The Swamp

by Yates, R

  This book is dedicated to my father, Bill. I never realized how much you meant until you were gone.

  Love you dad!

  Prologue:

  News of the infection had been spreading for a few days. Everything from god’s wrath to military experiment to mutated spores had been blamed. All we knew for sure was that the dead didn’t stay that way unless you destroyed the brain, just like something out of a bad TV movie.

  All the news reports agreed that while it was serious, it was well under control, and they had the affected areas quarantined. Then every channel was preempted by a tired looking president, who advised us to seek shelter at military relief points. He said that containment had broken down, and the problem was appearing all over the country. He swore that every measure was being taken to make people safe, and signed off urging us to take care of our loved ones, and to have faith in god, our country, and each other.

  Sam watched in disbelief, this couldn’t be real. Was the world really going to hell? He looked around his house, wondering what to do, what to pack, and where to go. His deliberations were cut short when his cell phone announced a text message. Four simple words sent by Mark, his brother, that would send him into adventures through a land of the dead and that could decide if he lived or died

  “Get to the swamp”

  Chapter 1

  The swamp, like many things in this world, had once had a name, but names didn’t matter much anymore, Sam simply called it “the swamp”, and there hadn’t been anyone around to call him anything in months. This one, like most in North Florida, was a shallow scrub swamp. Large sweeping flats of marshy land giving way to the occasional oak hammock, and the water was rarely more than waist deep. Long ago the Government had brought in equipment and built roads by dredging dirt up to pile over low areas, then trucking in limestone. This resulted in a small network of roads running alongside deep canals, and branching off a two lane road that served as the only entrance to the swamp. Forestry tower 213 had been built in the 1970’s to watch over this area in time of drought. Standing well over 100 feet tall, it commanded a view of several miles in any direction, including the long winding road that was the only vehicle approach to the area. The tower room was about 12 foot by 12 foot square, contained a bed, a stove, and a sink. In one corner was a ladder leading to a trap door in the roof that would take you up to the solar panels and outside the single door on the north side was a cat walk that wrapped the room, and connected to the staircase leading 119 steps to the ground. Down below beside the supports stood a small 5 room house designed to house the staff that would man the tower. Three bedrooms, a den/kitchen, and a bathroom made up its design. The thousand square foot house was by no means spacious, but it would hold a few people comfortably.

  One day, he had decided, he would try to make the dangerous move up north. A few things stopped him. First, of course was hope that someone in his family would eventually show up. He knew things were rough for travel; it had taken him 3 days to make the 95 miles from his house to the swamp, so he knew he couldn’t give up on anyone just yet, though that hope was getting dim.

  The second was the chance of rescue, in the first couple of weeks after he got here, he had seen a lot of military helicopters off to the west, and he hoped they had established some kind of base over there. If they had, eventually they would show up out here, or he would run into them in town. He had considered leaving a sign out by the hard road announcing his presence, but the fear of looters and scavengers had talked him out of that.

  The third reason he stayed was simply fear. He felt safe here, his family had been hunting here for a long time, he knew the trails, roads, and in some areas, every single tree. Out there was the unknown, full of dead ends, walking dead and vicious humans who would kill anyone for the food he carried. There had been plenty of talk about that on the radio in the beginning, when there had been a signal still. He had heard people talk about roving bands raping, stealing and murdering their way from place to place. It was definitely safer to stay here.

  The sun was just lifting over the horizon as he did his morning check of the area. As usual, he saw a few birds, but he couldn’t tell what type from this high off the ground. Everything at the base of the tower looked just like he’d left it, the truck was still there, the rangers house looked the same, and the 10 foot chain link fence showed no signs of having even been approached, and the long sandy road was unmarked by foot prints or tire treads, he was as secure as one could be now a days.

  “I think it’s time to eat a little steak and eggs. Whoa… should I be worried that I’m talking to myself now?” he thought for a second, “Should I be worried I just asked myself that? Doesn’t matter, no steak and eggs available, looks like I’ll be having, uh, beef ravioli.” He opened the can and heated it up on the small hotplate he had brought up. He ate quickly, planning out his day in his mind.

  Today he would need to make a supply run. The area was dotted with small towns, mostly abandoned when the evacuations were called, so the pickings were pretty easy. It shouldn’t take him more than two hours to load up for a couple of more weeks. And he might as well get started before the sun made everything so hot that a person didn’t feel like moving.

  The Isuzu had trouble getting traction as he rumbled down the road, so it was a rough ride, but it would be over soon. He could already see the black top to what had once been civilization. In twenty more minutes and he would be in town. He had elected to go to a town a little farther away because it had a library and a gas station. Its population had been around 800 before all this started, but except for stray animals it was deserted now.

  The drives were the worst part, once a drive had meant good things, a little sleep, recreation, a chance to spend a few minutes with his family before the hustle of daily life pulled them apart again.

  His wife and children had been two thousand miles away visiting family when all this started. He didn’t know if they were alive or dead, or even if the Milwaukee area had even been affected. His father and step family had gone to a rescue area that the radio said was later over run. His brother had never answered his phone after sending his one text, and had never been heard from. His mother lived with his brother, and he had to assume that after a month with them not showing up, that they were dead. All he could hope for was that they weren’t still out there as those things.

  The Gas station was nothing special, just one of a thousand gas stations in one horse towns all over the country. Fortunately it was unlocked, and the windows let him clearly see who and what was inside, it looked clear. Drawing his Taurus 9mm, he slowly pushed open the doors and slipped inside “check everywhere before you grab anything,” he reminded himself, “No letting your guards down before you are sure.” Luckily, nothing inside was moving. He loaded up his sacks with what wasn’t already picked over, and to his happiness even found some snack cakes that hadn’t passed their date yet. Stowing his prize in the back of the S.U.V., he pulled out his homemade pump and topped off the tanks and the red cans in the back. The library was right across the street. Another one room building, once cleared, that supplied a better life. He grabbed a few paperbacks, as well as some How to books he hoped could improve his situation. Standing on the sidewalk, he paused to listen to the unnerving silence. He hadn’t seen another person in over a month, and hadn’t heard a motor in almost as long, not even planes could be seen in the sky. Except for a mockingbird and far in the distance and somewhere a dog barking, the world was dead quiet.

  “Dead quiet, ironic choice of words there.” his words startled the mocking bird and threw it into a wild set of calls. “Shut up bird, a few more stops and you can have your town back.”

  Today he had decided to run down a few new items. The monotony of daily survival was taxing, and he
had decided to do something about it. The prospect of a few CDs to supplement the only one in the car would be a great addition. He loved ACDC, but there were only so many times you could listen to “Hells Bells” before you started to lose your mind.

  The town was too small to have a music store, so he would have to make due. He had decided to drive around and find the biggest house he could and see what they had to offer.

  The house he picked was a colonial style right in the middle of town. He had found the dangers of houses were the knowledge that not everyone had obeyed the evacuation orders, especially those who were showing signs of infection. It had become common knowledge early on that anyone found to be infected was separated from their families and never seen again.

  It was a well maintained structure, and a house like this meant small town wealth. A quick check of the windows showed no signs of anyone inside. So he broke a small pane of glass in the door and reached in and fumbled the lock open. The house was what you would expect, tastefully decorated and spacious. It had been tightly closed though, so the heat was oppressive and the smell of rotting something was the kind of miasma that made you feel sticky. Sam moved from room to room, gun drawn and ready. You could never be too careful.

  After he was satisfied with the security of the ground level, he paused at the stairs and listened, and heard nothing. Creeping slowly up the stairs, senses straining, he could see three doors, all closed. He put his ear to the first door and listened. Hearing nothing inside, he eased the door open to show a master bedroom. A quick search provided a small portable cd player and a good collection of music which were quietly slipped into the duffle bag he had brought for just such a purpose. The closet held a nice collection of clothes, all about 2 sizes to small. The second proved to be a bathroom, which yielded deodorant, (score), toothpaste, (double score) and toilet paper, (triple score).

  Unable to restrain himself, Sam felt an urge, lifted his arms and droned “I am Cornholio! I need T.P. for my bunghole!” The second the words left his lips, the sounds of fists banging on the third door, startled the breath from his body. The door rattled in the frame as the angry moans of the undead inside filled the silent house. On reflex, he fired several shots at head level into the oak door and ran, taking the steps two at a time. The moans and wails continued to be heard until he was outside.

  He stood in the front yard and waited, but nothing pursued him, the door must be holding. As he got into the car, he was just happy he hadn’t dropped the duffel, and desolate when he realized why he hadn’t hit anything through the door, he had shot two feet to high; the moans had been the sounds a turned child would make. What had happened to the parents? There had been pictures of a middle aged couple on the walls. There had been a girl with them, about 4 or 5, beautiful blue eyes and honey colored hair. They must have locked her in when she died, unable to put an end to her suffering before they fled for safety. It made him think of his own children. And he wondered if they were still alive. He sat in the truck and wept.

  The hardware store was a few streets over, so he drove. This was going to be the hard part. No big windows out front meant it would be dark inside and he would have no way of knowing what he was up against. Worse yet, it was locked, which meant that no one had been inside to clear it for him. After retrieving his sledge from the truck, he approached the door and looked in as best he could. Everything looked quiet, so he took a step back and swung the heavy hammer at the doors glass, shattering it into little round pieces. He listened again, this time for several minutes, but heard nothing. Drawing his handgun, he ducked inside. Row after row thankfully revealed no people inside, nothing moved. His approach to the stockroom was clear. The swinging doors into the back room were well oiled and made no noise as he crept in. It all looked safe. Reholstering his gun, he grabbed a shopping cart and filled it with batteries, propane cylinders and hand tools. On his way out the doors, he saw something that actually brought a smile to his face. A large display full of ammo meant another buggy, but it was well worth it.

  All the supplies loaded, only one last luxury left to find, and he knew right were to find it. His destination was a door inside decorated with a stick figure and a single stenciled word, “men”. The Charmin from the house was nice, but a diet of canned goods and junk food required a lot of paper. He started to push the door open, and got it half way before the door exploded outward, rocking him off his feet like he had been hit by a dump truck and landed him painfully in a display of gardening tools. Before he could regain his feet, two hundred pound of rotting flesh dropped on to him, its jaws snapping inches from his face. He grabbed its neck with one hand, and shoved upward, trying to keep as much distance between the monster and his neck as he could. The corpse’s weight had his pistol pinned to his side. Desperately casting around with his free hand, his fingers closed on a wooden handle, he brought it up with all his force, embedding the garden trowel behind the creature’s left ear. The brittle decayed bone gave way, dropping the things full weight onto him. He lay there for a moment, gathering himself back in, then heaved it off to the side and got to his feet. On the floor in front of him was what was left of a middle aged man dressed in a red apron, obviously the shop keeper. The guy had a large portion of his guts missing. The skin on the guy’s neck looked peeled away. He realized that a lot of the clerks’ throat had sloughed off and was stuck to his hand. The sound of gagging broke the fresh quiet of the room.

  An hour later he was on the road, reeking of bleach and wearing a set of brand new coveralls scavenged from the hardware store. He would change again when he got back to the tower, the overalls were uncomfortable. The temperature was already well over ninety and the stiff denim chaffed something fierce. He was looking forward to a shower in the ranger’s house, cold of course, supplied by the rainwater tank on the roof. With any luck at all, the tools he had found would restore the pump at the well and supply the house with water that didn’t smell like metal. Gathering supplies would also be a lot easier if he didn’t have to look for bottled water. He didn’t know how long he would stay at the tower, but as of now there was no reason to leave, and nowhere else to go, so it might as well be as comfortable as possible.

  By the time he was back to the tower, the afternoon was almost over. The sun showed less than two hours remained in the day, so Sam got straight to work. It took a little under an hour to stow the new supplies in the small shed behind the house.

  He had set himself up quite well; the shed was more than half full of assorted items. Cans and boxes of food covered the shelves on one side of the room. He knew the boxes had to go first, he had already found several infested with bugs.

  The other wall was beverages, mostly bottled water of various sizes. He had lucked out on his first supply run after arriving here and found a water truck that had run off the road and ended up in thick vegetation. The poor driver had not survived the crash, but was struggling against the seatbelt until Sam had put the tip of an iron curtain rod through his eye. It had taken three trips in the Rodeo to bring all the undamaged water here. The wall also contained some sodas, but most importantly about twenty bottles of assorted alcohol, mostly full, that he had found over his several travels. He was holding on to then because he knew there great value as trade goods should the need and opportunity ever arise. The only exception was a bottle of Johnnie Walker that he was saving for his brother’s arrival.

  Sam could recall when he had found this bottle; it had been when he was making his way to the swamp after getting that text. He had been avoiding the larger roads in favor of the small two lane county roads that gave you a better opportunity to avoid people. At that point he hadn’t decided if it was the ones with pulses or those without had been worse after the fall. Most of the roads, even the back lanes and by ways, were dotted by obstructions, and even in a few areas, manned roadblocks. There were two basic types of road blocks. The first was simply the “do not past” type, this kind was normally staffed by soldiers or police, and occasionally civil
ians, and the point was to stop people from traveling in and out of “safe” areas. The other type was far more dangerous. Sam thought of them as the “Its going to cost you type”, These were where you had to either pay something to get through, or they just took everything up to and including your car and sent you packing, if you were that lucky. He had even heard talk about some checkpoints being used for “forced resettlement” where you were actually taken into custody and forced into a secure zone. These had been common the first few days, but now almost months later, the “going to cost you” variety ruled the day. His basic principle had become to u turn if he say a road obstruction with people standing around and it had served him well, but it also added days to his trip.

  The road he was traveling meandered through the countryside side, and had been pretty clear so far. At one point he rounded a corner, and elevated to his left was the interstate. The road he travelled did not have an on ramp, it just ran side by side for a few miles. Ahead he could see a large number of cars that appeared to have been driven or pushed off the freeway, and had slid down the embankment.

  He was low on supplies, so he decided to check a few cars. Vehicle looting had served him well in the past. It was also one of the most dangerous methods. He thought back to his slow learning curve and tried to recall the things he had learned. When the dead reanimated, there was nothing left of their minds but the need to eat. They would go after anything, Cows, Chickens, Horse and even cats and dogs, but what they seemed to want the most was other people. This one desire was so singular that when foods weren’t around, they would eventually stop moving and just go motionless until something, or someone, wandered by. They lost the ability to reason, so even simple things like seatbelts and door handles were far beyond their intelligence. This made parking lots and traffic jams very bad places to be. Anyone who died in a car would stay there, locked into their seat waiting for someone to walk by.