Fort Dead

by Camille Picott

  “You, too, Caleb. Ash. We’re trying to hitchhike, remember? We need to appear friendly.”

  The two younger soldiers also release their firearms. Neither looks happy about it.

  As we draw closer to the campground, a ratty brown dog bursts forth. Tail wagging, tongue lolling from his mouth, he streaks up the trail in our direction. He barrels into our group, attempting to sniff everyone’s crotch. I push the wet nose away with a hand, not taking my eyes from the people.

  A man breaks away from the group, a rifle gripped between his hands as he approaches. He’s small and lithe, no more than five-foot-eight. He has bright eyes and a big mustache.

  He halts twenty feet away.

  “Brando,” he says. “Come here, boy.”

  The ratty brown dog barks, running to his master. He runs in a circle around the man, then lays down at his feet. One ear cocks in our direction as the dog regards us.

  “Hello,” I call, doing my best to put on a friendly smile. “My name is Kate. We’re not here to make trouble. We’re just passing through.”

  “Hello, Kate.” The man sounds pleasant enough, even if he is still pointing a gun at me. “My name is John. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t buy your story. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. No one just passes through this place.”

  My people tense. I take another step forward, trying to keep John’s attention on me.

  “We’re from Arcata. We need to get to the highway and go south.”

  John snorts. “Lady, you aren’t anywhere near Arcata. You should look at a map and get a better story.”

  I shake my head. “We’re from Arcata,” I repeat. “We took a boat out of Humboldt Bay, but it sank off the Lost Coast. We’re headed to Fort Ross.”

  John looks me up and down, assessing. Every last one of us is rumpled and dirty. We smell like a locker room that’s never been cleaned. Our clothes and skin are encrusted with salt and mud.

  “What’s at Fort Ross?” John says at last.

  “Friends. They need our help. Some people are trying to take the fort from them.”

  “Let me get this straight,” John says. “You say you’re from Arcata. Your friends in Fort Ross are under attack, so you get in a boat to sail down the coast to help them. On the way, your boat sinks. Then you hike the Lost Coast and show up here.”

  “We ran it, actually,” Reed says from the back of the group. “We ran the Lost Coast. We got caught in one of the impassable zones and almost died. Then our friend got hypothermia and—”

  “Reed.”

  “Sorry, Mama.”

  I draw in a long breath and force a smile. “We’re just trying to get to Fort Ross. We don’t want any trouble and we don’t plan to cause any trouble. Like I said, we’re just passing through.”

  John continues to study us. “You the one who got hypothermia?” He gestures to Ash with his chin.

  She nods.

  “The Lost Coast isn’t a place for amateurs,” John says. “Every year, it kills experienced backpackers.”

  “Our mom isn’t an amateur.” This time, it’s Eric who speaks up. “She’s an ultrarunner.”

  “All these kids call you mom?” John asks me.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a lot of fucking kids.”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “What about you?” This question is directed at Ben.

  Ben flicks a questioning glance at me. “I’m her ...”

  “They’re boyfriend and girlfriend,” Reed supplies. The others snicker.

  “She’s your girlfriend, huh?” John eyes us.

  “Yeah.”

  My belly wriggles with emotion. Whatever runs between me and Ben is admittedly deeper than the adolescent terms of boyfriend and girlfriend. But I’m not going to debate the finer points of the English language with a stranger who’s pointing a rifle at us.

  “Will you let us pass?” I ask.

  “I’ll do one better,” John replies. “I’ll give you a ride. Not all the way to Fort Ross. But I can give you a ride to Westport. It’s the closest town, about twenty miles from here.”

  Even though this is the very thing I had hoped to secure, the offer comes too fast and too easily. I don’t get a warm fuzzy feeling from John. There’s something else at play here. I need to figure out what it is before I put the safety of my people in his hands.

  “What’s the catch?” I look him straight in the eye, a silent warning not to bullshit me.

  A feral smile splits his face. “A trade. You give me something interesting out of your packs and I’ll give you a ride to the south side of Westport. You go on your merry way from there.”

  “Cars aren’t safe where we come from,” I reply, still testing him.

  John meets my eye. “Yeah. They’re not safe far outside of Westport, either. We cleared the town, the campground, and the road between here and there. My people come here to hunt and fish. We even bagged a seal last week.” John shrugs nonchalantly. “I could take your packs and everything in them. We have you outgunned and outnumbered.” At his words, his people take a few menacing steps in our direction. “I’m trying to be civil. I’m a fair man. Trade is the new currency of the apocalypse.”

  My mind races as I think of all the precious firearms we have in the pack on Caleb’s back. We need those supplies. There’s no way we can help Alvarez if we don’t have weapons.

  What do I want to offer them? Bear meat? We all have a fair amount of it in our packs.

  “I have something.” Reed steps forward.

  I frown at him as he unclips his pack. He rummages inside and produces a small plastic jar with a black lid. Even though the sticker on the top is ruined from the salt water, I recognize the yellowish substance inside.

  “You brought that?” Eric’s jaw sags open. “That’s one of the last jars she made.”

  Reed shrugs. “I thought we might need it.”

  “You could have shared that around the campfire last night,” Eric snaps.

  “I forgot about it. I sort of had bear on my mind, you know?”

  “What is that?” John asks.

  “Homemade cannabis salve.” Eric snatches the jar out of Reed’s hand. “My girlfriend made it.” He grips the jar, face contorting with emotion.

  “Eric.” I rest a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. That jar is a piece of Lila. I don’t want to hurt him, but this is a good trade for us. “I think she’d want to do this for us.”

  “She’s probably yelling at us from the afterlife to make the trade,” Susan adds. “That girl loathed the idea of running.”

  Eric lets out a short, panged bark of laughter. After a beat, he holds the jar out to John. “It’s good stuff. My girlfriend spent two years refining this recipe.”

  John’s eyes light up as he takes the jar. He screws off the lid and inhales. The grin he gives us is pleased.

  “This will help my mom’s arthritis.” He slides the jar into his leather jacket. “Trade accepted. Come on. Blue truck. I’ll take you to Westport.”

  At his words, two men peel off from the campground, heading toward a dirty Chevy Colorado. I send a silent thanks to Lila for looking out for us.

  Two armed men join John in the cab. My group climbs into the back.

  As the truck rolls forward, Ben scoots up beside me. I grip his hand.

  I haven’t been in a vehicle for six months. Being in one now puts me on edge. Every muscle in my body is tense. My free hand grips my knife as I scan both sides of the one-lane gravel road. I keep expecting zombies to come loping out of the trees.

  None do. Either John was telling the truth and this road has been cleared, or we’re getting lucky.

  “Did you get a good look at their weapons?” Ben asks in a low voice.

  I shake my head. “They all look the same to me.”

  “Those were Barrett M107s and M110 SASS.”

  “You can’t get those at your local Walmart,” Caleb adds.

  “What are you sayin
g?” I keep my voice low as the truck crunches along the gravel road.

  “Home boy was probably a pot farmer before the shit hit the fan,” Reed says.

  Ben nods. “It’s the only industry up here that can afford firearms like that.”

  My first thought is to leap out of the truck and make a run for it. “Do you think we’re safe?”

  Ben purses his lips. “I think if he wanted to kill us he would have done it. But I do think it’s a good idea to get the hell away from him as soon as possible.”

  3

  Trade

  KATE

  We exit the narrow gravel road and turn onto a paved, two-lane highway. The Chevy picks up speed, rumbling past towering redwoods interspersed with red alders.

  Susan breaks the tense silence hanging over our group. “Once we get to Westport, there’s a chance we may be able to keep driving. If we can find a car, I mean.”

  This statement gets nothing but incredulous stares.

  “Think about it,” she says, unphased by our skepticism. “Westport, the town they’re taking us to, had a population of less than a hundred before the outbreak. All the towns in this area are tiny until you get to Braggs. There might be some legitimately safe sections of road.”

  “You do know that zombies hear cars coming from miles away?” Eric says.

  Susan shrugs. “It’s worth a try.”

  I can’t in good conscience rule out using cars if we can do it safely. Anything that will get us to Fort Ross—and to Alvarez—has to be considered.

  We pass a green road sign that reads Highway 1. This is the road that will take us to Alvarez.

  Not only that, my people have already logged a lot of miles on their feet. Every last one of them is sore, chafed, blistered, and exhausted. Myself included. Alternative transportation would give us all a reprieve.

  “Let’s keep it as an option,” I say to Susan.

  I chew my bottom lip in thought as we continue to hum along the tree-lined road. I run through a list of possible places to find a car that might still be working. Somehow, I have a feeling John and the people of Westport might have commandeered all nearby working vehicles. Which means we’ll have to travel a ways on foot to find one. Or make another trade with John—an idea that does not sit well with me.

  I squeeze Ben’s hand, drawing strength from his presence. I force myself to shift my focus back to the moment. First things first, I need to get my people to Westport and safely back on the road. We’ll figure out the rest as we go, like we always do.

  “Is that the town John was telling us about?” Ash shades her eyes as the truck emerges from the tree-lined road.

  A few miles away is a tiny little town perched above the ocean. Gray sky looms overhead, threatening more rain. The Pacific Ocean is almost the same gray color as the sky, stretching like a frothing blanket for as far as the eye can see.

  “Yes, I think that’s Westport,” I say, answering Ash.

  We watch the hamlet draw near. A half-mile out, a dozen people come into view. They wield hammers, standing in a cluster over a stack of building supplies.

  Ben shades his eyes. “Are they building a wall?”

  “Either that or a really long house,” Reed says.

  I squint. Indeed, a line of fence posts with corrugated sheet metal panels surrounds the northern edge of the town. It currently stands seven feet tall and stretches two hundred yards to the east, away from the ocean. It might not be the strongest wall I’ve ever seen, but it will be effective in keeping out zombies that stray toward the town.

  We pass the wall and its construction crew, entering Westport. Susan had been right when she said there wasn’t much to the town. We pass a series of low-roofed homes along the cliffs that overlook the ocean. I spot a bed-and-breakfast with all the front windows boarded up and an honest-to-god blacksmith shop.

  “That will come in handy,” Ben remarks, taking in the tiny tourist attraction. A man and a woman glance up from their forge as we pass, studying us with suspicion.

  Next to the blacksmith shop is a giant statue of a whale. At one time, it had a working spout that sprayed water. It now sits dormant, the trough below the whale filled with water that’s turned a murky green.

  The rest of the town is nondescript. We pass a few more tiny motels, a few restaurants, and more homes.

  Overall, Westport is mostly intact. Other than some windows and doors that have been boarded up, it looks to have weathered the apocalypse well. I can’t help but think the clearance of this town and the surrounding area must have been relatively easy.

  There are people out and about, more than I’ve seen in one place since the world ended. They stare at us with the same suspicion we received from the blacksmiths, each and every one of them halting in their tracks to watch as we go by.

  Among the townspeople are men and women with automatic weapons. Local security, I suppose. Between them and the beginnings of the town wall, it’s obvious to me that John doesn’t take his town’s remote location for granted.

  As we near the southern outskirts of the town, I spot another crew of men and women erecting fence panels. My breath catches at the sight of a telephone pole standing sentry at the very edge of Westport.

  Suspended from either side of the telephone pole are giant wooden birdcages.

  Except they aren’t made for birds. Each cage is the size of a human being.

  And inside those cages are people. A man and a woman, both of them slumped over and lifeless. Vultures and crows and seagulls swarm around the cage, pecking at the bodies inside and screeching at one another.

  “Holy shit,” Reed breathes. “Did that guy say his name is John?”

  Ben gives him a sharp look. “Yes. What do you know?”

  Reed purses his lips. “There are stories of a marijuana farmer in this area. His nickname is Medieval John.”

  I look away from the bodies in the cages, feeling queasy.

  “Looks like the nice man driving us through his town has a psychotic edge.” Ben’s face is set, eyes hard. “Let’s hope he keeps his word and lets us leave without any trouble.”

  “Be ready to run.” I study the land beyond the hanging cages. To the west are cliffs that drop off into the ocean. To the east are rolling hills and trees.

  “Head east if they start shooting,” I say. “Get to the tree line and keep moving south.”

  Everyone nods, expressions tight as the truck pulls to a stop just below the cages. The people working on the wall slow in their labor, studying us.

  I don’t waste any time. As soon as the truck stops, I leap to the ground. Everyone follows suit. We cluster on the east side of the truck, closest to the line of trees in case we need to make a run for it.

  John swings open the driver’s side door and hops to the ground.

  “Hey, MJ,” calls one of the men working on the wall. “We’re running out of fence posts.”

  MJ. Medieval John. The queasiness in my stomach increases.

  John shrugs. “We’ll put together another foraging run into Kibesillah. There’s plenty of wood we can pull from the big barn we found there.”

  I straighten, standing tall as the man with the floppy mustache turns in my direction.

  “I hope you enjoyed your tour of Westport,” he says. “We don’t have visitors very often.”

  “Is that who they are?” I jerk a thumb at the bodies in the wooden cages. “Visitors?” Ben shoots me a hard look. I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t help it.

  “No.” John shakes his head. “Those are thieves. One of Westport’s ... neighbors thought it was okay to send some of her people to raid our food supplies.” His smile is hard as stone. “I’m a fair man. I don’t kill for fun. But I do protect my people and my town. Thieves will not be tolerated.”

  I swallow, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Thank you for the ride. We’re going now.” I gesture to my group, ushering them forward down the highway.

  “I was hoping you’d stop by our
trading post before you go,” John calls, motioning in the direction of a small house twenty yards from the side of the road. “Like I said, we don’t get visitors through here very often. We might have supplies you need for your journey. We’re always up for trading.” He openly eyes our backpacks.

  “No thanks,” I reply, even though in my head I can tick off half a dozen things we could use for our journey. Top of the list being a car or some bicycles.

  John lets his gaze rest a little too long on the large pack Caleb carries. No doubt he’s smart enough to guess there are weapons inside. “Look through our offerings. If there’s something you need, perhaps we can come to an amicable trade.”

  I’m about to decline his offer. I want out of this place as quickly as possible and I don’t like the idea of negotiating with John.

  Before I can speak, Susan steps forward. “How clear is the highway south of town?”

  John shrugs. “It’s relatively clear up until Braggs. After that ...” He shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you. Braggs is a dead show. None of my people have been within the city limits.”

  Susan flicks a quick look at me before turning back to John. “Do you have a car?”

  John chuckles. “Not one that you could afford.” His gaze again strays to Caleb’s pack. “Unless you have something compelling in that bag of yours.”

  Ben snarls, opening his mouth to no doubt say something rude and inflammatory. I rest my hand on his arm, stilling him.

  “The contents of that pack are not for trade.”

  Reed snorts. “We’re going to have a hard enough time killing Rosario with the contents of that pack.”

  I elbow him in the ribs. His words are so soft I think I’m the only one who hears him.

  Until John’s hard stare lands on Reed. “What did you say, young man?”

  Reed casts me an uneasy glance. I shove him behind me.

  I face John. It’s clear from his expression that he doesn’t intend to let his question go unanswered. “He said that if we survive Rosario, we’ll be back this way. Maybe we can trade at that time.”

  John’s eyes narrow. “What’s your business with Rosario?”

  My skin prickles. “She attacked our friends at Fort Ross. We’re going to help them.”