Haven From Hell (Book 3): A Young Man's Game

by Won, Mark

  Seeing my ammunition store, Neil asked, “Why do you have so much .44 caliber ammunition?” I could tell he was partial to 9mm, just like Melissa, by the pistols they wore. Sheriff Slim liked a .45.

  “That’s my most common caliber. I got it in special and magnum. I got some .22 to if you need any.” I didn’t see anyone with a rifle so I held off on offering to share my .30-06.

  Gina had a pretty little .22 so I gave her a hundred rounds. That stuff was pretty easy to come by. While I fished it out from under my rickshaw seat, Lin, Jason, Thomas, and Keisha all played with Tracer. Kids love him.

  Jason, Sheriff Slim and Jenny’s son, asked me, “What kind of dog is that, Gideon?”

  “Tracer is a class A crossbreed, parentage unknown, but no one can sniff out zombies better than my dog.”

  “Kinda puny if ya ask me,” said Mr. Seltzer, Lin’s dad, the only super fat man in the group. “I’d think you’d want a bigger dog if you’re facing a bunch of ‘zombies’ all the time. She’s small enough so you could eat her in one meal, if you had to.” Mr. Seltzer seemed like some kind of an idiot. Who insults someone else’s dog? My recent experiences with cannibals aside, I thought that I’d sooner carve him up for dinner than my dog. And ‘Tracer’ was obviously a boys name.

  I was just warming up an appropriately sneering answer when his wife, Jan, got his attention with some of the fish they’d been frying over a fire. I decided to let it go, lucky for him.

  A younger man, maybe eighteen, asked me all about Blue. His name was Rob Lee and he used to ride a bike around for a living, delivering pizzas. He still had it with him. It was a real nice street model, very shiny and reflective. Rob really knew his way around Paxton, to the south. He and I talked a lot about what was in that town. On my way west I’d played it safe and stayed to the north of Paxton, but with Rob’s help I thought I might be able to get some good stuff out the place. It might be worth some backtracking.

  The kids weren’t the only ones interested in playing with Tracer. There were a couple of brothers, Norm and Steven Dean, that also were having some fun playing fetch. Steven had a 12 gauge shotgun and Norm had a hunting bow. Once I saw that 12 gauge, I fished out half a box of shells and tossed it to Steven. He looked up with a surprised expression and said, “Thanks.”

  Ever since I’d killed those archers in the woods I’d kept one of the shorter bows and a few arrows. I asked Norm how the bow hunting was and asked if he’d take me hunting with him later. He said yes.

  Dan Haversham was real curious about my shortwave radio and asked all about who I’d been in contact with. I told him about the people from Haven, and everyone seemed excited by the news. The trouble was, my batteries were low on power, and there was no decent antenna material handy in the woods. I could tell that Dan wasn’t going to give up on the notion of communicating with the rest of the world any time soon; he reminded me of Kim for no particular reason.

  A woman named Gina (she used to be some kind of lawyer or environmentalist or some such) wanted to know all about Haven, as did Jack, a mechanic, and Samantha, a former secretary. So I told them what I knew. Gina had a pretty sister by the name of Andrea who was only a couple years older than me. I tried to start up a conversation with her but she was too shy. I didn’t hold it against her, sometimes I forget how overwhelming my personality can be.

  Tomas’s and Keisha’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Reese, wanted to know ‘whatever had happened to my parents?’ I was saved from having to answer by Mr. Moon, a real old guy who owned a motor home.

  He interrupted Mr. and Mrs. Reese by asking me if I’d like to stay in his motor home with Melissa and a couple of others. I told him I’d be glad to have a roof over my head for a change. Then, before Mrs. Reese could get back into the conversation, Norm insisted that I accompany him on a hunting expedition. As I went off hunting with Norm, I overheard Mr. Moon explaining the obviousness of my situation to Mr. and Mrs. Reese. Norm pretended to not hear the conversation, for which I was grateful.

  We hadn’t gotten a hundred yards from camp when a guy by the name of Hunter (I think it was a last name but it was the only one he went by) caught up to us and asked if he could tag along. He was carrying a homemade (and super crappy) spear, but his heart was in the right place, so I said yes.

  Norm knew his stuff. Between he and I we bagged a number of squirrels before nightfall. Hunter was worse than useless but that was to be expected. Even if he had the best spear ever, I’m not sure he’d have been able to nail a dodging squirrel with it. As it was he didn’t stand a chance. All he was successful at was making extra noise and scaring the game. I tried to cheer him up.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Hunter, you need a better spear. I’ll help you make one tomorrow. You might want to learn how to use a sling, too. It’s a difficult skill but kinda fun.

  On our way back into camp Steven saw the three of us and shouted at Hunter, “Did you have any luck, Hunter?” The way he said it was kind of mean. Mr. Seltzer looked on with a little smile.

  “No,” was all Hunter said.

  Steven continued, “Just because your name’s ‘Hunter’ don’t make you a hunter, you dumb *$%^&*.” He used a word I had heard before and recognized as a racial slur. It was derived, originally, from the Latin nigreos, meaning ‘black’. There was a country in Africa called Niger and another called Nigeria that got their names the same way, back before that kind of thing was racist. Uncle always said that the racial slur had come about because a bunch of stupid, inbred, bigoted trash from a couple of centuries ago didn’t know how to read, so they mispronounced the word Niger and the mispronunciation stuck (because of all the stupid, inbred, bigoted trash around at the time).

  Anyhow, Hunter stepped right up and called Steven a *$%^&*, a compound word indicating a person who has had an incestuous relationship with his (or, I suppose, her) own mother.

  Then Norm reached out and tried to restrain his brother from physical violence and I did the same with Hunter. It was like dealing with children in desperate need of having their mouths washed out with soap. Obviously the camp had a problem.

  Connor, Melissa, and Neil were all ready to step in if they’d had to, but I think that would have just made things worse. Apparently so did the sheriff, because the cops held back and let us get the situation under control.

  After that I managed to take Sheriff Slim aside and ask him a question or two about our security. He didn’t understand my line of thinking so I had to be blunt.

  I asked, “What’s keeping zombies from just waltzing in here after dark and ripping everyone to shreds while we sleep?”

  Connor answered, “We’re hoping that they won’t find us,” in a quiet, intense tone.

  “If you were being hunted by men, is that what you’d do? If you were being hunted by animals, is that what you’d do? Think about it.” The light began to dawn.

  He asked, “What do you suggest?”

  “Most survivors I’ve encountered live indoors, in a big house or two. Someplace with the doors and windows reinforced. Usually there’s a fence all around, sometimes with a bunch of sharpened stakes facing outward, sometimes with a number of big barbed spike traps, too. Once I met a group that had dug a shallow moat. I’m not trying to be mean, here. It’s just I think some defense might be better than nothing.”

  He took my words to heart. Neil had been listening in and he agreed. “The kid’s got a point,” he said.

  I told them, “I know it’s late, but if it’s okay, then I’ll set up a few trip lines with bells on them, just in case.” I had got the bells from the former home of a little old lady by the name of Mrs. Kingfisher. They were packed with all of her Christmas tree ornaments (She was real nice, I waited with her until a bus from Haven made it out to Maryland to pick her up).

  They thought it was worth the time so they helped me set the alarm traps. It was after dark by the time we were done, so we all said goodnight. They each went to a separate police cruiser and I went to Mr. Moon’s mot
or home.

  It all made for quite a day, so I was glad to finally take Mr. Moon up on his offer of a place to sleep. The RV was already over crowded but I found a nice spot on the floor next to Rob and Melissa. Mr. Moon had an extensive collection of fiction littered about his motor home, and he said I could read any that I liked. It was too dark to read so I went right to sleep with Tracer at my side.

  I wondered what the next day would bring.

  Chapter 12

  I was awakened the next morning by the sounds of a child crying. Curious about what the matter was, I went outside the RV (careful not to awaken anyone) and found Lin hunkered by the side of the vehicle.

  Lin was a big eyed ten year old, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Seltzer. In the early predawn light I could see that she had picked up a new bruise since I’d seen her last. Naturally, I was curious.

  “What happened, Lin?” I motioned to the new bruise she had on her face.

  She put a hand up, looking all around as if afraid of being watched. Seeing that the coast was clear she said, “I fell.”

  In my time I’ve fallen quite a bit, sometimes flat on my face, but I’ve never managed to pick up a hand shaped bruise quite like hers. What it reminded me of was all the bruises the kids who picked on me in school had somehow managed to acquire just before I became home schooled.

  “It looks like somebody hit you in the face.” She started to cry even harder. I guess she thought I’d meant the statement as a personal comment (which I hadn’t, I was being purely descriptive).

  I tried again, “Hey, don’t worry, it’s okay. You look fine. Here, have a candy bar.” I’d been saving them for myself (I keep them in a special pocket in my backpack), but I couldn’t just let her suffer. She peeled back the wrapper, and by the time she’d finished, some of her native good cheer had returned. I gave her another candy bar to save for later. We talked about her favorite cartoons for awhile (I like cartoons, too, and I don’t care what anybody thinks).

  Once dawn had fully broken, and the camp was rousing itself for a new day, she said, “I better get back,” with a pinched look of concern, one might even say fear, resting on her features. It looked to me like she had the fear level one would expect of someone anticipating some kind of incipient zombie attack. Small wonder, I thought, what with all the lack of security the camp had.

  Before she took off I reassured her, “Don’t worry, we’re going to set up some better defenses today.” She did not seem mollified by my promise, but that was okay. She’d see.

  Once everybody was up, Connor got everybody together and explained our new defense plan. Apparently he’d been giving it some thought, which was nice, because I hate to be the one who has to do all the thinking, all the time. All he’d needed was a little boost in the right direction.

  Sheriff Slim got us divided into two groups. Melissa would take Jimmy Seltzer, Dan, Steven, Norm, and Mr. Moon off to the lake, along with Jack and Samantha, to catch whatever fish they could. Everyone else would stay back and help build a fence.

  We didn’t have a lot of tools to work with. I always brought a few with me, of course, but it’s not like I carried ten saws around, or anything. I always made sure I had a lot of big nails and screws, though, just in case I wanted to board up a house for some reason (zombie related or otherwise). Connor and the rest used rocks for hammers. The nice thing about building a fence in a woods is that all the posts are already in the ground, in the form of standing trees. By the time we were done I was pretty sure any zombie could have pulled the nailed limbs right off the trees. That didn’t worry me too much because zombies aren’t that smart, and I felt confident that any zombies which did happen upon us would try and push through the barrier, not pull it down. An ogre or a ghoul, however, could bypass our primitive barrier in a heartbeat.

  For lunch we had fish and for supper we had some more. We were all around the campfire after supper talking about whatever came into our heads. I got busy making a new spear for Hunter. By the time I was done he was the proud possessor of a fine example of late stone age quality workmanship. Then I asked him if he wanted to learn how to use a sling while we had a half hour of light left (not that he could learn much in that short a time, but it was enough for the basics). He said yes.

  Hunter was a quick study and we picked up a bunch of spectators in no time. I guess that in the arena of entertainment watching a couple of people target practice with rocks was marginally superior to staring into a dying fire. Sometimes I kinda missed the Internet.

  Steven said, “Hey Hunter, you’re a real natural with something as primitive as a rock!” He laughed at his own joke, but I didn’t get it.

  I said, “Yeah, he’s got talent. A sling is a great way to save on ammunition. You want to try?”

  He stepped up and I gave him my last sling (slings are pretty light so I generally carry a lot more of them than I do the ammunition they require). He had some trouble getting the rock to launch in the right direction, one shot even put a crack in the windshield of Mr. and Mrs. Reese’s minivan. The bad miss startled everyone, but I just laughed.

  “I did the same thing the first time I used one of these things!” I said.

  After that I got the two of them in a kind of competition. Eventually, Steven gave his sling to Norm to try his luck. He was even worse than his brother.

  After missing a target the size of a tree ten times in a row, Norm gave the sling back to Steven with a look of disgust, saying, “I think I’ll stick with my bow. You have fun playing with rocks.”

  Steven replied, “You’re just sore ‘cause you can’t do it!” I have to give Steven credit, he really put some effort into it. I was sad when we lost the last of our light but I resolved to continue teaching when time allowed. Maybe after they got the hang of the sling I’d show them how to use a sling staff (those things are great for hurling bottles).

  Hunter thanked me and went back to the fire. Once he was out of earshot Steven said to me, “Why are you helping the *$%^&*? He’s not one of us.” He meant Hunter.

  Norm looked irritated at that kind of inflammatory language but didn’t want to pick a fight with his brother. I couldn’t blame him.

  I answered, “I like him. We’re all in this together. Every zombie he kills is one less I’ll have to.”

  “You like him!” Steven was getting loud. “Why?”

  “Because even though all you’ve done is insult him, he’s stuck with it. He stood up for himself when you picked a fight and he’s trying to learn useful stuff. And that’s not bad.” I continued, “I’m not trying to tell you or anybody else what to think. You can dislike anyone you want for any reason, but I can’t. I can’t afford to make enemies out of friends just because of nothing. Like I said, we’re all in this together. We’re all human.” If I chose to hate everybody who wasn’t like me, I’d never make any new friends.

  Norm interrupted, trying to change the subject, “How many zombies have you killed, Gideon?”

  I had to think about that for a minute before answering, “Does it count if they’re all on the other side of a chain link fence and I’ve got a long skinny poker?” I keep what my uncle called a ‘misericord’ in my rickshaw for just such situations. It’s a thin length of sharpened metal pipe about eighteen inches long which I’d put a handle and crosspiece on. The handle was hollow so I could make a spear out of it pretty quickly if I wanted to.

  Norm looked over to his brother, “Sure,” he said.

  “Then I don’t know for sure, but I guess a few thousand from just that.”

  Norm recoiled, and Steven said, “*$%^&*,” (horse apples)

  “It’s not that hard guys, zombies are dumb. I found a school that had a fence all around and just started stabbing. The schoolyard must have had two thousand zombies in it, at least.”

  Norm asked, “Why did you do it?” Silly question. Who wouldn’t want to stab a bunch of teenager zombies in the head?

  “Because it’s them or us, and I don’t like them much. Besid
es, schools have lots of canned food and some minor medical supplies. The guards have guns, too, and I’m always low on ammunition.”

  Steven just said, “*$%^&*,” (bull chips) but I could tell he believed me. What puzzled me was how there could be any doubt. A chain link fence with a horde behind it is an opportunity too good to pass up. I did forget to mention the ghouls that had come over the fence and how an ogre almost tore a hole through the chain links. But those were just details.

  I looked over to the fire and saw Mr. Seltzer waving Ginger around and pretending to aim at his daughter’s feet. I think the latter angered me even more than the former, but it was a close thing. I began to tromp over there. I had the feeling that I was about to make at least one enemy.

  Fortunately, Connor saw what Mr. Seltzer was doing and stepped in. He said, “Hey, Jim, that rifle isn’t yours. Probably not a good idea to just take it.”

  “Aw, come on Sheriff, the kids got another rifle. Shouldn’t we all be armed?” He shifted his aim to various imaginary targets. My hand slithered over to Zippy of its own accord.

  “No,” Connor replied . Then he reached out and took the rifle from Mr. Seltzer’s hands. My hand shifted away from Zippy to take Ginger from the Sheriff.

  I said, “Thanks,” and went over to get a blanket out from under the seat of Blue’s rickshaw. I opened it up like I was going to have a picnic, and began to disassemble, clean, and reassemble Ginger after Jimmy Seltzer’s oily fingers had touched her. Satisfied, I put her away.

  I looked up to see I was the center of attention, again. I was feeling like I ought to start selling tickets. I asked, “What?”

  Connor said, “That was pretty fast.” Melissa and Neil both agreed. He continued, “Have you shot a lot of zombies, Gideon?” Duh!

  “I guess. I mean, what do you call a lot? I’ve gone through twenty-two boxes for Ginger, so that’s four hundred forty there, and, oh, I dunno, maybe another two thousand rounds for Mary Ann. Then there’s Bob. I guess I’ve helped him kill two hundred or so. Uncle had a lot of .44 ammo lying around, it was his favorite caliber. Then there were some odds and ends with my .22, so I guess maybe two thousand six hundred, or so. Why do you ask?”