Darkest Part of Day, Part II

Chapter 1
Fresh Start


Things had changed.  I had changed.  Before now, I only wanted to get home, and then had that dream smashed.  The empty house, empty of family, of friendly faces, had changed my outlook.  Where before I had pitied these deadly creatures, and killed them out of necessity, I now wanted to destroy them.  My goal hadn’t changed, only the location, only the time needed to get there.  My methods however, would be different.

I was going home, my new home, where I knew my family would be, and no force of zombie bloodlust was going to stand in my way.  I felt like a new man, clean clothes, some fresh under garments, even a shave, had enlivened me.  I felt full of energy, even after spending hours digging up a cache of supplies from under a small shed in the back yard.  Annie and the others hadn’t taken everything, whether they had forgotten or purposely left me something, hoping I was still coming, I didn’t know.

Moving the shed had been harder than I expected, now overgrown with weeds and vines.  I’d had to first empty the mowers, lawn tools, grills and other bits of accumulated suburban life.  Even empty, the small metal shed was heavier than I remembered.  I was a leaner person now, and I guessed that had something to do with my apparent lack of strength.

The concrete slabs that made up the floor also seemed bigger and more cumbersome and had depressed themselves over time into the moist soil.  At least I remembered where the barrel, a full sized, blue plastic model, was buried.  Bernie and I had planned ahead enough to know the barrel would take too much effort to extract after the ground settled around it.  Everything inside was packed and stored in cylindrical nylon sleeves, easily reached from above.  After scraping the earth away, I was gratified by the tight seal of the lid, even after popping the retaining band.  The oxygen absorbers had done their job.

I rammed the point of the SRK through the thick, plastic lid, releasing the vacuum and pried the top off.  No odd odors, no signs of rot or decay came forth.  Reaching in, I grabbed at the first nylon handle and yanked out a sleeve.  15 others, of various sizes followed, making a stack of goods on the ground beside me.  I carried them all into the kitchen and closed up the house.

We, Annie, Bernie, Dad, and I had planned ahead for some unknown emergency, hoping we had everything we would need in the aftermath in one of these nylon bags.  I had fresh pants and shirt, clean, dry, thick-soled socks to go with some boots and a fleece vest.  A complete load-bearing vest would replace the worn, shabby chest harness I had worn nearly every one of the days of the last four months.  The vest would be more comfortable and allow me to carry more supplies.

A new hydration bladder, built into the vest would replace the venerable old Camelbak pack that had served me well, but was dilapidated, dirty and filled with nasty gunk.  My body had adjusted to the steady input of filtered and not so filtered water from many questionable sources since this odyssey had begun.  I wondered if the shock of clean, filtered and treated water would upset the balance.

Also, I was able to re-supply my ammunition stocks and got a chance to thoroughly clean all my weapons and equipment.  Fresh batteries went into all my lights.  My trusty carbine was battered; the paint chipped and rubbed off all the high points, but was still totally reliable and functional.  It looked like a piece of crap but I knew it really hadn’t but barely been broken in.  Mechanically, it was nearly new, and I didn’t need to make any changes except the sling, which had been reduced to a frayed and stringy wad of nylon fibers.

My body, especially my feet, had taken the worst punishment.  My day of rest and refit, I had gone wearing only a pair of slippers or nothing, allowing them to air out.  Several good rubbings with Corn Huskers lotion brought back some color and smoothed out the cracks and rough spots.  I had decided to change to some newer boots, even though the old ones were perfectly molded to my feet, they were showing signs they would disintegrate soon.  I’d have to chance some blisters, hot spots and pinches even though the replacements were other veteran boots I had broken in earlier.  Real, cushion soled socks would help see me through that.

I used the afternoon to load, unpack and then reload the new equipment until it fit and felt right and I could reach everything with ease.  After checking for any unwanted company, I popped the hood on the truck.  I didn’t have a new filter to fit the engine, settling on draining the dirty oil and replacing it with some fresh stuff.  I topped off the radiator and tossed a spare gallon of antifreeze/coolant and some more water into the back.  There was a little more than half and tank of gas in the truck and I added about 3 gallons from a can I found in the shed and almost another gallon drained from the lawn tractor.

Everything was as ready as I could make it, and I had only to wait for morning to leave.  I spent and uneventful evening, for a change, and got a few hours of sleep, in my own bed.

The sounds of gunfire in the distance woke me at 5:27 am.  I went to the window and looked around but couldn’t see anything happening.  There were a few walking dead wandering down the street, however, they appeared disinterested in the noise.  There was a frost on the lawns and I assumed the cooler temperatures were affecting them.

After dressing, I went down to the kitchen where all my supplies were stacked.  I used a small camp stove to heat some water for coffee and instant oatmeal.  A can of pears also got tossed down my throat as part of breakfast.  It was time to go and so I slipped on the vest and picked up my other kit. Glancing over my shoulder, I took one last look around the deserted remains of my home, and then walked out.


I was in a good mood despite the situation.  Still alive after four and half months of rambling across America, through zombie infested and infected towns and cities and wastelands, I counted myself lucky.  But it was different today, I wasn’t just looking to lay low and sneak my way home.  The Zs had shown no concern and given no quarter to me thus far, and I planned to return the favor in kind.

There were no grand schemes to draw them into slaughter, but I wasn’t going to be so quick to turn away anymore.  Along with my carbine, I was now also armed with an AKM.  It was a home-built version I had salted away in the buried cache, and I had plenty of ammo.  Any Zs that cast their pale, gray eyes at me would be considered a threat, and one I would eliminate.  Any chance for a return to normalcy in this country was going to call for the destruction of these creatures.

I hoped there were many others out there that understood the situation and resolved to deal with it too.  The entire country, probably the entire world’s infrastructure was out of whack and getting it back on track would start in the small villages.  This wasn’t for sport, but for survival, pure and simple.

I backed out of the driveway and stopped, turned and looked back at the house one last time, then put the truck in gear.

O

M

G


HE IS BACK!!!!!!!!!!!11

I want to keep reading...

Great Start!!!!
Can't wait to read more

   You keep it going, great!!!!

Anybody got a link to part 1?

oh snap..........how do I look in the archives? nothing happens

Part 1 is at the bottom of the list of stories on the zombie page.  Soon to be in paperback.

Nice start... thanks.

hmm... is that AKM a full auto version or a homebuilt semi AK or a semi parts kit...  yeah, I'll shut up now and stop being picky.

Really enjoyed the first story.  I really liked how you mentioned your characters gear actually wore out for some reason.

Thanks for starting Part II - this has been a good read.

Ron

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS...............

Sweet, thanks for continuing on these are pure gold.

Great beginning!  Thanks for sharing and keep it up!

TAG for the epic goodness.

Please.  We need more.

I am so glad you are letting us have some more of your talent.
I am so very bored at work, so I need all the help I can get.

+1

I tried to add another chapter last night but it never appeared.  I'll try again shortly.

CHAPTER 2
On The Road Again.

To say I was happy about traveling again would be generous.  As much as I had previously enjoyed driving around this great country before, I just wanted to stop and go back to the way things used to be.  No way that was ever going to happen, yet the longing was always present.  If my luck held, and there was no reason to fathom that it would, I should make Bernie’s place in a couple days.

As I pulled out of the subdivision and onto the road north of town, I saw hundreds of Zs wandering around.  The sound of the truck was enough to turn a few heads and those heads began to howl and screech.  I hadn’t even pulled completely onto the road before a hundred ugly, rotting faces were focused on me.  This was too early in the day and too soon in this leg of the journey for a big showdown.

Even so, taking out a few would save someone the trouble later or keep one of these murderous creatures from killing any warm-blooded person.  I knew how fast they could congregate and didn’t want to see it again.  Using the truck, I bumped a few out of the way, knocking them down, but not really causing much damage.  I watched, disappointedly, as they popped back up behind me as I passed, tagging along after the truck.  To tell the truth, it ticked me off, and had there only been a few of them, I would have stopped and put them down.  

The angered, hungry groans and growls were drawing more of the wanderers to me.  I bumped a few more, increasing speeds, trying to get to the access road.  The truck shuddered when I hit a larger man, his body wedging up in the wheel well.  He wasn’t killed by the collision, and could be heard growling and thrashing about.  Making a couple quick jerks of the steering wheel, I tried to dislodge him but he was stuck fast.

I sped up and hit the brakes, still unable to get him loose.  Perhaps as many as 50 of scattered mob had made it to the road ahead of me, cutting off my route.  That left making a right turn and finding another course.  First, I had to get rid of my unwanted passenger, something I was sure he wanted as well, if for no other reason than to grab onto my throat.  Bouncing my way through the crowd, I worked for some open ground, fighting with the steering being pulled hard right by the thing up under the fender.

Rushing past the crowd and gaining some distance, I pulled over to see what I could do.  The still active remains of my stowaway were stuck tightly in the wheel well, one of his arms defiantly reaching for me.  Both of his legs were gone, crushed and ground to black, dripping shreds under the tire.  I couldn’t do much right then because others were catching up and closing in.  I couldn’t shoot him either, fearing the bullet would punch straight through his body and hit a vital engine component. He’d just have to travel with me a little longer.

Two miles down the road a huge thud and jolt signaled the end of the ride along.  I also found that the truck was lurching heavily to the right, a sure sign that the ghoul had exacted some revenge on me.  The crowds had given way to the occasional wandering wretch, which would make stopping safer, but not safe enough to make any major repairs.  I bumped into an alley between a pair of cinderblock garages to take a look.  What I found was not encouraging.  The tire was flat, the whole fender bent outward and worst of all, and the rotor assembly was bent.  Looking around, I didn’t see any other vehicles that appeared promising.  I was back to the bike, and so, I got it out and grabbed my pack.  So much for making time.

I was really surprised I wasn’t more upset by the development, but since I had been through so much already, I guess I had become numbed.  I had no time table since I didn’t even know if the others were alive or if I had guessed wrong and they had all gone somewhere other than Bernie’s.  The new pack was bigger and heavier, loaded down with as much as I could cram in it.  It took some getting used to as I peddled and tried to maintain my balance.  One foot in front of the other, each revolution getting me down the road.


Berne Ruddigg stood on the front deck, surveying the lands below with a powerful pair of binoculars.  The deck was attached to his hand-built home, overlooking a steep slope down to a wide green valley.  His driveway was barely visible below, winding through the thick forest for nearly a mile before it connected to the county road.  No vehicles had been seen in the area for over 3 weeks now and Berne wondered about the outside world.  Even before the calamity, the traffic out here was sparse, but could be seen in the distance along the county back road.  But now, it was as if no one was out there, except the flesh eaters.  They were out there, staggering around the countryside, no clear direction to their travel.  A few had made the mistake of coming into range of one of Berne’s rifles and were quickly dispatched.

None of the dangerous creatures had gotten close to the house, the rough terrain and the steep hills too much for their stiffened joints to handle.  There was no false illusion that they couldn’t make it at some point, if given enough time.  To this day though, that was something Berne and the others weren’t giving out.  Dropping the binos to the strap on his neck, Berne picked up his coffee and sipped the aromatic fluid.  The warm liquid felt good going down, pushing the morning chill away.  The early morning air was cool and damp and the heavy dew had coated this portion of the world.

A flutter of movement below in the tree line caught his attention.  Setting down the mug, his hands found the binos again as he kept his focus towards the location of the movement.  Scanning the area across the field he made found several deer at a full run across the driveway.  This wasn’t the gentle loping trot, but one of panic.  Even the birds burst from the trees above the deer.  Something was down there, frightening the wild animals.

Berne glassed the area, unable to find the source along the length of the road that was visible to him.  And then he caught a glimpse of blue fabric, foreign to the lush green forest backdrop.  And then some reds, browns, and finally they came into view.  There were nearly twenty of the interlopers, struggling against the vines, branches and thorny bushes, ambling angrily toward the base of the hill.  No way they had seen him or even knew Berne and the others were here.  But this wasn’t the first group to show up, out of nowhere, and head in his direction.  

Whatever senses guided them to their prey or food, in this case Berne and his family, it was working well enough.  He knew he had several advantages like firepower, distance and elevation, but it was still unnerving to see a ravenous pack on the hunt, for his blood and flesh.  Without panic, Berne set aside the binoculars and replaced them with the more precise optics of a Nikon scope mounted on his Sako TRG rifle.  

The scope was already adjusted to 10x, allowing Berne to zoom in on the meandering group just now clearing the tree line and entering the plowed field.  Centering the crosshairs on the blue shirt, he took a few seconds to take in the sight.  The man if you could still call this kind of creature a man, was probably once a successful banker or business.  The royal blue shirt with white collars was stained black with the vile slime that had drained out of a gash in his throat.  His hands still sported the gold and diamond rings and shiny watch, former symbols of success and excess.  Berne fired and waited the brief flight time of the bullet until it impacted on the right temple, exploding the thing’s head and toppling the body back into the undergrowth.

The rest of the group stopped; confused to the development but showing no signs it had frightened any of them.  Watching through the scope, Berne could see that they were howling, although at this distance he couldn’t hear them.  Their primitive working brains were trying to tell them where the shot had come from, but the reverberation across the valley and field masked it well.  The new leader paced to and fro in front of the fallen victim and then resumed his march the original course, the other straggling behind him.

“What have you got?” Annie asked as she stepped onto the deck, responding to the first shot.

“Group of about 20, down there” Berne replied, pointing to them.  Annie was armed too, a well used Remington Sendaro slung over her right shoulder.  She slipped the rifle off and leaned the fore end over the porch rail, pointing down toward the trespassers.  

“OK, I see them.  I have a blond hippie type in an orange shirt out front” she announced.  Without further comment, she fired, sending a jacketed hollow-point down the hill.  Without the scope, Berne could still see the result.  The hippie jolted, and then staggered back a couple steps before dropping flat on his back. Again the remaining group halted, milling around their fallen comrade before regrouping and surging forward.

“Nice shot” Berne offered.  “I guess we better get at it while they’re still close to the road.  It’ll make cleanup a little easier” he added.

The two shooters set to work and took only 15 minutes to clear the field of the unwanted zombies.  The firing had drawn the rest of the house’s occupants out to see what was happening and everyone was getting dressed, knowing the drill and cleanup that would follow.

There was a small, dry gravel pit on the northern edge of the property.  Formerly used as a firearms range and vehicle playground, the pit was more recently transformed into a burial ground and landfill.  Early on in the calamity, the general consensus was that rapid and proper disposal of any infected persons or objects was paramount.  Even before the last professional newscasts went off the air, people were told to purify the dead through fire and then burial of the remains.  Burning was seen as the easiest and most effective way to deal with the mounting number of dead.  One pickup truck on the property was converted to a flat bed for the collection of carcasses.

The bed of the truck was wrapped in layers of poly tarps to make rinsing off the slimy messes more easy or simply pulling an entire layer off to remove the load.  A bleach solution was then liberally sprayed on any exposed truck or clothing such as the knee-high rubber farm boots most of them wore during cleaning operations.  All five members of the household joined in and rode down to the pit.  Since Annie and Berne were already armed, they would act as security.  Ray, (Berne and Verne’s father) drove, with Ollie and Juli in the cab.  Annie and Berne followed on an ATV.

Of late, moving the bodies of the dead Zs had become fairly easy.  Most appeared to have been dead for some time and had lost significant weight and most were mere skeletons with gray skin covering stretched over their bony frames.  How they managed to function with the loss of so much body mass, muscle and fluid, was really remarkable.  Even the women had little trouble dragging a carcass off the truck.  At the pit, Berne fired up a small skid steer to push the bodies into a pile, where they were then doused with diesel fuel and set afire.  After the fire had consumed the bodies into charred heaps of bones, Berne pushed the pile into a hole and Ray and Ollie spread a layer of lime over them.  The whole mess was then filled in, covered with gravel and the location marked on a chart.  The routine had been developed over the last few months and was now a smooth running program that only took a few minutes.  There was little chance of any further contamination from dead Zs in this area.  While still in the pit, the entire truck was sprayed with bleach or alcohol before going back into service at the house.


“That’s the largest group so far,” Ray stated over lunch. “And they have gotten progressively bigger each of the last three encounters.” he added.  

“I noticed that too.  And it’s not a very comfortable thought.  But did you see their condition?” Berne asked.

“Yes.  They were horrible.  Like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.” Annie said and then realized the twisted irony of the statement.  She was stating what sounded like concern for the starving creatures that only existed to kill living people.  It left her silent and wondering where her humanity was going, worrying about hideous beings she would just as happily let starve to death.  She could kill them now without emotion and yet their plight left her feeling sorry for them.  As weak as they appeared, she knew that they would instantly turn on her, kill her or any of the others given the slightest chance.  

“Doesn’t matter what they look like, they’re still only out there looking to make a meal out of us or anyone else they come across.” Ray stated bluntly.

“I’m more concerned with how they keep ending up or finding their way here.  I can’t believe it’s just by chance that they stumble across us this far away from any population center.” Berne added to the conversation.  It was something that had been troubling him for a month or more and this was the first he’d mentioned it aloud.  He had been tracking the dead as they came into the area.  The flow of the undead dead was not constant, but it was steady and steadily increasing in numbers each week.  He’d also found wallets and ID cards on some of the bodies and found that many of these creatures had traveled great distances only to die their second and final deaths here in this remote location.  “I’ll be outside.” He announced and walked back to the deck overlooking the valley.


The rest of the day was a downhill slide, ruining my earlier high spirits.  The heavier load was cumbersome and really slowed my progress.  Late in the afternoon, a chilly, windy afternoon, the bike crapped out.  First it was a tire with a slow leak that required frequent stops and hand pumping to keep moving.  I had no spare inner tube and no silicon gel filler.  By early evening, as the sun was setting, the tire gave out completely and when it did, the excessive weight sank down on the rim, ruining it behind use or repair.

Things were turning more like what I was used to, and I didn’t like it.  I’d been so distracted keeping the tire up and moving that I hadn’t looked for a decent place to bed down for the night.  Most likely, it was going to be a tree, since they were plentiful and there were no buildings or structures in sight.  I pulled the pack on and slung my rifles, heading out on foot once again.

Trudging down the center of the road, I considered just walking all night and not having to worry about being surrounded as I slept.  That plan lasted until it started to rain.  Walking with a heavy pack was bad enough, but doing so while soaking wet, with temperatures dropping, didn’t inspire me at all.  When the rain increased to a heavy downpour, I knew it was time to find or make shelter quickly.

The last of the day’s light vanished behind the dark clouds of an approaching
thunderstorm.  In between lightning strikes, I spotted the brief outline of some type of manmade structure.  The lightning was messing up my vision, alternating between brilliant, blinding white light and utter blackness.  I stumbled along as best I could, feeling the weight of my equipment increasing with rainwater soaking into it.  One foot in front of the other, blindly moving forward, just like the rest of my odyssey so far.  One more step and I fell forward………

When I awoke, I couldn’t move.  At least nothing but part of my upper right arm.  It was still dark and raining and I felt pressure all over me, like I was being held down.  The rain was steady but not nearly as hard as earlier.  I could feel a rush of cold water slapping against my back and neck and sensed that I was on my left side, semi-seated.  I had fallen, how far I didn’t know, into some type of pit and the mud and water had filled in around me.  Both legs and most of my body was encased and held fast in cold, sticky clay-like mud.  A steady waterfall poured in behind me.  My pack was still on my back, strapped tightly to me and I think the rifles were still slung around my neck, yet I couldn’t be sure.

Trying to kick my legs free, I was rewarded by a searing, acute stab of pain through my right leg and knee.  Something was very wrong underneath the heavy mud.  My left leg felt fine, even though I couldn’t move it yet under the weight of the water packed earth.  Worst though, was that the water and mud was still running in filling whatever void I was in and adding to my predicament.

My head pounded from even the slightest bit of exertion.  I assumed there was a cut; maybe I was bleeding, though I couldn’t tell with the cool water cascading over my face in the dark.  There was no way to tell how long I’d been out or how far away daybreak was.  At least the rain was masking whatever noises I made, so the Zs couldn’t home in on me.  But that was a two way street for me too, as I couldn’t tell where they were.  Perhaps they were massing above me, and even if only one got lucky enough to fall in with me, I’d be a goner.

Slowly, I worked my fingers around; breaking up the heavy, wet mud.  I hoped to create an opening where the downpour could start to flush away some of the earth holding me down.  My left arm was going numb with all the weight bearing down.  I knew the same was happening to my legs as well and worked my fingers a little harder.

For over an hour I flexed and relaxed my hands and arms, working a small space around me, loosening the hold.  Unfortunately, the rain stopped, leaving me to break free on my own.  Twice, out of frustration and anger, I had tensed and tried to bust free, both times only receiving another jolt of intense pain down my right leg.  Twice I had to hold back a yell so as not to attract undead company.

A rustle of activity above me made me go silent.  Maybe just leaves moving on the wind, maybe it was a small rodent scurrying, but it sounded loud enough to be dangerous given my situation.  I wondered if my heavy, pained breathing had signaled my position.  If even one of the stumbling dead dropped in, I was done.  The thing would be on top of me and could eat my face off, and I couldn’t do a thing about it.

I worked my left hand and leg as much as I could, out of fear and frustration as well as to keep blood flowing through them.  Another noise in the darkness made me stop to listen again, straining to find the source and using my senses to try and identify my surroundings.  But then nothing, no more noise, not even a cricket or distant flutter of a bird.  My mind raced, thinking it had to be one of the undead, scaring ever other living creature away.

Sometimes I hate being right.  Clumps of mud and small stones dropped down on me from the edge of the pit above.  I still couldn’t see a thing, but I could smell the foul, rotted breath, and could hear the raspy air sucking in the creature’s nasty mouth.  He, she, it, sensed I was here but was confused by the distance between us.  I didn’t dare look up for fear that even the whites of my eyes would give me away.

My hands clenched into the dirt surrounding them, frantically trying to create a pocket, even the smallest space to move.  The killer above me couldn’t see the movement but I was convinced he knew a warm meal was at hand.  He only needed to wait a while for daybreak to confirm I was there and then descend on me.  I only had that time to free myself, and I had no idea how much time that was.

I inhaled deeply, inflating my lungs and expanding my chest as much as I could.  Any void I could make would loosen the wet earth around me.  My right hand moved, and I was able to turn it slightly and make a fist.  Working my fingers, my aching, tired and cold fingers out, I made small scoops toward my body.  Whether real or imagined, it felt like I was making progress, if only by fractions of an inch.

I was exhausted, cold and dehydrated, even though I was encased in wet mud, I hadn’t had a drink or anything to eat in at least a day.  The stench of the dripping black saliva snapped my thoughts back to the problem above me.  I tried rocking my torso, feeling even with the slight movement, the pain run down my leg.  The tenderness told me I was going to have a hard time walking or running once I got out of this predicament.  The cool sensation of air rushing to my damp clothing told me I was making progress.  My right shoulder was partly exposed.  

The chirps of a few small birds told me that dawn was coming and I guessed it had close to 4:00 am.  It wouldn’t be long before the sun breached the horizon, allowing the thing above me to see well enough to decide if I was food.  At least the mud washed over me would disguise me,  I hoped.

Between my shoulder and hand, I was loosening the wet soil and with one steady surge, I broke my right arm free.  In frenzy, I clawed and scooped dirt and mud off me, trying to get out.  In my excitement I must have jerked my legs and instantly and excruciatingly the pain tore through me, almost causing me to scream out.  Holding the noise in didn’t help much and I felt a wave of nausea flush from my head down, ending in a severe throbbing ache above my right knee.


Berne sat bolt upright and turned to face south.  “What is it?” his father asked.

“I don’t know.  Verne. I’m not sure,” Berne answered.  “Something is wrong, I can’t explain it, but I feel it.” He added.

“You two have always had that bond, haven’t you?” Ray stated more than asked.  Berne wasn’t listening; he just stood there, looking off into the air and trees.  In his mind he knew he wanted to go find his brother and yet he understood there was no way to know even where to begin a search.  He knew also that Verne was a fighter, a survivor, and held no doubts his brother would get past whatever obstacle currently hindered him.

Good one. Keep it coming.

Awesome update!

Keep up the great work!

AKASL

LIVE FREE OR DIE!

I like it! Where do I find part I ?

ETA - found it and just spent the last 2 hours reading it! Keep up the good work.

Nice job. I am thoroughly enjoying the story.

I like the new chapter!

more please

I spent all night reading part 1 and i absolutely loved it!  please keep part 2 coming because i cant get enough.

Chapter 3
The Pit

Scooping dirt away as quickly and quietly as possible, I finally freed the area around my chest.  I was making noise and the thing above me was frantic.  Hissing and drooling at me, he knew something living was nearby but still couldn’t figure out the distance and elevation between us.  His movements were sending a shower of dirt and pebbles down the back of my neck, and I hoped his curiosity didn’t cause him to try groping around the opening, and inadvertently falling in on me.

As best I could tell he was alone, or any others were being uncharacteristically quiet, not a normal zombie trait.  His anger grew each passing minute he couldn’t sink his fetid teeth or fingers into my chilled flesh.  His jaws snapped in loud, hollow, empty bites, as if he were tasting the air for me.

When I cleared enough wet soil off my chest, I detached the sternum strap on my pack and tried to sit up, forgetting painfully about my leg.  Unable to stop myself, I let out a cursed groan, getting an immediate growl and shower of gravel from above.  A split second later my company crashed down on top of me, causing me to curse very loudly this time.  He landed in a heap at my feet and needed a few seconds to orient himself.  He was climbing atop my buried feet causing me pain and my reaction was anger.

I stopped digging, bringing my hands up for the expected assault.  I felt him pounding the ground between us with his bony fingers, searching for a handhold.  When I felt the pressure of his emaciated weight on my lap, I lashed out with a couple strong punches, connecting fully with the second.  The animalistic human rolled away from the impact, grunting and trying to catch himself to get back after me.

In the darkness, he thrashed around as blind as I was, angry for losing his meal.  I dug for the SRK, clearing enough dirt away to feel the handle.  My opponent lunged at the sounds of my scrapping and I felt one of his skeletal paws grip the shirt on my chest.  I grabbed his hand and twisted outward trying to release his grasp.  Since Zs don’t feel traditional pain, they down react traditionally.  I heard the wrist and several fingers snap under the pressure but didn’t feel this dead man let go, but I did get his hand off me.  At least his hand wasn’t going to be of much use to him, except as a club.

Punching out, I was gratified when my fist impacted the softer tissue of his throat.  Feeling his head drop, I grabbed the back of his neck, forcing his face into the mud where his snapping teeth were safely away from any part of me.  Again I clamored for the knife, finding the rubberized grip.  Drawing the knife, I thought about my options.  It was dark and my foe’s head was close to my torso meaning I couldn’t safely stab him, and risk missing him and gutting myself.  I decided to do this slowly.  Maintaining a good hold on his head, I placed the tip of the blade against this temple and started to push.  I think he sensed what the outcome was going to be and started to flail his arms.  With a satisfying pop, the blade broke through and entered brain tissue, ending the struggle.  Rolling the body off and away, I laid back to rest.

I had to forget about the pain and get myself unstuck in case any other Zs were up topside.  The sounds of morning, birds chirping and rodents racing around, were a bit of encouragement, since they generally remained silent when Zs were near.  Scooping handfuls of dirt off me, I was able to get some movement in my left leg, helping to push me out of my dirt cocoon.

The sling of the AKM was down around my waist and when I tugged on it intense pain rocketed up my right leg.  After a few moments to clear my head, I slowly worked the soil away from the leg, coming to the AKM first.  I felt down the length of the rifle all the way to the front sight.  At that point, I discovered that my leg was impaled by the barrel of the AKM, just above my right knee.  The slanted muzzle device I’d left on for nostalgic looks had acted like a big, dull chisel, piercing through my leg.  You know, the place just above the knee where there isn’t a lot of meat.  I was sure the barrel was pressing against the bone.  I didn’t know at the time just how painful it was going to be to remove it, only that I planned to scream aloud throughout the ordeal, zombies be damned.

So first, I needed to be prepared and dug myself out further.  With both hands and arms now free, I made quick work of clearing most of the soil off me.  Daylight was just about to break and the rains had moved off but I was still miserable.  Aside from the pain of the injury, I was cold, wet, hungry and thirsty.  And very tired.  Stabilizing the imbedded rifle on a mound of dirt, I pulled off the heavy pack and dug for some food and water.  I would have sucked down the entire hydration bladder but I needed some water to flush out the wound.

Caked and covered with mud, this was not going to be a very hygienic operation, but there was no choice or option.  Opening my med kit, I found some Ibuprofen and chewed a few so they would work faster.  I readied the other supplies and found a clean T-shirt to use as a large bandage.

The first splash of water let me know just how tender the wound was.  Even the weight of the flowing water hurt.  Once cleaned, I could see that the flesh had swollen tightly around the barrel at the entry and exit sites.  Luckily, I could unscrew the flash hider and reduce the thickness and length of metal I was going to have to pull back through.  I considered just cutting the meat, but being no doctor and never having played one on TV, I figured that there might be some important muscle or tendons of something in there I would need later.

Using some Betadine swabs from the FAK, I wiped down the two openings and then the muzzle end of the rifle.  No sense dragging more dirt and crud back through the holes.  I listened intently as the sounds of someone walking grew nearer.  They were hurried and the calm, even pace told me that this was no Z.  I decided to chance contact and called out for the person to stop.  Whoever it was froze instantly but then I could hear them trying to slowly back off, something I didn’t want to happen.

“I mean you no harm, and I need some help,” I offered up, trying to sound calm and non-threatening.

“Where are you?” the unseen stranger called out.  “I don’t see you, don’t shoot,” he pleaded.

“I’m not going to shoot.  I’m in some kind of hole in the ground and can’t get out” I informed him.  “Since you can talk, I assume you aren’t one of those creatures.  Please, I need some help” I said.  A slight rustle of gravel and debris told me the man was moving, but I couldn’t tell if he was leaving.

“Whewwww, that’s gotta smart” a voice above me whistled.  I looked up and saw an old man with a grimace on his weathered face.  He flashed me a nervous smile, showing a mouthful of yellowed teeth.   “Stay put, I’ll see what can find to get you out,” he offered.

He was gone about ten minutes.  Long enough that I began to wonder if he’d decided to move on and not complicate his life messing with me.  He returned in a noisy flurry of activity and out of breath.  “I found a ladder but it’s chained to a truck.  I figured pounding on the lock would bring them.  So, on to plan B” he said, showing another toothy smile, this time with confidence.  

Plan B was a tow strap and some logging chain.  I sent up my pack and carbine first and then wondered how thing guy was going to hoist me up after watching him struggle with the gear.  So, I asked.

“There’s a truck up here with a winch on the front.  The battery is dead but it had a welder/generator on the back.  I think I can rig the power to the winch if the generator starts.  I’ll be back as soon as I can” he advised and then was out of sight.  Have I mentioned trust is hard to give out anymore?  Once again I had no choice, he was up there with my gear and I couldn’t see a thing or move.

In the downtime, I fashioned a harness with the tow strap and tied the T-shirt around the wounds to keep dirt out and stanch the flow of blood I was sure would be coming soon.  Looping the AKM sling around a piece of rebar, hoping it would hold and allow the barrel to be pulled out of my leg as I was lifted up.  The free end of the tow strap had a hook, which I snagged onto the AKM sling.  If all went well, the rifle would be yanked out of my leg, and then pulled out with the tow strap behind me.

“You ready?” my new friend yelled down.

“You bet” I answered.  I heard the generator cough to life and then smoothed out to an even hum.  The hum was noisy enough that it wasn’t going to have to run long to draw an audience of undead.  It seemed a long time before I finally saw the slack pulling out of the strap.  With a jerk, I started upward.
I looked up to check progress, forgetting about the AKM.  Painfully, I was re-introduced to it a second later as I was nearly tugged out of the makeshift harness.  

To his credit, my new companion didn’t stop the pulling when I screamed as the barrel ripped back through my hide.  I hadn’t lived this long without learning the way the dead worked.  The noise of the motor alone would bring them, how soon, I didn’t know and could only except that this man helping me did.  I recalled only being dragged out of the hole and over a short field of gravel, and then collapsed.

wow, I can definitely say I wasnt expecting that. I was thinking maybe a broken bone, or an accidental discharge from falling. but spearing yourself in the leg with a rifle barrel? ouch.

good addition. I look forward to more lol

Great twist.  Looking forward to more.

Ok, that was posted yesterday, where's the next installment?

We're waiting.

+1
also, hows it going with trying to get this published?

i need more!

Moar

First, an apology.  I didnt notice until today that I put up an unedited chapter 3.  Sorry for that and I hope it didnt spoil the read.  Working off two computers and I didnt get the right one in.

But, here is Chapter 4.

Chapter 4
Friends and Mends.

Lestor Fitch was his name.  Short, frail and gray, Lestor was the archetypical farmer/grandfather.  He had a pleasant, jovial demeanor that made me naturally and quickly trust and respect him.  Not that I could do much else.  Had he wanted to, he could have left me to die or make my own way from the pit.  But, he hadn’t.  He was all that we expected of our elders, honesty, a can do attitude and an understanding of what was important, big or small.  He was a little too young, I supposed, to have experienced the great depression, however, I expected he was a war baby.  He probably hadn’t spent much time away from the family farm in all his years.

What he had going for himself as a gentleman, was a sharp contrast to his housekeeping.  The house, or at least the bedroom I could see around me, was cluttered with stacks of yellowed and tattered old newspapers and bundles of mail bound in baling twine.  A few soiled and stained coats and checkered flannel shirts hung, covered in dust, on the backs of chairs and doors and dresser drawer knobs.  Every flat surface was covered with some pile of old magazines or books.  The dusty, wide plank floor was covered with an assortment of area rugs, each with its own coating of dust and dirt.  The bare wood, where not covered by a rug, looked dry and rough from lack of oil and cleaning.

All over, spiderwebs and cobwebs floated on gentle puffs of air leaking through the drafty old windows.  In each corner, curling down from the ceiling, were sticky flytraps, littered with the desiccated carcasses of hundreds of dead flies and gnats.  The live ones had obviously learned to stay clear and inhabited the rest of the house, including around me, and the old bed I occupied.  The mattress was soft, covered with a holey wool blanket, but I dared not move too fast on it lest I create a musty dust cloud to envelope me.

In a word, the place was nasty.  But it was, for all its faults, a far cry from the muddy, cold pit.  Lestor had saved me a long, painful ordeal getting out of the pit, or a monkey pile of undead flesh eaters.  He came in, bringing me a mug of hot coffee, black; as I was sure it was the only way he’d ever known it. “Thank you, for everything” I offered, nodding a bit.  

“Nothing else for me to do.” He fired back as though it was all in the list of things he did every day.

“You put yourself out for me, and I appreciate it.  I owe you.” I said flatly.

“It’s not about owing, there’s no ledger.  It was the right thing to do.  All there is to it.” He countered, with just the slightest hint of aggravation in his voice.  I knew any further discussion about it was only going to anger him so I let it go.

“Where was I?  I never saw it coming, in the rain.” I asked.

“The hole you were in was the basement of a former building.  There was a gravel operation that the county used to run.  They tore down the office shack, moved out the machinery and left a big damn hole in the ground.” He explained.

“I guess that’s right,” I said.

“We all, the town board members were on them all the time to fill the thing in.  We had a couple incidents with kids playing out there and it was only a matter of time for someone to get hurt.” He finished.

“Maybe I should sue them” I joked with a smile.  Lestor chuckled as he left the room and I could still hear him laughing as he clanged some pots and pans in the kitchen.  I tried to get up but couldn’t put any weight on my leg.

The sounds he was making made me realize how hungry I was.  I lay back down and tried to rest, not much else I could do right then.  My right leg was elevated, wrapped in the T-shirt and throbbing madly.  I untied the shirt and found it was stuck with dried blood.  Slowly pulling it apart I found a gooey mess of orange-brown gunk around the wounds.  I immediately guessed it was a serious infection and I had thoughts of a filthy amputation at Lestor’s gnarled hands.  Yet, the smell of the sticky substance was almost medicinal, not rancid as I expected.  

Lestor brought me dinner, some sort of stew or goulash that looked a mess but smelled and tasted great.  I was tempted to go for seconds, even encouraged to do so by Lestor, but I resisted.  I didn’t know what his food supplies looked like and having not eaten for a day I didn’t want to create a problem.  “Go ahead, you haven’t eaten for days.  You must be powerful hungry.” He urged.

“I was only there a day” I corrected him.

“Maybe so, but ya slept a full day and then some here too” he announced.  I was stunned.  I had missed almost two days.  Then it dawned on me that I didn’t remember cleaning up or even how I got to this place.

“How’s the leg?” Lestor asked, after I’d finished eating.  

“Hurts like hell, but better than I expected.  You did a great job” I complimented him.

“Good.  I didn’t have much in the way of fancy doctoring supplies, so I did what I’d do for myself,” he returned.  

I was curious and my face must have shown it.  I was truly interested since it could cost me a leg.

He explained that he had tried to help me hobble to the house but I had collapsed along the way.  That explained why I didn’t remember any of it.  He told me he went home and grabbed a cart when it started to rain again.  The water had washed a good deal of the mud and blood off of me.  Lestor said he later stripped my down and cleaned me up as best he could.  I wondered what that meant given the surroundings I was in now.  I was still alive and feeling better, so he must have done a good job.

“Frankly, it was easier cleaning your leg while you were out.  It took a bit of scrubbing and picking to get it clean.  Then I dusted it with some pinkeye powder to stop the bleeding and wait for that to work.” He explained.  I’d heard of the use of veterinarian pinkeye powder before, but what I had seen and smelled didn’t look right and I mentioned it.

“That’s cow salve” Lestor smiled.  My raised eyebrow begged for more explanation.  “The stuff is officially called Petro Carbo salve and my mother used to put it every scratch, cut, cat bite and puncture any of us kids got.  We didn’t really use it on cows, had other stuff for that, but that’s what she called it.  The stuff works at drawing out infections and helping wounds heal” he said and tossed me a red and black metal tin.  The can was half empty and the finish was mostly worn off so I couldn’t tell what it was.  I’d just have to trust he was right.

I felt myself dozing off as Lestor spoke.  The warm food and comfy bed and another human around that was showing little concern for the deadly mutants was coaxing me to sleep.  I tried to stay up as long as I could but eventually nodded off.

The booming sound of gunfire woke me with a start.  It was close by and instinctively, I reached for my SIG P226, but it wasn’t there.  Two more shots rang out, sounding like they were coming from inside the house.  I struggled to my feet, regretting doing so almost instantly.  Lightheaded, probably from blood loss and dehydration, I almost fell back onto the bed.  The pain of trying to put weight on my injured leg was no pleasure either.  But, there was a gunfight in progress and I was certain that meant the Zs had closed in.  I wasn’t planning on dying in bed.

Hobbling into the kitchen after getting my pants on, I saw the door was standing open and the orange sky of late afternoon sun silhouetted Lestor a few feet onto the porch.  I called out to him, asking what was happening.  Calmly, he turned, lowering a lever action rifle to his side, and told me to go back inside and sit down.

I dropped into a wooden chair at the kitchen table and waited.  Lestor came in, took several cartridges from his jacket pocket and reloaded his rifle.  After standing it next to the door, he sat down next to me.

“Just a couple of those monsters that managed to get past my roadblock” he announced, like it was a routine occurrence.  He explained in more detail how he had blockaded his driveway with farm machinery and overturned cars and hay wagons.  The steep incline to one side and a deep-sided creek on the other had formed natural barriers.  Only the luckiest or most persistent zombies were able to make it near the house.  “You have to watch yer back for those things.  I’ve seen more and more of them lately.  Maybe there’s a hole in my defenses or they’s just getting hungrier.” He said matter-of-factly.  He wasn’t flustered or angry, just business as usual.  He told me how he’d had to put his wife down after she’d turned.  A carload of teens had crashed into the creek down by the county road and the farmer couple had gone to help.  Mrs. Fitch didn’t know the crash was caused when one of the teens, infected with the Z virus, had attacked the driver.  As she tried to help, she too was savagely attacked and bitten.  Later that night, she went berserk and was put to rest.

Lestor was a tough guy, but this story made him grow quiet and I saw it as a good time to go back to my room.  I found my pack, which had been brushed fairly clean and still packed as I’d last seen it.  Likewise, my rifles were on the floor at the foot of the bed, cleaned and oiled, at least externally.  I stripped down both long guns and ran a bore snake through them and oiled all the parts.  After doing the same with the pistol and knives, I went to work on the vest.  Thankfully, Lestor had grabbed everything for me.

Later in the afternoon of the next day, I decided it was time for me to start pulling my weight.  My leg was healing quickly and showed no signs of infection.  Babying or favoring it was only going to slow down the long-term recovery.  There was no power at the house, only oil lamps for light and a propane stove for heat and cooking.  A fireplace in the front room would help but Lestor had no woodpile.  I made that my mission.

The farm had long ago stopped being a working, productive endeavor.  Given his age, I assumed Lestor and his wife had mostly retired, though probably never admitting it.  A few milk cows, chickens and pigs, likely only enough to provide basic subsistence for them.  Now alone, Lestor was slowly giving up on even that chore.  I was glad he had hung around long enough to help and befriend me.

For the next week, I worked around the farm, clearing brush, making the defensive wall stronger and killing a few Zs that had come to investigate.  Chopping firewood was my main chore though and I cut, split and stacked cord after cord of wood, enough to easily carry Lestor through winter.  He didn’t say much, and even though I was sure he appreciated it, I could tell I was upsetting his routine.  

Several times the barrier was assaulted by the wandering dead, but they were easily destroyed.  Lestor said the numbers and frequency were increasing and wondered if the undead could smell human presence.  Most likely it was the increased activity and noise that attracted them I offered.  He caught me off guard and bluntly stated that perhaps it was time I moved on.  I was stunned by the frankness, but not really surprised.  He’d grown a little edgy; my interruption on his solitude was wearing his patience.  He was a hard man, and a true gentleman, but I respected that he had his own life and his own way of doing things and I knew he wasn’t trying to be mean spirited by his comment.

“You’re right.  I should be leaving.  I’ll get packed tonight and push on in the morning.” I said without looking up from my work.  Lestor wandered off to the barn without further comment.  

We had a quiet dinner and then both retired for the night.  It was uneventful, but I didn’t sleep well.  I was anxious to get back on move and more than a little apprehensive about leaving Lestor alone.


Three days later I was wishing I were alone.  The road ahead was littered with bodies; most were Zs so it was hard to tell how long they had been here.  A few though, were definitely fresher kills, and then re-killed.  Empty shell casings were visible, glinting in the sunlight, up and down the road.  With more than a little apprehension, I headed north.  An armed force was somewhere around here and I was worried that I might be mistaken for a stumbling zombie with my limp.

The stench of the rotting cadavers was almost overwhelming, even filtered through a t-shirt pulled up over my nose.  It appeared as though many of the bodies had been run over by one or more vehicles.  It was a little encouraging even in its grotesqueness, overkill at the very least.  But I was certain that these dead were really dead and wouldn’t be following after me.

There were groups of people, armed and resisting the Z invasion.  They had gas and working vehicles and weren’t afraid of moving noisily about the area.  Maybe the tide had turned and Americans were regrouping, rebuilding and re-establishing society.  At the very least, I hoped so.  But still I had to be cautious in case the opposite was true, they could be roving bandits that would kill me for what meager possessions I had.  Using the straighter, more even road surface, I ventured on, listening and watchful as ever.

good chapter. is it just me, or are these chapters getting shorter lol.

anyone know what the day count is so far? I want to say 5 months but im not sure.
also, just a suggestion as I dont know if you have it included already or not, but i would like to see bethany and bart again in the story. although hopefully not as zeds

The first few are set up chapters.  Next one is 13 pages (MS Word).  If it doesnt seem as interesting, let me know.  Ive got lots of other irons if the fire right now so Im not able to spend as much time on this as I would like. Between working all day for the man, and then running the business and duracoating some stuff, its been busy.  But if the interest is there, there is plenty more zombie destroying adventure coming.

Bring it

a lot of it lol


maybe 3-4 chapters at a time lol

Tag. I gotta go read volume 1.

Thanks for the story. I have become addicted to this. I look forward to the next chapter.

four days?
that requires 4 chapters to be posted


but seriously, post 4-5 chapters this time. i need something to read while im in class

Good chapter, I'd buy a paperback version. If you ever think about it.

Chapter 5
The Berms.

Mile after mile, I continued to see evidence of human activity and scores of permanently dead former humans.  The pattern was now disturbing me.  The bodies were not just killed, but also rather mutilated, often in monstrous displays of cruelty.  Many had been tortured; even if they couldn’t feel the pain the process by which they died was unnecessarily harsh and sadistic.

Arms and legs had been cut or blown off, often hundreds of yards from where the body eventually expired.  Small piles of brass shell casings could be found, suggesting to me that the shooters had taken their time, taunting and methodically picking their targets apart from a distance.  And always, the bodies had been run over.

Judging from the tracks and footprints, there were at least 4 vehicles and more than a dozen members of this roving force.  Not good odds for me if they weren’t friendly, but large enough a group to tell me there were probably more, a larger concentration that sent out patrols of scavengers.  I had no maps of this area, so I couldn’t even guess where they congregated, but I assumed it would be a city that held some larger stockpiles of gas and provisions.  Perhaps another warehouse town like, Atkins.

I walked, or limped as it were, for miles, not ever finding the town, the group or any clue where they were.  Their handiwork was visible along the way, making for a macabre trail to follow.  Not that I wanted to find them all that much.  If I had a chance, I’d sit back and observe at length before ever making contact.

Until or before that happened, I would continue toward Bernie’s place, which I knew was generally north.  My pace was slow but steady.

Near nightfall, I found a short grain bin with a ladder up one side.  Walking had loosened my leg muscles somewhat, but climbing was still hard and I managed to open my wounds.  Once on top, about 30 feet off the ground, I was able to see for long distances in all directions.  Only to the northeast did I see any sort of structures.  That would be my general course come daylight.

The first order of business was to secure my gear and myself on the sloped roof of the bin.  Lashing some paracord to the ladder, I stretched the lines to the opposite side and tied the pack off.  A separate line went to the carbine.  The AKM was now lashed to the side of my pack; hopefully secure enough that it couldn’t repeat an assault on me should I fall again.  Given my weakened state, I was seriously considering dropping it anyway.  The bulk and weight no longer seemed a fair trade for lugging it around.

I laid my head to the top of the bin and rested my feet comfortably on the pack.  I had already donned the rain suit to cut the wind and used the poncho liner to warm up.  I was too tired to eat or take care of my hygiene routine, and quickly fell asleep.

Familiar moans and growls woke me before dawn.  Below me in the dark, an unknown number of hungry cannibals crunched about on the gravel.  I knew that I was safe for the time being and if need be I would pick them off come sun up.  Instead, I took a few minutes to snack on an energy bar and water.  I wasn’t trying to make unnecessary noise, but I wasn’t going to cower up here in silence.  As long as there weren’t a hundred of them down there, and the noise didn’t suggest there were more than half a dozen, I would be fine.

How they managed to find me was more the question I wanted answered.  Unless I’d been snoring loudly, something I haven’t previously done, I couldn’t imagine what else attracted them.  Perhaps they’d been here all along, hidden among the other bins and sauntered over after seeing me climb up.  Maybe even the contrast of my dark form on the silver metal of the bins made me easier to pick out.  Whatever it was, they were here and I would have to wait for daylight to see my options and so I rested.

An hour later, in the dark shadows of pre-dawn, I heard a thud at the ladder.  The jolt carried through the taught paracord to my hand.  Not ever having seen a Z able to climb, I paid it little notice, vowing to see to it in the morning.

A second, harder bang on the ladder reverberated among the metal buildings.  It sounded like a fight had broken out at the base of the bin, growls and snapping jaws filling the darkness.  Pulling the pack and rifle up to the small, flat top cover, I wrapped up the paracord and stowed it away.  I could hear a clamor below me, but still couldn’t make out their number, and there was no need to waste precious battery power with dawn a few minutes away.

I decided it was time to have the AKM earn its keep and switched its place with the M4 Carbine.  Having only 5 loaded magazines, one of which was a 20 rounder, I had 140 rounds total, and enough I hoped would get me out of this situation.  After going through that, the gun would only be an awkward club, and I would ditch it.

As dawn began to break over the eastern horizon, I began to see movement below.  Slowly, with each passing minute, I began to make out individuals, then a cluster here and there.  Finally, an undulating mass appeared thirty feet under me.  I have to admit I was taken aback and more concerned that I was trapped.  The congregation, ten or more deep completely surrounded the bin.  I hadn’t seen this concentrated a force since leaving Paradise Springs and the collapse of the defenses there.  

And then they saw me.  The roar resounded off the bins and loud enough I could feel the grunts pounding my chest like a rock band.  How had they found me?  I couldn’t have made that much noise.  I heard another thud against the bin behind me and when I turned to look, I saw it.  A dark red trail of blood from where I had slept, running down the roof and over the edge.  My pant leg was stained with now-dried blood, but all around me were my bloody boot prints.  Could they have smelled the blood on the night air?  And followed it to the bins?

I chanced a look over the edge and saw several of the foul carnivores lapping their blackened tongues on the metal bin, almost climbing over one another to get higher up for a taste of the blood, my blood.  Flipping open the stock of the AKM, I brought it to my shoulder and fired.  It wasn’t just panicked shooting into the decomposing crowd; I tried to line up shots that would garner multiple kills.  From this elevated position that was a little harder since the bullets were plunging downward.  

Cutting a swath through their ranks sent a ripple through the churning mass.  Like dominos, one dead body would cause others to tumble, creating a chain reaction for a short distance.  Yet, like thick syrup, they continued to ooze forward, crushing the fallen under foot and the closer ones against the corrugated, galvanized steel.

There had to be two hundred close in with many more staggering in from the fields surrounding us.  I couldn’t imagine where they had all come from and can’t believe a trickle of my blood had lured them any great distances.  But here they were, hungry and deadly as ever.

My position wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t the greatest either.  I had food and water for several days, if need be, a little longer.  I’d burned through half of the AKM ammo without making a visible dent in the crowd.  They could wait me out and wouldn’t just get bored and move on.  Some might, but not enough to change my chances.  I wondered then if the bin was full of grain, which would offer more resistance to all the pushing on its sides.  Even if it wasn’t, there was enough of the ragged horde pushing in all directions that there was little chance of tipping over.

Since I wasn’t going anywhere for a while, I took the opportunity to clean up and tend to my wounds.  Some baby wipes and a little water worked wonders to make me feel more civilized.  Next, I unwrapped the bandages from around my leg, setting the bloodied rags to one side while I wiped the wound clean.  A gust of wind rolled the bandages down the sloped roof, just out of reach.  Before I could get up to get it, another breeze carried the bloodstained bundle over the edge.

A riot erupted below as the bloody rags hit the crowd.  I’d seen Zs in a feeding rage before, but over a much larger meal.  Some of the weaker and smaller ones were literally ripped apart as others fought to get a piece of the bloody cloth.  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, and almost felt sorry for the frail bodies being crushed and assaulted below.  I fired into the frenzied crowd, catching a few of the more aggressive beasts but not stopping the carnage.

I was down to my last magazine for the AKM when I stopped shooting.  The destruction below me wasn’t what you might think.  As the rest of the horde pushed in toward the noise, those that I had killed were trampled underfoot and covered up with moving bodies.  I was seeing this flood of ex-humans flow is as fast as I could make a path through them, leaving me little inspiration for a getaway.

The sun was up now and though it was a cool fall day, the solar power was making me hot.  I tried to rig a makeshift canopy with poncho liner across the top of the ladder but it didn’t help much.  The savages at the base of the ladder surged forward upon seeing me above and I watched as the base of the ladder bent away from the thick corrugated metal.  I moved to another spot to draw them away, not wanting to lose my only way down, if opportunity arose.

Using my pack and a rifle, I rigged a new canopy closer to the top of the bin.  Even painted silver, the metal was getting hot, uncomfortably so, and I wanted the poncho liner to give me some respite.  I also wanted to have a go at opening the hatch, bolted at the top of the peak.  If I could get the lid off of this big can, and could get inside, out of sight, maybe the army of undead would give up on me and drift away.

My small multi-tool wasn’t right for the job.  After an hour of cranking and trying, I couldn’t see that I would be able to open the hatch.  I decided to rest and pulled back under the cover and noticed almost simultaneously, the noise from the hungry audience reduced to a murmur.  I checked my leg to make sure I wasn’t dripping another invitation, and then tried to take a nap.

A car horn brought me out of my siesta; at least I thought it was a horn.  Slowly, so as not to incite the gathered masses, I sat up and looked around.  Amazingly, not a single opal colored eye was fixed on me.  As I turned to see what had taken their attention, I saw several heads and bodies explode, garnering a loud chorus of hisses and groans.  A second later, the unmistakable echo of gunfire popped a dozen times.  

More and more shots rang out and the assembled herd of the dying began to flow toward its source, a trio of trucks a quarter mile to the north.  Bodies were being blown apart, but still they surged on, maybe knowing that final death was available.  I thought about that many times.  Did the Zs move strictly on a blood lust or did they seek an end, a suicide of sorts, to end their agony.

At this particular time, I really didn’t care.  They were moving off and away, giving me a chance to vacate the area.  I packed up, hearing bullets striking the lower sides of the bin under me.  Working quickly, I moved to the lower edge of the roofline, trying to put some additional metal between the shooters and me.  I was confident that they weren’t targeting me directly; however, I still didn’t want to get tagged by an errant shot.

It looked like the people I was seeking out, had found me first.  Not the scenario I wanted, but right now, I’d take their help and pray it worked out later.  These few bins and shacks were the only cover for miles and they definitely had me outgunned so I could hide and hold them off, or go out and meet them.  Negotiations would be forth coming.

When the horde of the undead dead had thinned out, with only a few stragglers left to outrun, I climbed down the ladder.  I jogged to the main road, checking the area for any surprise attackers, and moved to the general area of the trucks.  All three vehicles were now mobile, cutting into the herd of zombies like cattle drovers, separating the pack into smaller groups and running them in circles.  Methodically, as the drivers circled, the shooters in the backs of the trucks shot down the Zs.  Between the shots I could hear whoops and yells of excitement.

In less than an hour, the slaughter was nearly complete, and the trucks continued to drive around in erratic patterns, crushing the bodies of the dead under their wheels.  The riders had dismounted and wandered through the battlefield finishing off wounded Zs and guiding trucks over them. I stood out on the road, in plain sight, waiting for it to end, and waiting for eventual contact.

All three trucks made their way to me a short time later.  I had the M4 secured to the side of my pack and the AKM slung across my chest, magazine out, and kept my hands off of it to show no signs of aggression.  All three trucks raced forward, and then braked quickly, sliding to a stop in semi-circle, and causing a large cloud of dust to wash over me.  Every weapon they possessed looked to be pointed at me.  Nice.

“Get your hands in the air” someone shouted and I complied.

“See, I told you he’s one of us” another voice, this one feminine, responded.

“Have you been bit or scratched?” a deep male voiced questioned.  I told him I was unscathed.  I could see the guy doing the talking was in the middle truck, straight ahead of me, and I directed my answers to him.

“Bullshit!” someone yelled in the truck to my left.  “Look at all the blood and I saw him limping earlier,” he added, in a tone too full of excitement to me.  Others murmured in agreement.

“What about it, mister?” deep voice asked.

“The blood is mine.  I was injured in a fall and ripped it open climbing that ladder.” I explained, pointing back to the grain bin.

“Joann, Bobby, go check him over.” Deep voice ordered.  I heard a half dozen guns cock or go off safe as the pair approached.

Joann, a brown haired girl of about twenty, grabbed the AKM and loosed the sling from my neck, tossing it to the ground a few yards away.  Bobby was a little more cautious and aggressive, unholstering my SIG and stuffing it in his waistband, the whole time jamming the muzzle of a shotgun under my chin.  Joann unbuckled my pack and let it fall to the ground behind me, then bent down and ripped open my pant leg.  “He’s telling the truth,” she announced, and then stood up and looked me straight in the eyes and whispered, “I’m glad.”

“Gather up his stuff and let’s go.  It’s almost sun down.” Deep voice said.  Bobby grunted with the weighty pack and Joann slung the AKM, leading me to the back of a pickup truck.  The air was cooling quickly and the ride felt good at first but then we all started to chill.  I watched the crew, hands going to armpits or in pockets to stay warm.  I figured the ride was farther than they liked or they were out later than they were used to.

We traveled in our little caravan for almost 40 minutes at a fast pace.  They obviously didn’t want to be out at night, dark and cold, and surrounded by hungry walking dead.  While that wasn’t appealing to me either, I wondered about my fate with these armed strangers.  If I didn’t fit the mold, would they simply rob me of my possessions and kill me?  Or set me loose, defenseless in the dark?

We arrived at our destination, a well-lit, medium sized city, Braselton.  I’d been through here before in my travels, but didn’t remember ever stopping.  It was a normal, non-descript, Midwestern city.  A place you could drive through and never remember it for anything specific.  I would have to rethink that now, they had electricity.  Huge banks of stadium lights illuminated the entry point, an earthen and construction debris berm nearly twenty feet high and topped with chain link cyclone fencing.  I could see guard posts along the perimeter, which stretched in a large sweeping arc out of view to both sides.  

Our little convoy slowed down as we approached the main gate, with a huge pair of metal door made from a patchwork of former highway signs, barn siding and corrugated sheet.  It looked imposing, but I remembered thinking the same of the structure in Paradise Springs, and how easily and quickly it crumbled under the weight of a determined zombie attack.  This place had a slightly different feel about it, more aggressive and more confident, almost militaristic.

I could see the killing ground behind the truck, a clear, flat expanse that provided long, unobstructed fields of fire.  We moved again, passing through the gates, where all three trucks went in different directions.  My ride went several blocks into town, coming to a four-story office building with underground parking.  Once inside, I was escorted via working elevator, to the top floor and was asked to remain in an office at the end of the hallway.

I was surprised that I had been left with my vest and the SRK.  But, I reasoned like they had, that I had no chance to resist if I’d wanted to, so it didn’t matter.  So, I rested my leg, taking a seat on a comfortable leather sofa.  I could see light outside, but it was artificial, something I had to admit I’d taken for granted 6 months ago.  Now, it seemed wonderment, certainly unique and unusual.

Mr. Deep Voice came in a quarter hour later, flanked by Bobby and another man I hadn’t seen before.  Deep voice introduced himself as, Ray Vogel, or just Ray as he preferred.  Bobby didn’t say a word, but grunted as he dumped my pack and rifles on the floor.  He turned to leave when I asked for my pistol as well.  He pulled it reluctantly from his waistband, looking at Ray for approval, and then tossed it at me.  Ray fired him a stern look and Bobby left.

I checked the chamber and found the pistol was still loaded, so I safed it and reholstered.  Ray then introduced the other man, Simon Denner.  Denner was a nervous type and watched me handle the pistol with fear until it was safely put away.  “I don’t like guns.  I understand their necessity at this time, but I don’t like them.” He blurted out.  Ray and I exchanged a glance then Denner continued.  “You’re a rarity here, sir.” He started until I interrupted him and asked that he call me Verne.  He wanted to know where I was from and how I had managed to survive alone.  I told him of my journey and some of what I had seen.  He was astonished and Ray too seemed to show some surprise.  Realizing that these guys had little idea of what was happening outside their community and the zone of travel of their patrols, I went into more detail.

We sat in the office and talked for two hours.  They had as many questions for me as I did of them.  Most interesting I thought was how they had managed to stay powered, in part, by the use of a hydroelectric dam nearby.  It allowed them to maintain refrigeration, power for tools, warmth and light.  They said it was a mixed blessing, but I assured them that the areas I had been through without power were vastly more dangerous.  Simon said that while they could keep the Zs out at a distance, the lights, noise and activity drew the creatures to them.

Simon Denner was the self appointed mayor of Braselton.  Previously the chief engineer of the power generating plant, he had offered the city power in exchange for power.  Denner wasn’t a politician or interested in being the big boss.  He didn’t like the previous administration’s greed and lack of action when it came to expanding the dam’s influence in the area.  He only wanted to implement some programs to better the remaining populace and then would cede control to a duly elected city government.

In the meantime, Ray had been charged with security, both inside and outside the city.  A retired Army major, and later, first term city police chief, Ray understood his mission and seemed to have it well under control.  While he and Simon argued or disagreed over the brutality of Ray’s methods, the safe atmosphere within the area was a testament to his success and a reward that both men were content with.

Ray was taken by surprise when I commented on some of his crew’s work I had observed.  Ray conceded that he didn’t go out on all the patrols and would look into the matter.  I had to take him at his word, not knowing if he was just trying to get off the subject of placate Simon.  He asked how I had managed to get to the grain bins without being taken down by the Zs.  He made it sound as though no one had survived such as endeavor before.  Then he said something that was shocking and new to me.  Zs or X-humans as they were called here had shown the ability to track warm blooded, living beings, not limited to humans.

Simon interjected into the conversation that from what he had heard, I was extremely lucky not to have been killed while at the grain bins.  I mentioned that I had the advantage of height.  Ray and Simon both raised eyebrows like the statement was naïve.  “We’ve seen them climb before.” Ray said, as if I should have known.

“What?” I questioned, incredulous to his statement.  “I’ve survived the last six months by taking to trees, trestles and towers, any place with a vertical distance to stay away from these things.” I explained.

“That may have been, early on. They’re adapting, we know they locate, by taste or smell.  It’s like they can taste the air and then home in on things with warm blood.” Simon said.

“These things are advancing, and quite quickly.” Ray added.  “They band together to form ramps to overcome the berms and fences, which they actively appear to be probing.  Several times they tried to disrupt the power supply.” He added.

“I’ve seen them mob to such devices because of the mechanical noise.  Are you sure it’s a real effort to go for the power?” I asked.

“We’re sure.  We’ve watched them mass and huddle together for hours, before they try to breech our defenses.  It’s not like they are just bumping forward to the noise, not like they used to.  And when we attack or fight back, they’ll stand and fight with some, while others retreat to safety.  Before we can overcome the onslaught and find the others, they’re gone.” Simon explained.

“That’s why we send out the patrols.  We’re trying to find where they go, so we can finish the leaders.” Ray jumped back in.

“Which presents a bit of a social dilemma..” I started to say.

“Exactly, Mr. Ruddigg.  Are we killing people that may be healing and just trying to survive?  Will some or all of these things someday be our friends and neighbors again?  Are we destroying people that are just seriously ill and on the mend?  Do they remember, remember what we are doing to them?” Simon asked in a rapid-fire string of questions.

It certainly was some food for thought.  Many of the questions I’d asked myself or hear before, but it was still fascinating.  I looked at each man for a few seconds before speaking.

“At the present time, and up to this point, I’ve seen no indications these things want anything more in their lives, or dysfunctional deaths, that leads me to believe they can be rehabilitated.”  I said.

I absolutely concur 100%.” Ray chimed in.

Simon was less aggressive.  “We don’t know, why can’t we wait them out?” he asked, almost pleading.  “We certainly can defend ourselves where need be, but these murderous excursions to go out and annihilate them has got to stop.” He added and then walked out.

“He understands my position.  He just doesn’t like it.” Ray smiled.  Ray told me that in the last few months, the dead had increased attempts to break into the cordoned portion of the city.  Only the south and central sections were defended and blockaded, the rest was under zombie infestation.  “We don’t venture into the uncontrolled zones too far, there are just too many of them.  Our snipers maintain safe zones and over watch while we rush in to search for food and supplies.  We can’t manage their numbers even as well armed as we are.  So far, they haven’t come at us with a full-scale attack because of the electrified field on the fencing.  I really think that somehow they know this and that is why they have been bent on getting into the dam and power station.” Ray explained.

I told him I only wanted to get home and asked if there was any problem with me leaving.  He said he didn’t care, but thought it was suicidal at best, to attempt to get out.  That was probably truer now that his people had brought me into the heart of this zombie concentration.  He didn’t seem upset, but more surprised by my comments.  “Most people we rescue are a little more appreciative and happy to have a safe place to stay and be with living people.” He said.

“I appreciate the help, but I’m a bit reluctant to call this place safe.  The way I see it you’re a power failure away from apocalypse.  You’re more or less guards to your own prison.” I replied calmly.

“All the more reason you should stay and help us.” He countered with a crooked smile.  He had a point and I had already considered that this could be a place to bring Annie and the others if the zombies could be controlled.  The city could be a place to start growing society and families again.  All the resources were here, and only needed to be put back in order.

“I’ll give you a week.  That’ll be long enough to let me see the problem and possible solutions or the futility of it.  No promises from me and a guarantee of no interference from your people if I choose to leave.” I offered.

“Done.” He quickly replied and turned to leave.  “Make yourself at home here and I’ll see you at first light.  Breakfast is on me.” He smiled again and closed the door.

Thank you for more. It was longer than the last couple so thank you for that too.

Really good story. I dont know exactly how I feel about the zeds adapting, but it adds to the story quite nicely.

Some people need to be patient and let the man have some free time, sheesh maybe he want's to do some other things in his spare time
besides write one of the greatest zombie novels ever made...
Or you can keep up pumping out the chapters

MOAR!!!

Great update Fast45!!!

AKASL

LIVE ZOMBIE FREE OR DIE

lol, what could he possibly want to do other then keep arfcom entertained? no one has a life outside arfcom, no one.