail, we deserve our fate.” He said, solemnly, then got up and hugged me. “That’s from my wife and some of the other women.” He smiled. “Good Luck.” Morning came quietly, no one making noise to wake me early. There was a smell of food cooking though and I was hungry. I’d quickly grown accustomed to eating real food regularly, that much I knew, something I would miss soon enough. Or perhaps it was the human contact and company, either way I would yearn for that also. With no sense putting it off any longer, I went down the hall to find Carl, and make sure everything was prepared. He was drinking coffee and looked as though he hadn’t slept all night. He looked up but didn’t smile and I wasn’t about to ease his burden by consoling him. “Do you have a truck ready?” I asked bluntly. “Yes. But I wish you’d reconsider and stick around awhile. This doesn’t have to all be done in a day and we… some of the women are concerned and want you to stay on. We could use a guy like you around here, and not just for killing these monsters.” He pled his case. I was unmoved and had made up my mind. Holding out my hand for the keys, he got his answer. They had to trust me, or believe I would keep my word, since no one was going with me it seemed. In fact, the main hall was nearly empty of any adult males, and the women hung their heads in shame for their men. Outside, I found an old Dodge pickup truck, the bed of which was loaded with boxes of food and containers of water. I walked around it checking the tires and made sure the headlights worked, and then busted out the taillights and turn signals. I didn’t want any other light coming on inadvertently in the dark while I traveled. Satisfied that the boxes really contained food and supplies, I hopped in and started the truck. It fired right up and ran smoothly, a major relief for me; I was no mechanic and didn’t have tools to fix anything anyway. There were two younger men manning the main gate and opened it as I approached. One gave a sheepish wave as I passed through, and then shut the gate behind me. Parking outside the main gate, I sat and watched the building for a while, but saw no movement. These were the oddest acting Zs I’d encountered thus far and I could not account for their strange behavior. Whatever it was, I planned to use it to my advantage. Laying on the horn, I waited to see how they’d react and where they came from. I needed to know how they got back inside, if they did, or if it was a separate group that was locked out, patrolling the grounds, and roaming the perimeter of the structure. They came on right away, from the far side of the building, and from where I sat I couldn’t tell if they were already outside. I laid my rolled sleeping bag on the hood and used it as a rest for the carbine. I let them get halfway to me, in the open ground, before I started to fire, picking them off with ease. This only made me more disappointed in the townsfolk for not helping me. They could easily have handled this weary and ragged bunch while I entered and took care of the workers inside. Twenty minutes later, I was nearly finished when I heard movement to my rear, knowing all the shooting had brought some stragglers form outside the fence to interfere with me. It was a duo of foul-smelling, flesh bags and they looked terrible, much more decomposed than most. Their shredded clothing told me that they had been walking for a long time. I almost felt sorry for them, like a pair of hungry dogs that hadn’t eaten in too long. Almost, wasn’t going to save them today though and I gunned them down. Twenty-seven undead were now dead, littering the grounds inside and outside the fences. I had not seen any doors open to let others outside the building, so I would have to go in after them. After unlocking the gate, I drove inside and closed it to keep any stragglers from coming in behind me. I knew from the day before that there were at least twenty unemployed dead inside and they were aggressive. My plan from the other day still seemed like my best option, to lure them into a common area for easier disposal. I chose the door midway down the near side of the building, remembering it was roughly close to the break area where I had observed them congregating. Banging on the door to draw them to it, I stood back a couple of yards and waited. Normally, any such noise would have caused several or all in earshot to crash outside, regardless of the danger to them. I finally saw a face at the small, reinforced window and fired, shattering the glass and the creatures face. Another immediately pressed his face to the opening and I fired again with similar results, watching him drop out of sight. An angry rumble of growls erupted from within and the door shook as several rammed into it. Now I had their attention and they were excited to get at me. Even though I had waited for it, when the door burst open I was surprised. Six coverall-clad workers crashed through the opening almost simultaneously, so quick that I couldn’t shoot accurately fast enough to make all head shots. I knew I could out run them and took a few steps when I noticed they wouldn’t follow. Whatever it was that kept them here still baffled me and I had to find out what it was. As a lure for future confrontations it could be invaluable. They were angry as they backed up, some holding their ears and howling as if hearing something loud. I couldn’t hear a thing except the ringing in my ears, beyond the foam earplugs, from all the shooting. Looks like I’d be going in after them. First, I went back to the truck to reload and grab my backpack. The town had provided 120 rounds for the carbine and 100 for the SIG. Not a huge amount, but it should be sufficient. I’d gone through roughly two mags, fifty some rounds, and figured I had downed about half the undead workers from this building, so I was in good shape. I knew the front door was unlocked but it was closer to the things inside. I had to find another way in that was away from them, so I could enter without being seen. This building was long and I had walked nearly the entire length of one side before finding another open door, propped open with the desiccated carcass of a lady in a red dress. Stepping over the body and into the darkened interior, I caught a glimpse of a red flashing light next to the door. This place was alarmed, and it was tripped and going off, although I couldn’t hear it. In the opposite corner, I heard the muffled purr of a generator enclosed in an insulated room. It ran for a few minutes, drawing a ragged parade of dead back towards it, before it stopped. That had to be it, the humming of the generator or the alarm at an auditory range that the Zs could hear, that had been bringing them back. The enclosure, with its metal siding and the metal walls of the building must have shielded the electronics or perhaps it had been intentionally protected when built. Carl had mentioned something about it once, but I never gave much thought that it ran. There must be a battery bank that ran the alarm and with the body propped in the door it would have kept setting off the alarm and reigning in the dead. When the generator stopped, the Zs broke apart and drifted back to the break area. As quiet as I could, I climbed back up to the catwalk so I could move about and see where the creatures were. Like moths, they were flocked around the wall near the break area again, all looking up. There was a flat roof on top of the offices, but I couldn’t see anyone or anything alive up there to attract them. Then I found the source of their interest, an alarm control box. Emitting a series of flashing lights, I assumed there was some tone as well, but in a frequency I couldn’t hear. Just as well, they were all together now so I set to work, taking out the ones closest to me, in the back of the pack first. They would drop, and with a bit of luck, trip up some of the others, slowing them down if they came for me. One after another, I gunned them down, only thinking what a loss of human history and knowledge was going down with them. It was sad, but it had to be done, as they would not hesitate to tear my guts out and rip me apart given an opportunity. Over a dozen fell before they had moved among the boxes below me, blocking my sight of them. There was less than ten left now, and I had to wait until they came back in to view under me. I moved along the catwalk, stomping my feet on the metal grates to lure them into the aisle for a clear shot. I also wanted to count them, so I didn’t climb down and get ambushed by one lurking among the stacks of merchandise. I yelled at them to further entice them. Eight was the best headcount I could get, and I got two of those right away. The other six were still coming and made it almost too easy. This was their company and the wanted me out or dead. Getting into a good position, I finished them off and was starting to smell the byproducts of my work. So much for keeping the inside clean. Climbing down, I took it one level at a time. You could never tell with these things and taking a few minutes to give them a good looking over was never wasted time. I came down over the roof of the room built around the generator and just as I put my foot down on the framework, the machine kicked in, scaring the crap out of me for that instant. It was done now, and I cautiously worked to the front door, thinking there had to one last hideous killer waiting to jump me, but nothing happened. I would liked to have taken time to go through some of the stuff here, but it was still early in the day and I was anxious to get started on the final leg home. With a running vehicle, I looked forward to putting on some quick miles. I would chance moving in daylight, sticking to some lesser used roads and hopefully stay clear of any government patrols or roadblocks. There was no need, for me at least, to go back to town and report my progress or success. They could check it out for themselves and deal with the messy clean up. I reloaded magazines and filled my chest rig, then jumped in the truck and took off without closing the gate. I now had a ride, with my backup bike in the bed atop the boxes. I had food and water and fuel enough to make it straight through. I didn’t want to jinx myself by bragging how well I finally had it. Home was now my only concern and I was on my way. |