by Scott Lee
Connor sat staring at the half filled bowl on the dirty coffee table.
“Cereal dust,” he sighed. “I hate cereal dust!”
Grumbling, he continued to stare at the bowl of stale frosted flakes. Ever since he was a kid he’d hated pouring cereal from the bottom of the box. It always resulted in a bowl comprised mostly of cereal dust, which messed with the milk. Back then, he’d always just open a new box and leave the cereal dust to his brother or sister, but things were different now, and you can’t waste food, even if it is stale.
“What are you looking at?” he said, glancing to his right.
A big gray tabby cat sat on the table, watching him quizzically.
“I know, Monty. I just gotta suck it up and stop complaining,” he said to the cat as he mixed some water with the powdered milk he had sitting next to the bowl.
“It’s not that bad”.
Monty simply blinked in response, seemingly disinterested in the conversation.
As Connor ate the cereal, he pondered his situation. He was known as “The Seeker”. The guy you go to when you need something that is hard to find or simply hard to acquire. If there was something you wanted that the regular supply run teams couldn’t (or wouldn’t) get, then you went to see Connor. He was the best, and everyone knew it.
Normally Connor wasn’t nervous before one of his Seeker runs. He was supremely confident in his ability to survive, because he was careful, and cautious. He knew how to handle himself, and he never let his guard down.
But tomorrow was different. Tomorrow wasn’t an average, every day Seeker run. No, tomorrow he was going to the city. And no one goes to the city, because no one is crazy enough. No one, that is, except Connor.
Connor got up and walked over to a large hutch in the corner of the room. Opening the double doors, he looked at the middle shelf and sighed.
On the shelf sat a single can of ZOMBIE OFF. Picking up the can he gave it a shake, estimating that it was below half full. This resulted in an even bigger sigh, because it was his last can. He had picked it up two weeks ago from the assholes over at Chemcorp, and the cans didn’t come cheap. You had to trade for them. And there was only one thing that Abe Morrow accepted in trade. Gold.
Connor had traded all the gold he had for this last can, so he had to make good use of it. A run to the city is extremely dangerous, but it could net him a lot of gold, which he could trade for a good supply of ZOMBIE OFF. However, gold wasn’t the real reason he was heading to the city. He had accepted a mission, and the city was the only place to find what was needed.
His gaze wandered around the apartment as he ate. It was a spacious, one room efficiency in a large apartment complex turned safe zone. Dirty clothes were strewn about, hanging off of the furniture and piled on the floor. It was your stereotype bachelor pad.
After the initial stages of the zombie outbreak, the survivors began to regroup. People banded together to barricade specific areas and form safe zones. This particular area was a multi-unit apartment complex nestled in the northern suburbs of Philadelphia; just a stone’s throw from Valley Forge National Park. Multiple high-rise buildings formed the complex, which was tucked along the Schuylkill River, just along the wood line. The Schuylkill River hiking/biking trail flanked the complex on the north side, and north of the trail was a fairly steep hillside. The complex didn’t take up a huge area due to its high-rise building design, so this made for the perfect scenario for a defensible safe zone. Dozens of semi trailers had been brought in and parked around the perimeter of the buildings to form a huge, 12-foot wall around the complex. In addition, cars were parked in front of the gaps below the trailers to complete the defense, their tires flattened to drop them lower to the ground. Lastly, a bus with steel plates welded on it formed the gate. So far, the defenses had held up well against the undead.
The river was one of the keys to the success of the complex. This allowed for a second means of transport for scouting runs, not to mention a viable escape route should the complex be overrun. Over two dozen boats of various sizes were moored along the shoreline, ready to go at a moments notice.
For the most part, people tended to form small groups within the complex, not becoming overly social with too many of the other survivors, a lot like they did before the zombie outbreak. Because the complex was so large, it was difficult to really get to know too many people. But this was probably for the best. People still died, despite the modest protection the complex afforded. Losing people you cared about just lowered morale, and that was never good. The deaths almost always occurred on supply runs, with an occasional death just outside the gate if someone let their guard down.
So people would band together, forming a collective that worked together on supply runs, and subsequently shared the bounty. In a way it worked like a prison population. Small groups formed within the greater population. And in many ways this complex was a prison, as the occupants were trapped in this place, with a dying world around them.
Crime within the complex was nearly non-existent. Despite there being no formal government among the residents, there was one steadfast rule that all lived by. You steal or kill, you get cast out. No one dared cross that line. Survival outside of safe zones alone was difficult, at best, so no one was willing to risk it. Those that were cast out could usually be seen outside the walls, days later, begging to be let back in. Their cries fell on deaf ears, except for those of the zombies. And all too often the banished could be seen outside the walls in another way . . . as a new addition to the ranks of the undead.
Although the vast majority of people banded together to some degree, Connor wasn’t one of them. He was The Seeker, and he always worked alone. Most of the people that knew him thought he was crazy, but in his mind it seemed logical. When he was out on a supply run he wanted to be sure he could trust those around him, and rely on them to cover his back. And that’s where Connor had issues, because Connor didn’t trust anyone but himself.
So he went it alone, and so far that had worked just fine. But everything has its limits . . .
His apartment wasn’t much to look at, but it was safe and it was home. Of course, all these terms were relative considering the world now existed in a zombie apocalypse. Safe in that you weren’t in a Dead Zone. Home in that you weren’t in a Dead Zone.
A Dead Zone was exactly what it sounds like – any area dominated and over run by the dead. To traverse a Dead Zone alone was risky. To do so without ZOMBIE OFF would be suicide. Connor wouldn’t be going in without ZOMBIE OFF, but he would be going in alone. This normally wasn’t a huge concern for him. He’d done it dozens of times. If you were careful, you could survive.
But this trip was going to be different, and for this reason Connor was concerned. Very concerned. This mission would require every ounce of concentration that he had.
You see, it had been over a year since the zombie apocalypse started, and with each passing month, supplies became harder and harder to acquire. Early on, trips outside of the safe zone were close and quick, only having to venture short distances from the complex. But as time went on, the supply runs required going deeper and deeper into the Dead Zones, and this eventually led to problems.
As with Connor’s complex, other safe zones had popped up across the region, and these safe zones became very territorial. Each safe zone had laid claim to the area within five to ten miles or more of their complex, and if you crossed into their territory and poached their supplies, the consequences could become deadly. It was one thing to fight mindless zombies, but it was a totally different story fighting intelligent men armed to the teeth with guns. If you were caught in another safe zones territory taking supplies, you’d be lucky to make it back alive.
So sticking close to home was a must, which was exactly why Connor was heading to the city. The item he needed could not be found within the radius of their own safe zone, and he wasn’t about to cross the boundaries of another, not that it wo
uld have mattered. He knew his objective could only be found in one place. The city was the only answer.
Philadelphia stood alone. No safe zone laid claim to it, because no one dared go there. The city was the worst of the Dead Zones. The place where the heaviest infestation of flesh hungry zombies could be found. Where death lurks around every corner, in every shadow. The city was a virtual sea of zombies. There were hundreds of thousands of undead still wandering the streets and abandoned buildings . . . and they were all hungry.
Connor finished his bowl of cereal and walked across the small room, stopping in front of his closet door. Grabbing the handle, he slowly pulled the door open, revealing a weapons rack that would make Jason Voorhees take notice. Instead of neckties, the inside of the door housed weapons of every shape and size. Additional larger weapons hung from hooks inside the closet itself, creating a formidable arsenal against the undead. Huge survival knives, tomahawks, and swords of various sizes were among the weapons displayed, but Connor’s gaze went straight to two large blades hanging on the lowest rack on the door. He smiled slightly as he slid “The Twins” off of the rack and laid them on a nearby table. The Twins, as he liked to call them, were two large machetes with green handles and green zombie graphics painted on the black blades. These were Connors weapons of choice for his Seeker runs.
One of the machetes had LIVING DEAD printed on the blade, the other said UNDEAD. Both had the phrase “It’s all fun and games until someone gets bit” adorning the metal. The LIVING DEAD blade was of a traditional machete design, where the UNDEAD blade resembled more of an elongated kukri with a less pronounced bend. Together the two blades were formidable weapons, and when used in tandem by a skilled artisan, they could dispatch the undead with ease.
Prior to the start of the zombie apocalypse, Connor had fancied himself a bit of a “prepper”, someone who was preparing for some type of doomsday scenario. Many horded ammunition and guns, along with mounds of supplies, while others created underground bunkers or armored vehicles. Some did all of the above.
Connor, on the other hand, had primarily collected edged weapons with his prepping, with the focus on a zombie outbreak. In his mind, edged weapons were the way to go. Guns were useful, but only as a last resort. Because when you fired a gun, you were ringing the dinner bell for every zombie within a mile radius.
Connor had spent many years working outside in the woods, and through this work he became proficient with a knife and machete. He never really thought that he’d end up using those skills for survival in a world filled with the undead, but life is full of surprises.
Preferring the silent approach, he’d slowly massed a huge collection of deadly edged weapons over the course of a few years, and had also bought similar weapons for friends and family. “Everyone needs a good knife as a last line of defense,” he always said. His thinking was simple - these weapons never needed to be reloaded, and never made a sound when used properly. Sure, he owned guns too, but these were used sparingly. A Remington 12 gauge shotgun sat in the corner of the closet next to a Savage Arms .22 magnum rifle with scope.
Everyone had always questioned why he had chosen such a small caliber rifle, figuring he’d go for something much more powerful, like a .223 or 30-06. But again, his explanation was simple. Bigger isn’t always better. “There are four big reasons why the .22 is a better weapon,” he’d say. First of all, the ammunition is far smaller and far lighter to carry than the larger hunting rifles, not to mention way cheaper (not that cost matters now). Plus, bigger bullets make more noise, and sound does matter.
Secondly, the gun weighs less and is smaller, thus it’s easier to carry. Third, it’s all about the headshot. Sure, a 30-06 could all but blow apart a zombie skull, but that level of power is no tradeoff for the weight of the gun and ammo. The .22 magnum bullet is more powerful than a standard .22 long rifle shell, but is still small and easy to carry. But the best part of the .22 magnum is that it has the power to penetrate the skull, but not the velocity to exit, which means the bullet bounces around inside the cranium, making mush of the zombie brains. Using the .22 magnum meant being able to carry two or three times as much ammo if the need should arise.
Finally, and this was something most didn’t think about, was the simple fact that the bigger the gun, the more powerful the “kick”. After just a minute of repeated firing of a high caliber hunting rifle, your shoulder would feel like it’s been hit repeatedly with a sledgehammer. You can fire the .22 all day and not get worn out.
One of the other reasons Connor had for not using guns was the simple philosophy of “don’t put yourself in the position to need one”. If you’re careful and focused, you can get by without them, and you’ll be better off for not using them.
Having checked the machetes, he ventured back to the weapons closet to see what else he’d need. He stared at the vast array of weapons for a few moments then carefully slid a medium sized, fixed blade knife from the rack. With a blade size of only 6 inches, it was one of the smallest knives in his collection. But it was also one of his favorites. Etched onto the blade was the name REDNECK TOOTHPICK, which always made him smile when he read it. The knife featured a molded handle with a simple bowie blade design. He preferred this knife because it wasn’t too big or too small. It was lightweight, but could easily penetrate a zombie skull when needed, making it the perfect knife to carry on your belt and not feel encumbered.
Last, but not least, he removed his trusted M48 tactical tomahawk from a hook inside the shelf. This weapon was nothing short of wicked. The tomahawk had a wide, upswept axe blade and piercing spike on the end of a handle made of reinforced fiberglass. This weapon was a true zombie killer.
Connor believed it was better to carry an array of smaller weapons rather than one big one. Sure, he could take his katana, but what if something happened and he dropped it and was forced to abandon it. With the weapons he had chosen, he felt confident that he’d not be left defenseless, and this was especially important with a run into the city. The Twins would be slung over his back in a crisscross pattern, with the Redneck Toothpick and M48 going on his belt.
Going over the weapons list, he slapped his forehead emphatically.
“I almost forgot,” he said aloud.
Stepping back, he pulled open a long flat drawer of the table where he had his weapons laid out. Inside were a variety of items, among which were three pocketknives, all of which were of the open assist variety. His brow furrowed as he pondered which knives to pick, finally settling on the Ridge Runner, with it’s 3.5 inch stiletto style blade, and the Apocalypse Survivor, with it’s shiny green aluminum body. Both had open assist mechanisms that were exceptionally fast, and speed was everything if it came down to needing the weapon. The open assist was a mechanism that allowed the user to open the blade with just one hand, using just a single finger. In a pinch, being able to pull a weapon and open it with just one hand could be the difference between life and undeath.
Happy with his choice of weapons, Connor moved to a large table near the row of windows that overlooked the river. Laid out on the table was a large map of Philadelphia, with details of all the streets and buildings within the city. Parking garages and points of interest were among the many details this map provided, and he’d need all of that information if he was to pull off this mission and come out of it alive.
Scanning the map, he saw what he was looking for. Circled in orange highlighter were the Thomas Jefferson University Hospital, Jefferson University Hospital, and Pennsylvania Hospital, all located within two blocks of each other. Normally, Connor would avoid hospitals at all cost, but this mission forced his hand. He knew what he needed, and the hospitals were the only place to find it. Having three hospitals in such close proximity increased his chances of finding what he needed. Pennsylvania Hospital was his target. The other two were backups.
His eyes scanned back across the map as he reviewed his plan. Along the banks
of the Schuylkill River, circled in Blue highlighter, was the spot he had chosen to dock his boat. Located between Chestnut Street and Walnut Street was the Schuylkill Banks Park. The park contained a small dock area with a walkway that led from the dock to the Schuylkill river trail. Connor remembered this dock from when he took a long bicycle ride down the Schuylkill river trail years ago. The trail had ended at the nearby Schuylkill River Park, where he had stopped and eaten his lunch near the dock.
Once he docked and secured his boat, he’d make his way from the river to the hospitals. It would be 15 blocks out and about 20 blocks back to get the job done.
He would have to dock his main boat at Boathouse Row and take a rowboat to Walnut Street because of a small dam near the art museum. This was the reason for the difference in distances going in and out.
“Thirty-five city blocks,” he said aloud. “Son-of-a-bitch, that’s a long way.”
This was 35 blocks of hell that he had to traverse. Thirty-five blocks full of flesh hungry zombies. But he had the ace up his sleeve. He had ZOMBIE OFF. As long as he was careful, he’d be home before dark. And as long as he followed the four cardinal rules of ZOMBIE OFF, he’d come out of this alive –
Don’t sweat, don’t get wet, don’t make noise, and never, ever run.
Connor took a deep breath.
“Piece of cake,” he said to himself.
He just wished that he believed it.
