by Brown, TW
At the entrance to this service corridor were a cluster of figures. From this distance it was clear that at least one individual was being attacked. There was a great deal of flailing and screaming, but it was impossible to make out who was attacking whom. Joel turned back to the door and was about to press the large metal bar when a voice cried out, “Please help me, mister!”
Joel paused again and looked back. Now he could see a woman against one wall. She was holding back one attacker by the throat. Three more were on the ground and struggling like turtles on their backs as they tried to regain their feet. Joel took a step towards the woman out of reflex. More figures limped or staggered into view, all of them seeming to be drawn to the struggling woman.
There was a moment where a pair of the dark forms merged with hers. Joel knew then that any attempt that he made to try and save the poor soul would be an exercise in futility. The scream that came from her was the punctuation to that thought.
Joel turned back to the emergency exit and slammed the metal bar with both hands to open it. He expected a blaring alarm, but all he got was a weak chiming sound and some flashing lights. Maybe if things hadn’t already spiraled so far out of control, that would actually be something that garnered attention, but now, amidst gunfire and screams, it was nothing more than an undercurrent to the existing ambient noise.
Joel stepped through the door and found himself in the part of Las Vegas that the tourists never saw. This was a back alley of sorts that ran between the sprawl of hotels and casinos. It was still technically inside since it had a roof, but this was where all the pipes and stairwells to various control stations existed. This was where the illusion of the city was maintained.
Joel moved along the maze of corridors with military caution. Blundering headlong into a zombie or six would make for a lousy start in his quest to survive.
That thought caused Joel to stop in his tracks. Survive? What would the point be in something so simple as surviving? No, he was going to live.
Joel encountered his first zombie in a narrow walkway with dirty walls that might’ve been white once. There were a series of dark pipes running overhead with assorted labels ostensibly informing the maintenance crew what they proved and where.
The man was leaning against the wall with his back to Joel. At first, Joel thought he may just be another person trying to get out of the complex. The moment he caught a whiff of that smell he’d first encountered when Wanda turned, he knew better. When the man turned, Joel got his confirmation. Most of the man’s throat had been torn out, leaving a massive black stain down the front of his coveralls. His eyes were filmed over and that pus-colored film made the black tracers stand out in even starker contrast.
The man…no, Joel corrected his mindset, that was no longer a man. It was a zombie. Ghoul. Flesh-eater. Whatever the term people cared to use, it was no longer living. It was a mobile source of infection and a painful death.
The reports on the news had mentioned that, apparently like many of the movies and books in the zombie genre, the only way to take these things down were by traumatic head injury. Without hesitation, Joel veered toward the creature as it disengaged from the wall and began to shamble his way. As soon as it was just a few steps away from being at arm’s length, Joel aimed at the face of the coverall-clad zombie and fired. The back of the head exploded in thick bits of brain with a few chunks of bone that splattered the dingy wall behind it. Without a sound or cry of pain, the zombie collapsed to the ground in a lifeless heap. It didn’t even twitch with post-mortem electricity. It was just plain dead.
Joel continued to make his way through the maze, occasionally finding an arrow or sign that indicated an emergency exit. He was not confident that an emergency exit would get him clear of the building. Hell, it might just dump him into one of the huge connecting passages that allowed people to move from one casino to the next without actually even stepping outside.
Joel wanted to find the main exit that the employees used to come and go from this place. That would put him in one of the large parking garages. From there, he should have no trouble getting out of town. While newer cars were not very easy to hotwire, he was certain there had to be an old model beater in the mix. He was already making a battle plan for how he would proceed.
Besides casinos, Joel figured the most common business in the city and surrounding area had to be pawn shops. All the fools who kept thinking they needed just one more throw of the dice and everything would be okay often turned to these modern day financial vampires to trade in anything and everything they had for pennies on the dollar. These places would have guns.
He needed firepower. There was no doubt about that. Also, he knew better than to believe that he could exist for long all on his own. He would need to recruit some people. That was where things would be tricky. He knew the perfect way when it came to dealing with the undead. He was shrewd when it came to dealing with folks on a business level. But he’d never been much for building deep, meaningful relationships—Wanda being the lone exception.
Rounding a corner, he saw a set of glass doors that led to some sort of open lobby. There were at least three of those things there just wandering around, bumping off each other, counters, furniture.
“How the hell do these things win?” Joel muttered as he observed their uncoordinated movements for a moment.
After he was certain that only three of the undead were in the small entry lobby, Joel made for the door. He pushed it open and paused to let himself get adjusted to the horrific stench that was amplified by either the fact that there were three of these things, or that they were in a small, closed space. Whatever the reason, it was the closest he’d been to becoming physically sick in years.
As he stood there trying to keep his insides from spilling out through his mouth and nose, all three of the zombies turned to face him. He wasn’t sure if they could see, hear, or smell him. Now was certainly not the time to make that discovery. He stepped towards the first one and shoved it back hard. The creature had no real sense of balance and toppled easily.
He allowed the second one to reach for him and grabbed it by the wrist, slinging it past him to collide with and trip over the first one he’d already sent sprawling. He marveled at how insanely simple this was and again had to question how a single zombie managed to get even one victim.
The third one wouldn’t even reach him before he was across the room and out the door. He saw no reason to engage.
Joel exited the small lobby entry and found himself inside a large parking garage just as he figured. A sound to his right caught his attention and Joel crept along the front bumpers of the closest row of cars as he moved to investigate. As he made his way, he looked around to see if any of the walking dead might be close or possibly aware of his presence. At the moment, he seemed to be the only thing moving on at least this level of the parking garage.
At last he reached his destination. Sitting with its sliding side door open was a shuttle van. Most of the hotels and casinos had them running twenty-four/seven as guests poured into the city at pretty much all hours of the day and night. Making one last scan of the area, Joel felt confident that there was nothing close by. That did not mean there might not be something on the bus, so he had his pistol at the ready as a precaution.
Pausing at the step-up that would allow him to see up and down the aisle of the shuttle, Joel gave the air a cautionary sniff. Nothing jumped out at him. He certainly didn’t smell that stench he now associated with the walking dead.
Joel climbed up into the bus, a feeling of confidence growing in him that he would now be able to move towards his ultimate goal. Ensuring that there was nobody on board the shuttle—living or dead…or undead—he moved up to the front and gave the dash area a quick scan. Joel set his pack down and was not the least bit surprised when Peanut did nothing more than open one baleful eye at the disturbance, yawn once, and then shut its eyes again. He pushed a button labeled “Mid-entry” and nodded to himself when the door shut with a hiss of rel
eased air.
Popping the shuttle into gear, Joel followed the exit signs. As he drove, he passed a few staggering shapes, and in one instance, rounded a corner to discover a trio of zombies feasting on some poor unfortunate. Having just experienced his own first encounter with the things, he felt no pity for the person whose legs still twitched and thrummed as his or her insides were being pulled out in a festival of gory violence.
At last he reached the security checkpoint. Naturally the metal arm was down and the post was abandoned. Hardly slowing, Joel plowed through the exit and emerged onto the street. He was on East Tropicana Avenue. If he stayed on it, he would be able to get to Interstate 515.
That was his target. Once he reached the interstate, he knew exactly where he would go. If he was going to do this, then he was going to do it right. Somebody needed to take control of this situation.
Why not Joel Landon?
3
Grounded in the Present
While quicker than walking, Joel quickly discovered that driving was not going to get him where he wanted to go as fast as he’d hoped. With the airport to his right, he crept along through smoldering vehicles, bodies scattered everywhere, some down for good, others hunched over feeding, and some dragging themselves along due to the extent of their horrific injuries preventing them from being able to use their legs.
The airport was its own nightmare. Two passenger jets were in flames on the tarmac, in the distance, it looked like another had come down nose first. Some of the figures wandering away from the carnage were actually on fire, but seemed not to notice.
“How did this happen so fast?” he whispered aloud as his hands sought the radio and switched it on.
“…repeat, please do not try to take the wounded to local hospitals. The governor has declared all hospitals a danger zone and a military response is being planned at this moment. There are reports of large bands of the infected now being referred to as zombies—” Joel pushed the button for the next station. “—and can be identified often by displaying injuries that should be mortal in nature. In addition, it is now being reported that the appearance of dark tracers in the eyes indicate infection.”
As he switched through the channels on his radio, and even searched the AM band, he discovered that every station carried the exact same message. Some were delayed by a second or two, but for the most part, the transition was seamless.
The going only grew more and more treacherous as he continued on in his quest to reach the interstate. Twice, Joel had to actually use the shuttle’s nose to shove aside a wrecked automobile. On more than a dozen separate occasions, one or more of the walking dead careened off the front or side, some of them falling underneath and causing the shuttle to jolt as it ran over the downed creature.
At last, Joel was forced to stop. He leaned forward to get a better look at what waited ahead. He could see the Thomas & Mack Center looming. From the looks of it, the military had set up a rescue center at that location. The perimeter of the massive parking lot was marked by waist-high concrete barriers and then a tall fence, complete with strands of razor wire at the top.
Perhaps it would be a good idea to stop there and get my bearings, Joel thought as he inched forward, pressing his front bumper up against the rear quarter panel of a shiny newer model pickup that had obviously caught fire in its cab.
The driver’s side window was down, and black smudges were visible all along the top. The interior was practically consumed by the earlier fire and a charred corpse still sat behind in the driver’s seat with its hands seemingly welded to the deformed steering wheel.
There was movement on the other side of the barrier and fencing. Joel opened the door and stepped out of the shuttle. He was still too far away to really see the details. The dry desert air was rank with the smell of the undead, the dead, and the acrid bitterness of all the fires burning unchecked.
The sounds of low moans came from the direction of the Thomas & Mack Center. That seemed to answer his question. He climbed back into the shuttle and took a visual assessment of his situation. It was clear that the shuttle had served its purpose to get him free of the casinos. Unfortunately, he didn’t see a way around the mess ahead. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he could see a few dozen undead limping along in his wake.
Once again, he wasn’t sure which of the five senses were operating for these things. After ensuring he had a bubble of relative safety around him, Joel grabbed the half-finished bottle of soda from the holder on the left side of the driver’s area, exited the shuttle, and then found a target. Cocking his arm back, he adjusted slightly and then threw the bottle. As it sailed end over end, he hoped that his throwing aim was at least half as good as his shooting.
The bottle slammed into the side of the abandoned UPS truck with a hollow boom that was amplified by the relative lack of noise in the area. Like watching a section of a snowy hillside give way in the initial moments of an avalanche, Joel watched the heads of all the zombies in the area turn towards the new sound stimulus and begin trudging in that general direction.
“Could it really be this easy?” he whispered.
Joel backed up the steps of the shuttle and slid into the driver’s seat to contemplate his next move. As he did, he felt something rub up against his shins and absently reached down to scoop up Peanut. The cat purred loudly as he stroked it under the chin with his index finger.
As he sat there, he let his senses drift outward and scan the general area for anything of interest. That is when he heard the muffled ‘BOOM’ of what he was certain had to be a shotgun. He let his gaze drift in the general direction he’d heard the commotion. One mistake he found that most people made came in looking too hard for something. They narrow their focus and miss the obvious.
That is how he spotted the man dressed in camo fatigues with the wide-brimmed hat and his shotgun slung casually over his shoulder like he was out for a stroll through the park. As Joel watched, the man sauntered along, occasionally shoving aside the odd zombie that lurched out from behind a vehicle. Twice he watched as the man simply caught the offending zombie by the arm or shoulder, spun it around, and then plunged a large-bladed knife into the side of its head.
Joel was still deciding whether or not he would make himself known to this stranger when the man paused, flipped up the brim of his hat and gave a slight nod his direction. After a moment, the man slid his shotgun into a sling that allowed the butt to stick up over his shoulder like the hilt of a sword. Joel took that as a sign of truce and an invitation to make contact.
“Stay here, Peanut,” Joel crooned as he set his cat down and exited the shuttle once more.
The two men approached one another like a pair of gunslingers from the Old West. As he approached, Joel looked the man over. This new stranger seemed to be in his late forties. His face was weathered and worn, giving the look of somebody who worked outside. He was a shade on the short side at perhaps only five-and-a-half-feet tall, but his shoulders were broad. The man had a few days’ worth of stubble on his face, but that might be a more common thing with the world going to hell in a handbasket.
Besides the shotgun, Joel noticed a pair of pistols hanging from the man’s hips, an assortment of blades ranging in size from a few inches long, to a couple of feet, and what appeared to be a few baseball-sized orbs that had to be grenades. The man was also carrying what could best be described as a heavy-duty fanny pack around his waist. He wore heavy gloves and dark glasses that hid his eyes.
About ten feet away, Joel pulled up, stopping and folding his arms across his chest. “Good afternoon.”
“As good as possible, I reckon,” the stranger replied. “Just headed out of town and a pair of them damn rot-bags wandered out in front of me and caused me to crash. Figured I’d just catch another ride on the other side of all this.” The man waved an arm to indicate the congestion around the Thomas & Mack Center. “Be surprised how many folks just left their keys in the ignition.”
“Not really.” Joel gave
a shrug. “Keys aren’t usually a priority if something is trying to drag you from your seat and bite your face.”
The man nodded, his expression hardening as if he were giving the situation more thought. “I guess I am in the minority. These things are nasty, but they’re slow as maple syrup in January and dumber than my second ex-wife.”
“Finally.” Joel let loose a deep sigh and allowed himself to chuckle. “That’s been my thoughts as well…mostly. I didn’t have an ex-wife, but I’ve known a few individuals that made me wonder how they managed to remember to breathe without somebody giving regular instructions.”
“If this is the zombie apocalypse, maybe we were long overdue,” the stranger tacked on. “I mean, sure, they can come at you in numbers, but the key is to avoid holing up someplace without multiple possible exits. And I’ve shoved far more of the things to the ground as I passed than I’ve actually shot or knifed.”
“Wasn’t that you that just fired off a round from your shotgun?” Joel tilted his head towards the butt of the weapon jutting over the man’s shoulder.
“I did, but that was more due to me being pissed.” When Joel didn’t speak, the man continued. “You know…the two I said stepped out and caused me to crash. Bastards pissed me off.”
“Mmm.” Joel gave a nod and created a mental file on this stranger, storing that bit of information away in case he had need of it later.
“Where’re my manners?” the man said, wiping his hands on the fronts of his jeans. “Brad. Brad Lehrer.”
“Joel Landon, pleased to meet you…current circumstances excluded.”
“Where you thinking of heading, Mister Landon?”
“Towards Boulder City. Thought I’d hit a few pawn shops along the way and stock up on weapons. I think civilization has run its course in its current form. Thought I might look into setting myself up to ride things out in style. Most folks are going to scrape and scratch with the hopes of surviving. The way I see it, they won’t come up with any concrete plans for a while, and most will die before they reach the point of being able to do anything. That gives me the jump since I think I already know where I want to set myself up, and how I want to live.”
