ZNIPER: A Sniper’s Journey Through The Apocalypse.

by Ward III, C.

  “‘Tender children’? You mean they were for-real cannibals?” Victor asked, shocked. He’d heard story after story about raiders, some pillaging for supplies, others taking slaves. But this was the first report of cannibals! “Do you think that they really wanted your kids?’

  “I thought it was just a scare tactic at first. But on the fourth day of siege, they strung a man up from that tree right there,” he said, pointing toward a tall maple tree in his front yard. “They hung him by his feet, cut his throat, bled him out, and quartered him as if he were a deer. Some cooked limbs over a fire, others ate him raw. Listen, when I bring out my wife, Alice, she’s still traumatized by it. She hasn’t spoken a word since then. Bless you for coming for us.”

  Victor didn’t know what to say. He stared at the maple tree, noticing a frayed yellow nylon rope swaying in the breeze. It gave him chills. “Get what you need from the house. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “My kids, Tammy and Andy, don’t have winter coats. Can they ride up front?” Don asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Let’s make this quick.” Victor couldn’t imagine what the city council was going to say about cannibals. The thought of what the poor family had been through made him appreciate the security and safety of Lake City even more.

  Sheriff Bohner and the mayor talked casually about town projects and the coming winter weather while rocking side to side in the saddle. “It’s been many years since I’ve ridden a horse. My crotch is going to be sore tonight.” The mayor winced.

  “Don’t expect me to rub that for you,” Sheriff Bohner mocked him jokingly while scanning farther up the railroad tracks, where he knew the two hunters were scouting forward. “Look there, they must have found something.” He motioned to the scouts riding toward them without haste.

  When they finally regrouped and paused to hear what the hunter scouts had found, the TDF guards naturally pushed out security farther into the tree line in all directions.

  “There’s a house up there, just past the bend in the tracks. The owner would like to chat with you, sir. He didn’t say if he wanted to trade or move into town, but he has beehives. Rows and rows of buzzing beehives!” the scout reported with a big smile.

  The mayor immediately fantasized of all the uses for honey and honeycomb wax. An image appeared in his mind of getting his head stuck in a honeypot like Winnie the Pooh. The chefs at the town diner would be praised if they had sweetener to cook with. Morale in town would increase, which meant people would work harder on the long—and growing—list of priority work projects that needed to be completed before snowfall. He wouldn’t admit to it, but he wondered if Crazy Chad could make mead, which would taste a whole lot better than his now-famous rocket-fuel whiskey.

  “We’re almost to our next stop,” Victor told the young boy and girl sandwiched between him and Roger. “When we stop, I want you to stay in the vehicle. Do not get out. No matter what. If any shooting starts, get as low to the floor as possible. Roger here will drive you away to safety. OK?”

  The big-brown-eyed dirty-faced kid nodded his head nervously.

  “Don’t worry. We don’t find danger very often. You’ll like it in Lake city; it’s safe there. On Sundays, we have scavenger hunts and play short cartoon movies on the outside movie screen before dinner. Do you like cartoons?”

  “Yes, sir,” the girl, Tammy, said sheepishly.

  “I have a son, just a little older than you. His name is Zavier. You and he can be friends. He likes to play cards and board games. Reads a lot, too, when he’s not out hustling for cookies.” Victor grinned.

  Half an hour into their drive back to Lake City, turning down county roads riddled with potholes that had sprouted weeds, the lead truck finally slowed, stopped, and then reversed into another driveway. This time, Victor told Roger to park his truck closer to the road, away from the house.

  As the truck stopped, Victor got out and circled around the back. “Stay in the bed of the truck. Don’t get out,” he told Alice and Don. Alice caught his eye, then quickly looked down, frightened. “We don’t expect trouble, but you never know these days. If we start shooting, Roger is going to speed away, straight toward Lake City. I’ll catch a ride in the second vehicle, OK?”

  Victor’s casual tone and composed demeanor, along with a selfless plan to safeguard her family, gave the mother confidence in her family’s decision to relocate. She looked up with watery eyes and nodded a thank you, as Victor interpreted it.

  Raymond and Doug flanked the small ranch-style house, as they had on previous rescues. For reasons unknown, Victor was hesitant to sling his rifle behind his back like he normally did when introducing himself to refugees. He shifted his gaze from the dirt-covered front porch, across the overgrown grass, to a small wooden shed with a leaning door hanging from a broken hinge. The nearby silent tree line was slowly scanned for movement. His eyes shifted back to the dormant house, then to Raymond, who looked back with a tilted head and pinched-together eyebrows. Raymond positioned himself for a better view of the entire backyard while stepping in closer to a large tree for cover. Something was off; they both felt it.

  Instead of stepping into the open, Victor remained behind the truck for cover. “Hello. Hello, we are from Lake City. You requested relocation assistance. You may come out; we have the area secured. There are no infected in sight,” Victor yelled toward the house through cupped hands as he had done so many times before.

  The front door creaked open immediately, swinging all the way open, exposing a woman of average height with strong, full features. Her light-brown hair fell over her shoulders, and her clothes were relatively clean, an M4 strapped across her back. She walked toward Victor with confidence, without so much as a quick scan for Grays, when exiting the house.

  Victor found it odd that the male of the group didn’t present himself first. Instinctively, he took his eyes off the approaching woman to scan the tree line again.

  “Hello, we’ve been expecting you. Thanks for coming,” the woman said, shaking Victor’s hand with a firm grip.

  “Not a problem at all,” Victor said, holding her hand. Looking past her toward the open front door, watching for movement. “How many PAX today?”

  “Just two. I’ll grab our stuff, if there’s no special instruction for us?” she asked Victor, still gripping his hand and staring into his questioning eyes.

  Victor released her hand, his analytical mind putting the pieces together. “How long have you been living here?” Victor pointed with his chin toward the house that had no signs of being lived in. Even lazy people these days would sweep their front porch off to avoid tracking in dirt that could no longer be vacuumed. Their flower beds, where most people planted vegetables, were overgrown, and there was not a family garden plot in sight.

  “Oh, for a while,” she said, seeming to avoid a specific answer. “We came across it while foraging, after the initial attack.”

  She stood straight, shoulders back, with a commanding presence. Mirroring Victor, her eyes glanced behind him, surveying their vehicles, the civilians in the truck, the man smartly providing security near the road. The woman was fit, not skinny or malnourished like so many of the other refugees. This woman was not defenseless, nor was she without supplies.

  When she turned toward the house, Victor commanded her, “Tell your man to take his sights off me and come out of hiding, or I’ll shoot you in the back before you reach the door.”

  She paused, turning slowly to face him again with a grin. “It was only a precaution. We don’t know you.”

  “And I don’t know you. Nor do I enjoy having guns pointed at me. We’re not the bad guys here. You called us. Remember?”

  She waved a signal toward the shed where her overwatch was hidden. The limp door pushed open, casting light into the shadows and revealing a stocky, bearded man in blue jeans and a green flannel shirt. In his gloved hands, gripped tight to his chest, he carried an M4 with an advanced-combat optic gunsight and attached suppressor. The burly
man swung the door shut behind him softly.

  With hardened, critical eyes, he also surveyed the rescue group. He gave a nod toward the woman. The big man strolled across the brown grass with an arrogant swagger. Almost to the truck, the bearded man’s eyes went wide with rage when Victor raised his rifle at him.

  “Contact!” Raymond yelled, right before he unloaded a full magazine into four Grays who had broken through a wall of thick pine trees.

  “Move!” the flannel-wearing man yelled as he took a knee behind and offset to Raymond.

  Raymond, already running past the newcomer toward the truck, loaded a new mag, thumbed the bolt release, pocketed the empty mag, and spun around to engage again. As soon as Raymond began firing into the next wave of Grays, the newcomer stood and took off in a sprint as well. Instead of running toward the truck, he darted off in the direction of the house.

  Victor’s truck, carrying the family of four, peeled out near the end of the driveway, creating a cloud of dust and road gravel. Victor noticed and smiled, pleased that Roger hadn’t hesitated to follow procedure.

  “They’re leaving us!” the woman yelled over the gunfire.

  “My driver’s following SOP. Getting civilians to safety,” Victor yelled in between a controlled burst.

  Raymond’s driver, Doug, was already behind the steering wheel. He gave three quick horn blast. “Get in, get in, get in!” Doug yelled out the window.

  Gunfire and truck horns tended to attract Grays like bears to honey. Bearded flannel man burst through the front door of the house, carrying a large, overstuffed hiking backpack in each hand. Victor and the woman were already kneeling in the truck bed. Victor covered the left side of the house, she covered the right. Her shot tempo was smooth and controlled as she rested her rifle on the edge of the truck bed for stability.

  “We’re rolling; move your ass!” Raymond yelled, slamming the passenger door. The big man’s thick legs landed heavily as he sprinted across the front yard with a swarm of infected closing in on him. He tossed the backpacks in, just missing Victor. The woman’s rifle went empty, so she rolled to the front to get out of the way. The truck began rolling forward. Victor increased his shot tempo, hammer-pairing two rounds into the torso of each snarling Gray, attempting to slow down the advancement of horror. It was difficult to miss at that close of a range.

  Hearing the deep gurgling growls, the big man turned and fired into the swarm on full auto, dumping an entire mag in less than two seconds, swatting back the first couple of rows of outstretched, scab-covered arms with talon-like digits that were lusting for healthy human flesh. He lowered his M4 to his side, controlling it with his left hand, while smoothly reaching for his pistol with his right. Before he could draw his pistol, Victor grabbed him by the shirt collar, jerking him onto the tailgate as the truck pitched forward.

  Gaining speed up the driveway, they turned sharply onto the road, tossing them into the truck bedside wall. Still, the big man rolled onto his back, lifted into a crunch, and fired his pistol between his knees into the swarm of Grays spilling out of the driveway onto the road in pursuit.

  “We’re clear!” Victor yelled at the man who continued to shoot. “We’re clear, save your damn ammo!” he yelled again, until the man’s pistol slide locked to the rear on an empty magazine.

  “Every one of those fuckers that we kill now will be one less that can attack us later on. We should go back there and exterminate all of them!” the bearded man said through gritted teeth and with fire in his eyes. He took the hand Victor offered to help pull him into a seated position.

  Victor eyed both of them and their government-issued full-auto weapons. “Nice shooting. So if I had to guess, I’d say you’re Army SF. Who are you with?” he yelled over the wind-weathered muffler and tire noise, staring at them coldly.

  The two refugees looked at each other, then back to Victor. They each shrugged, refusing the question. “I’m Stacy Thomas. This big guy is Pete Cunningham. Thanks again for picking us up.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet. You get to sit in our quarantine for a few days before you’re allowed into town. It’s boring as hell in there. Maybe after a couple days of isolation, you’ll tell me who you are and why you’re really here.” Victor glared at them, but he doubted the newcomers would give up information. These two had clearly been government trained, and Lake City’s quarantine was far cozier than any SERE training.

  Days ago, Stanly had gotten himself infected. It was all Victor’s fault. Victor, his mercenary goons, and the conspiring council’s fault. They had never liked him, and he knew they been plotting against him since he’d been elected councilman three years ago. Stanly shook his head, trying to clear the fog of paranoia surrounding him. But, the longer he thought about it, the clearer it became. They’d tricked him into going into the jail that night. They had set him up, hoping the monsters would kill him without a witness.

  He didn’t know how much time he had left before turning into one of the horrid, ghoulish creatures he’d seen in the jailhouse, but he knew he didn’t have long. His pupils were constricting, his skin was pale and clammy, black veins raced across his chest, and the only comprehensible memory he held tight was one of revenge.

  The evening after he broke into the jail, Stanly’s friends had come over for tea and gossip as they did every Sunday. It was then that he had begun building his army. A few drops of his saliva in the teapot and a few drops of blood mixed into the strawberry preserves would do the trick. Before his guests left for the evening, he made them promise to come back Wednesday for a special treat.

  Three days gave him time for preparations. Time to put his plan in motion.

  “Good evening, Stan. It’s dark out here, may I go in? Oh my, you don’t look so good. Are you feeling all right? Should I get a doc?”

  Stanly greeted each of his returning guests on the front porch of his overtly modern home. The contemporary house had blocky architecture and drab colors that didn’t fit the woodland theme of the northern town. As his guests stepped through the threshold, they fell through a spring-loaded trapdoor hidden under the entry throw rug and into a basement holding cell he’d built over the past couple of days. Stanly needed them together, secured in one place. He knew his enemy; he had witnessed how fast Victor and company would kill without conscious. Stanly couldn’t beat them one on one, but collectively, his army had a chance for a successful coup.

  The lustful thought of sinking his teeth into Victor made him twitch and tremor with pleasure. His fantasy expanded with visions of his obedient friends standing over bloody bodies of the entire wretched town council assembly. The time had come for Stanly to lead this town. The people would follow him, the council would follow him, the worthless mayor and soulless sheriff would follow him—they just didn’t know it yet.

  He’d give himself two more days until his evolving army would be ready to strike. Hoping to speed up the infection metamorphosis, Stanly went to the kitchen to prepare his imprisoned guests another tainted meal.

  Raymond leaned out the passenger-side window, his long black hair blowing over his face. “Are we going for the third objective?” he yelled back.

  Victor waved forward. “Head back to town. We need to regroup and top off ammo,” he yelled into the wind.

  Raymond gave a thumbs-up, then tucked himself back inside the truck’s cab, motioning to his driver to take the next left toward Lake City. A few minutes later, the southern vehicle entrance gate came into view. They stopped short, then pulled to the side where Roger had parked the other truck, waiting for them.

  Victor gave the newcomers the in-brief. “If you want to join our community, you’re to stay in quarantine for five days. You may keep your weapons if it makes you feel better. You’ll receive clean water, food, and medical care while under protection. You may voluntarily leave at any time, but if you leave, you may never come back. Ever.”

  Both groups agreed and entered the individual isolated homes voluntarily. Locking the heavy qu
arantine gate behind them, Victor pushed the talk button on his radio. “TDF HQ, this is Victor. We have six PAX in quarantine bays alpha and bravo. How copy? Over.”

  “I’m glad that you’re back early,” Kevin’s agitated voice came over the radio speaker loudly. “Make your way to the north gate ASAP. We have a major situation here.”

  COTERIE

  Small groups. Big ideologies.

  “Mayor Short, it’s very nice to see you again,” Sheriff Bohner said reaching down from atop his horse to shake her hand.

  “Same to you, Sheriff, but please call me Madeline. Welcome to Kalkaska. Let’s refuel your rides. There’s a water tank and hay for them right over there by the old grain store.” She pointed.

  While the scouts tied up and tended to the horses, the rest were taken on a quick walking tour of downtown that ended at City Hall for tea and a warm cup of thick stew. The two mayors talked casually while Sheriff Bohner took mental notes of the town’s layout and security—or lack of it.

  They continued talking casually, but both were holding back strategic details about their towns’ capabilities. Eventually, Sheriff Bohner opened up his bag and took out a clear jar of Crazy Chad’s alcohol. “Give this a try, Madeline. It’ll warm you right up on the coldest of nights. And by warm you up, I mean that you can burn it or drink it if you dare. We have a guy that makes it by the barrel. We mostly use it for fuel and medical sterilization. This is all we brought with us; it’s yours, but we have a lot more to trade. We also have a medic who could come routinely for check-ups, a skilled radio operator who can boost your transmitting capabilities, and mechanics who are building windmills.”

  The simple statement must have broken through the trust levee, because the hours that followed were a flood of information and resource sharing. They learned a great deal, including that a similar trade route had been established already between Kalkaska and the great lakes peninsula urban area of Traverse City, which had an abundance of wine, cherries, and fresh-water fish.