They drove off again in silence with Kirstin pointing the way. Contrary to his fears, the streets were quiet and derelict. Not much could be seen besides the usual straggling undead who groaned as they went by. Cracks filled the roadway, and empty windows gaped at them as they passed. A single plastic bag bobbed along on the sidewalk. The world’s turning into a desert. A desert populated by the dead.
“Over there,” Kirstin said, breaking into his somber thoughts.
Breytenbach slowed and looked for the entrance. The community was enclosed, and rust red-tiled roofs stuck out over the whitewashed walls that surrounded it. Ivy crept up the mortar, and a single sliding gate was the only way in.
Ronnie’s truck crept up behind them, and Breytenbach slid out of his seat. A decrepit one-armed zombie shuffled over and reached yellowed fingertips toward him. He took it down with a two-handed blow from his clawed hammer, pausing only to pull the weapon free.
“Clear the area,” he ordered as soon as Mike, Lenka, and Ronnie joined him. “Cover us, Kirstin.”
They worked quickly to dispatch the few undead that shambled toward them. The only sound was the thumping of hammers and axes on bone and the cooing of doves in the trees above them. A gentle breeze stirred the autumn leaves clinging to branches, and if it wasn’t for the corpses littering the street, it could have been a pleasant spot.
They slid open the gates and walked inside, peering into the undergrowth bordering the driveway. A rustle announced the arrival of a zombified gardener. His uniform still bore his name embroidered on the pocket. Jensen.
After they’d cleared the entrance, Kirstin drove up in the minibus before bringing in the truck. They shut the gates and looped a chain around it, though Breytenbach didn’t lock it in case they needed a quick getaway.
“Let’s scout the grounds first. Maybe look for an alternate exit in case this one is compromised,” he ordered. With Kirstin on top of the truck’s roof, they fanned out and circled the buildings.
It was a simple job but made less so by the overgrown vegetation. It hid a myriad of evils, not least the decayed hand that reached out and gripped his ankle.
Breytenbach danced backward as the thing bit down on his boot. Its teeth cracked on the hard leather and steel toe. He stabbed it through the crown, mouth twisting at the putrid fluid that sprayed forth. “Yuck.”
With the smell lingering in his nostrils, he completed his circuit. The retirement home wasn’t big, nor were the grounds. A long beige colored building took up most of the space. He surmised it was used to house the majority of the elderly population in the past. Probably still does.
Smaller units encircled the main. These were bachelor-sized apartments for the more independent retirees. These he cleared as he passed, though most were empty. “Guess the old folks all ran inside when the shit hit the fan.”
A garage, closed and shuttered, held the home’s vehicles, all parked in perfect unison. That much he could make out through the tiny windows covered in dirt. The only other thing he saw was a clearing within a rose garden. Benches dotted the now overgrown grass while the roses hung wilted heads in response to the coming winter. Only a few flowering buds clung to the branches in mute rebellion to the cold season. He made his way over to where Ronnie and Lenka waited. “Clear?”
“On my side, yeah,” Ronnie said. “Still waiting for Mike.”
Lenka grunted a monosyllabic reply.
A slow minute ticked by, and Breytenbach grew impatient. “See anything, Kirstin?”
“Not a thing,” Captain.” She shifted position and used her scope to search the grounds.
“He’d better not be in trouble,” Breytenbach muttered as he tried to contain his growing worry. “Or drunk.”
Suddenly, a yelp and shaking bushes announced the Irishman’s appearance. Mike danced into view with a zombie latched onto his forearm. It worked its jaws back and forth, and silver strings of saliva gleamed dripped from the tanned skin. Breytenbach’s blood turned to ice at the sight. “No!”
He rushed forward, but Ronnie was there before him. A single blow from the enraged Ronnie’s fist knocked the corpse onto its back, and a few stomps of his boots finished it off. Brain and bone splattered across the pavement.
When the thing was dead, Breytenbach and Ronnie turned to Mike who stood with his arm cradled against his chest. His chest heaved, and his ordinarily bright eyes were wide.
Breytenbach looked at the sky. He didn’t want to see the damage to Mike’s flesh, didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that another one of his team was lost. Just like Johan.
Ronnie reached out a hesitant hand. “Mike…how bad is it?”
Mike shook his head, and his lips trembled.
“Mike, let me see. Let me help,” Ronnie added in a persistent tone. He stepped closer but halted when Mike burst out laughing.
The slender Irishman’s body shook with mirth, intense joy bursting forth from his lips in a flow of merriment that took them all by surprise.
“Mike, stop it,” Breytenbach growled. He was at once confused and angered by the other’s reaction. Just like him. Always goofing off, even when it’s life and death situations.
“He got me all right. He gnawed me like a champ!” Mike extended his arm, whole and unharmed with no bite wounds in sight.
Breytenbach stopped short at the spectacle. “What in hell?”
Mike pointed at the body of the infected that attacked him. “He’s got no teeth. The old codger came after me with a mouth full of gums.”
Breytenbach swung back to the corpse and inspected the caved-in head. It was hard to make out specifics after Ronnie stomped on it, but one thing was clear. The zombie had no teeth.
Perplexed, he shook his head. “Never seen that before.”
“Me neither,” Ronnie said.
Even Lenka looked surprised.
“It’s an old age home,” Kirstin reminded them from her perch up on the roof of the truck. “There’s bound to be people here with no teeth.”
“Maybe he had falsies, and they fell out somewhere,” Mike suggested as he wiped his arm off with a handful of leaves. “Ugh. He slimed me good.”
Breytenbach wrinkled his nose. “You’re sure he didn’t break the skin?”
Mike shook his head. “Nope. I’m good.”
“Is your sector clear?”
“Clean as a whistle.”
“Lucky damn leprechaun,” Ronnie muttered from the side.
“I suggest we get going.” Breytenbach waved them forward. “Mike, you take the lead. Ronnie and Lenka at the back. Kirstin behind me. Let’s move.”
They formed up and set off for the front entrance of the main building. The doors formed wooden frames around glass panes with ornate brass handles to open.
Mike tested one, and the door swung open on silent hinges. A blast of stale air washed across their faces before the breeze whipped it away. Breytenbach followed Mike into the large foyer, his boots squeaking on the white tiles now covered with dust. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting before studying the place.
A dessicated fern drooped brown tentacles to the floor, and a long hall stretched out to either side of them. Rows of narrow windows ran along the opposite wall allowing yellow sunlight to stream inside. It was as silent as the grave, the air thick and musty. A bronze plaque on the wall welcomed them while smaller signs indicated that Wards A and C were to the left while Reception, Ward B, and the recreational rooms were to the right. This was the direction Breytenbach chose. In silent formation, they set off.
The hallway, though long, was empty and ended in a t-junction up ahead. They passed a lone wheelchair lounging against the wall as if its occupant just got up and walked away.
At the junction, Mike halted. Two more signs indicated that Ward B was to the right and the rest to the left. Breytenbach edged forward and peered around the corner.
Ward B’s hallway was dark and empty. Very little light penetrated the interior, and he had to squint to disc
ern the rows of doors that ran along its length. These were the former rooms of retirees, he assumed. How many of those are filled with old folks now turned into zombies?
It was an eerie thought, and he turned the other way. A polished wooden counter, complete with dried out flowers, a silver bell, and a bowl of mints, formed the reception. He craned his head but could see nothing behind it, though that meant little. Zombies had a remarkable faculty for hiding.
Beyond it, he spotted movement. This part of the building was better lit and sported more windows than the other side. Several figures shuffled about. The nearest wore slippers and a pink gown.
Breytenbach ducked back and turned to the others. In a low whisper, he filled them in. “Several infected to the left, unknown to the right. Kirstin, you watch our backs while we go in. Don’t make a sound, got it?”
Mike, Lenka, and Ronnie nodded, each holding a knife ready. Breytenbach ducked around the corner and crab-walked to the reception. He peered over the countertop, noting the spilled papers and blood spatter on the walls. Auburn hair topped by a white cap stirred on the floor.
With compressed lips, he slipped around the counter where he saw the receptionist lying prone on the floor, unable to move with no legs or arms. Her limbs had been stripped to the bone. She opened her mouth, but he silenced her before she could make a sound. A quick look confirmed the cubicle was empty of further life, and he turned back.
Slipper lady stood with her back to him, swaying from side to side. She was the closest. Beyond her, there were two more infected. One appeared to be a matron still dressed in her nursing uniform, though it was now covered in blood. The other was an old man, and his back bent with rheumatism and age. None of them posed much of a threat, and between them, they finished them off in quick succession.
Breytenbach found himself faced with several options. A pair of large double doors opened into the cafeteria and kitchens. Two single doors fronted guest bathrooms. Another pointed to the offices, while two more at the end led to the infirmary and a medical supply room.
Both the toilets were closed and latched. He elected to leave them like that. Likewise the offices. They held nothing of interest anyway. The infirmary and cafeteria were a different story. They might contain much-needed food and medical supplies.
With careful movements, he snuck past the double doors of the dining room and headed for the infirmary. Two small windows provided a look inside. It was not pretty.
Bodies lay strewn about. Several more moved around with aimless energy, searching for food. Always searching. Blood had turned the floors into a carpet of sticky black while all the beds and equipment had been tossed around as if by a giant hand. We’re not getting anything out of there.
He removed a cable tie from his pocket and looped it around the two handles, carefully zipping it shut. That should keep them in.
With relief, he turned to the medical storage room. There was no window this time, and he opened it after a quick nod to the other two. The door swung open, and he leaned back with his hammer held ready. Nothing came out. It was empty.
They moved in and removed the backpacks from their shoulders. The refrigerated section was a bust, of course, but the room held much else of value. Soon, their bags were stuffed, and a satisfied Breytenbach exited the storeroom with a grin.
“Now for the kitchen,” he whispered.
Kirstin moved closer and positioned herself as the sentry while he peered into the dining area. Like the infirmary, it was a mess. Unlike it, they couldn’t afford to move on. We need food.
“On three?” he asked. Everyone nodded. “Keep it clean and quiet. We don’t want to disturb those in the rooms and bring them down on us.”
He pushed through the door and launched himself at the nearest infected. It was an old woman, and she caved in like brittle matchsticks. Another reached for him, and he ducked before knocking it over and finishing it off. Mike, Lenka, and Ronnie had likewise thrown themselves into the fray, and together the four made short work of the remaining zombies.
It was all accomplished in under a minute and with remarkable silence. He glanced over his shoulder at Kirsten. “Still good?”
She gave him the thumbs up, and he turned toward the kitchen doors at the far end. “Right, let’s do this. Fast as we can, boys. Let’s clear it then look for something to load the stuff into.”
Breytenbach crossed the floor in a few long strides and reached for the handle of one of the double doors. The shiny aluminum frame opened with a high pitched screech as it caught on the tiles. He froze, and a curse hovered on his lips.
A bony hand reached through the entrance, and he found himself grappling with a hefty woman. She was much younger than the rest and dressed in uniform. Staff!
Another one, this a burly man, muscled through from behind her. Lenka jumped in and slammed his knife into the man’s eyeball with a swift thrust. Breytenbach kicked back the woman and caved in her head with the hammer.
No other infected appeared from the kitchen, and Breytenbach whirled to Kirstin, praying that the noise hadn’t awoken the home’s inhabitants. She shot him a faint smile, and he slumped. Thank God.
“Right. Let’s move it, guys,” he said.
They poured inside the kitchen. The smell was enough to make their eyes water, so they avoided the fridges and headed straight for the storage area. Mike found a trolley that moved well and didn’t squeak, and they began to load.
Breytenbach sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the bounty that awaited them. Pallets of canned food, soup packets, spices, water, juice, coffee, tea, sugar, and condensed milk lined the walls while bags of flour, rice, and beans lay on the floor.
After filling the trolley, they prepared to leave, but Breytenbach planned on coming back for a second load, and maybe a third. Space was cramped, and he squeezed past the gas oven, bumping his hip on the knobs.
They made their way outside the same way they came in and offloaded their booty. Then they returned for more. It was a simple operation, and it went as well the second time around as it had the first. On the third trip, Breytenbach began to wonder how long their luck would hold. Maybe we shouldn’t push it.
But the need for food prevailed, and he signaled the group inside for the last time. As he stepped into the dining room, he thought he detected a strange scent in the air. “Ronnie, do you smell something?”
Ronnie quirked his eyebrows. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. It’s almost like…” As Breytenbach tried to find the words to describe what he smelled, Mike pushed past him to the aluminum doors of the kitchen. As the younger man pushed them open, sudden recognition flooded Breytenbach’s mind. Gas.
He remembered in that instant the moment he’d bumped into the oven knobs. Realization set in as he figured that the gas had been leaking ever since, filling the enclosed kitchen. Oh, fuck!
The door hitched on the tiled floor as Mike pushed. The usual screech preceded a bright spark that struck up from the friction. A bright flash was followed by a loud thump as the gas caught alight.
Breytenbach threw up his hands to shield his face as a thunderous roar filled his ears. A big ball of flame blasted through the open door and flung Mike backward like a rag doll.
Tables and chairs toppled over in a clatter of debris while the windows rattled in their frames. Heat singed Breytenbach’s face, and he dropped into a defensive crouch as the explosion washed over him.
As quickly as it began the wave of destruction receded leaving Breytenbach stunned. He blinked as his shell-shocked senses came back to life. His eyes traveled over the room and took in the smoking mess left behind. Then his gaze settled on the unmoving form of Mike.
“Mike?” The words came out in a croak. No answer. He looked around. “Ronnie? Lenka? Kirstin!”
“Here,” Ronnie said, pushing himself to his feet from behind a pile of chairs.
Lenka mumbled something as he rose from a heap of debris.
The doors leading to the hall
way burst open, and Kirstin ran inside. “Get up now. We have company.”
Without waiting for an answer, she slammed the doors shut before hunting on the floor for a broken chair leg. This she thrust through the handles seconds before a body crashed into it. It was followed by another, and another.
Breytenbach jumped up and stumbled over to the crumpled shape of Mike. Ronnie was there already, shaking his friend by the shoulders. “Mike! Wake up!”
“Is he all right?” Breytenbach asked, but his next words dried up at the sight of Mike’s face. Half his hair was burned away, the skin red and raw. Blisters had already formed, popping up like water filled balloons.
“Mike,” Ronnie cried. “Wake up, you stupid Irishman.”
There was no response. Breytenbach stared at the younger man’s unconscious features and couldn’t help but wonder. Has his luck finally run out?
Chapter 14 - Logan
Logan followed Martin’s vehicle through the exit in the massive wall that surrounded St. Francis. Once more, he admired the feat of engineering it presented, though Martin had explained that a nearby new construction site had provided most of the material.
Still, it was a testament to the leader’s strength of will that he’d been able to round up so many survivors and get them to work together to safeguard the town. He’s every bit the man Max said he was.
As the gates clanged shut behind them, they moved in slow convoy past the minefields toward the turnoff that led to the R330. From there, it was an easy drive to the small town of Humansdorp.
A small and picturesque town, the streets were lined with trees, and it used to serve as a central hub for the local farms and light industry. Josh knew the place well, having raided it often alongside his other teammates. He now directed Martin through the town via the most accessible route by radio.
“How long have you been a raider?” Logan asked, keen to learn more about the young man.
“From the very beginning,” Josh replied. “Martin knew my father through the service. He contacted us when the outbreak hit and organized resistance. We moved everyone we could to St. Francis as it was more isolated and easier to defend.”
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