by Yates, R
The howling continued as he lifted his head, confusion filled him as he he listened.
“Aw come the fuck on, give me a damn break!” he shouted hoarsely at the dark as the coyotes continued their serenade into the night, and they weren’t very far away, probably attracted by the smell of blood and easy prey. He made considerably better time, the mournful hungry canine sounds coming closer until they stopped all together, meaning the coyotes were within hunting range. He didn’t see the first one until he made it to the road. It was there sitting halfway between him and the truck, cutting him off from his only means of escape. Sam considered taking a shot at it, but he knew it was too far away for an accurate shot, and he didn’t have very much ammunition. He did the only thing he could, he kept crawling. The coyote stood and raised his hackles, growling at the approaching figure and started to creep forward. Sam stopped, but the canine kept advancing slowly. To the right side of the road, he could hear something creeping thru the dry brush. He had to appear strong; he had to appear more trouble than he was worth. As the coyote stalked to within 30 feet, Sam struggled to his knees, then though it felt like white hot sewing needles traveling up his spine, he rose to his feet and raised the pistol. He could feel the cut reopen and the warm blood spill down his leg. He raised the pistol and fired, dirt sprayed up 5 feet behind the dog, his shaking hands failed him. But the noise had the desired effect and made the predators scramble away. Gathering all his strength, he shuffled the remaining distance to the truck and jumping inside as his reserves failed him. He heard the door slammed behind him and he flipped on the lights, a dozen pairs of eyes shined back at him. It wasn’t until then that he realized that he hadn’t picked the keys up from where he had clipped them to his tree stand before he climbed down. The last thing he heard as the darkness claimed him was his own laughter …and the howling.
Chapter 5
The dreams that came to him were of a time when he was still a child and had been sick. He dreamed about his mother carrying him to bed from the couch. She was bringing him medicine and soup. About her telling him he would be ok and not to worry. In his dream he was comforted to be in bed, listening to the sounds of daily life, pots and pans rattling, doors opening and closing, and the smell of meat cooking. He was vaguely aware that he had to wake up and find a way to get moving. He knew he was trapped in the car, and how hot it would be when the sun baked down, but he just couldn’t wake up. In his dream days passed as his mother tended to him, and he wondered why no one else was there. He’d love to dream about his wife and kids before he baked to death. Instead he just dreamed about staring up at a spinning ceiling fan until he eventually drifted off to sleep.
The pain of his wounds brought him slowly back to wakefulness, and he knew it must be bad because they didn’t hurt near as much and he wasn’t even aware of the heat that must be finishing him off as he lay there. If anything, he felt cool enough to want a cover. He forced himself to open his eyes and was dismayed to discover he was still in the dream, for there right above him lazily twirled a ceiling fan.
“Are you finally awake?” a voice said from the doorway. He looked and saw his mother standing half in the room, holding a bowl.
“I’m sorry mom, but I can’t stay here, I have to wake up and find a way out of the truck and get home. I miss you so much, but I have to leave here and survive in case you really show up.”
“I am here, this is real, honey.” His mother said as she sat down and took his hand. “I’ve been here for a week now, you have been very sick.”
Sam realized he was in a bedroom of the rangers’ house and finally started to believe. He sat up and put his good arm around his mother. They wept together, her with relief he was getting better, him with joy that she was alive.
When finally the separated, Sam asked the question he dreaded to get the answer to, “Where’s Mark? Have you heard from anyone else?”
The expression on his mother’s face at the question brought pallor to the room.
“Mark is alive the last I saw him, I haven’t heard from anyone else. Have you heard from anyone? Like Annie or the kids?”
“I haven’t heard from anyone since Mark told me to come here. I know dad took his family to a safety zone outside Thomasville after the outbreak in Tallahassee, but I haven’t heard from them since they set out. I haven’t heard from Annie or the kids since the day before the president’s speech.”
“I was hoping you had. Liz called from Columbus to say she and some friends were heading out of the city to find somewhere safe, she said it was bad there. The National Guard was gunning people down in the streets. We haven’t heard anything from Sarah, but last we heard Colorado had managed to get a handle on it pretty early.” Her references to my sisters making me realize how spread out we were. The family had split up and ended up all over the country at just about the worst time.
“So where’s Mark?” I asked.
“We will discuss that when you are stronger.” She answered and stood to leave “for now get some sleep. I will bring you some more soup and some more antibiotics and pain killers in a little while. It was very smart of you to stockpile that kind of thing. You seem to have been very busy here.”
To exhausted to argue, Sam laid his head back down and stared up at the ceiling fan spinning away. “Hey mom, how did you get the generator running?”
“It just needed a spark plug, and you had a whole box of them.”
Sam groaned and went back to sleep. The world still sucked. But now it sucked a little less.
By the next day, Sam felt well enough to get up and move around some, though his leg was painful and his head still throbbed.
“So tell me what happened to you,” Sam asked as he and his mother sat down to a dinner of canned corned beef hash.
“It’s a long story.” She replied.
“I need to know, Mom, I’ve been here for a long time all by myself and I have wondered a thousand times. I had half convinced myself you were dead. “
“Not dead, but we were close. Not really sure you could call us alive. But we made it through. At least I hope Mark is still alive.” She sat down her spoon and stared through the bowl, as if something a million miles away.
“Just tell me where Mark is.”
“It’s a very difficult story…” mom finally sighed.
Sam decided not to push, but mom’s story eventually came out. After she and his brother had watch the news cast, Mark had set into a frenzy of packing and planning. He had loaded all his camping gear, boxes of canned good, guns, and coolers of food into “The Beast”, which was the name of the modified GMC Jimmy that served as the families swamp truck and he and mom had speed out for the tower. They hadn’t made it ten miles before they were stopped on a bridge by a group of soldiers manning a road block. The soldiers claimed martial law and took the truck, supplies and weapons. They put Mom and Mark in the back of a deuce and a half with other people they had “rescued”. When the truck was filled, they were taken to a farm that had been set up as a safe zone. A squad of men made them strip as they were checked for infection. They were quickly told to redress and ushered into a barn with about a hundred others. The leader of the group, Captain Robertson, came later and apologized for the rough treatment and confinement, explaining that it was for their own good. He went on to tell them that as soon as order was restored, they would be free to go. Several people, including Mark had demanded their weapons back, but were briskly told no, and that for the safety of his men, only they could be allowed to carry firearms.
They stayed in that barn for 3 days, only being let out to use the bathroom, a trench dug into the ground about fifty yards away. At all times they were guarded, again for their own safety, and not allowed to stray from the group. Meals were brought in twice a day and consisted mainly of stews constructed from random cans and boxes being opened into a kettle and boiled until all the flavors became monotonous and the texture resembled bad oatmeal.
On the third day, Captain Robertson
entered the barn and explained to them that the farm needed to be secured. He expected the citizens to help, so as to keep his men well rested in case they were needed to fight off the undead. The only people excused were people over 60 and children under 12. This was actually met with relief from most of the refugees, who relished the chance to get out of the overcrowded barn. The captains’ plan was to establish a double ring of fences, about 30 feet apart, and to clear all the trees and shrubbery for three hundred yards so nothing could approach unseen. The inside fence was made from whatever could be salvaged. Chain-link, red top, and chicken wire all were used. Giant area light were brought in and connected to huge generators fed by tanker trucks, so fuel was no problem. The outer fence was made from coils of razor wire set over a wooden frame. The army seemed to have no end of this stuff, as dozens of truckloads were brought in. When completed, this outer fence was a menacing pyramid of metal that gleamed in the sun. Everyday people collapsed in the heat from the work, and every night when the refugees fell into the blankets they had been too exhausted to do anything but sleep.
Mom, being just over the magical age, was excused from fence duty. Instead she and 2 other women were given work in the farm house where the soldiers were set up. There were twenty five troops in all, and they slept in shifts. At any time, half would be off the farm manning roadblocks or scavenging. The ladies cleaned house, cooked meals for the soldiers and did whatever tasks they were asked. The advantage of working in the house was being able to hear the communication room the Captain had set up in a large pantry just off the kitchen. The women on kitchen duty all got the latest news and made it a point to share it with the group. They could hear the news of the world as they went about their duties.
First they lost the larger cities, New York, Miami, Los Angeles, all over run. Over the next week, more and more out posts went silent. The only area holding strong were some in the Rockies. By the second week, the radio was silent. They tried calling out every day, but even the other local units were unable or unwilling to respond. The roadblocks were abandoned and all the troops were brought back to the farm and placed on rotating guard shifts. There had been reports of military units “going rogue”, and abandoning their duties in favor of their own survival. Several of these groups had even resorted to raiding and attacking other survivors, raping and pillaging their way across wide swathes of the Midwest.
When contact was lost is when things started to really change. The refugees had been worked hard, but not really mistreated. Captain Robertson had made sure they were well feed, well treated and given the basic necessities of life. The soldiers seemed to develop a mistrust and dislike of the civilians they were charged with protecting, as if blaming them for their situation. During the second month was when the food shortages started, and with them they brought the real changes. Rations were cut in half for everyone.
The captain, fearing starvation made the decision to start sending out groups to raid the local stores and houses. Five soldiers and ten refugees were sent out to a local town to search for supplies. Mom had kitchen duty that day and was making the meal for the soldiers, when the radio crackled to like in the next room.
“Whiskey two, calling home fires. Whiskey two, calling home fires.” The soldier on the other ends voice was panicked and gun fire could be heard in the background.” We are over run, repeat, we are over run, oh holy god, we are over run.”
The captain rushed by the kitchen on the way to the radio room. “Report soldier.” He barked
“We are over run, they are in our perimeter, one of the damn things bite me, but I don’t think he broke the skin. Oh sweet Jesus, they are everywhere.” As if to add emphasis, gunfire was heard very close, possibly the radioman’s own rifle.
“Get everyone in the truck and bug out soldier. Get the hell out of there.” The captain’s voice was calm but severe as he gave the order.
There was a pause, presumable while the sergeant relayed the orders, before his voice came back. “Unable captain, the truck is gone, that bastard Clarke left us here. He just left me here. I’m the only one left”
“Understood, stand by.” The captain turned to his second, a burly lieutenant named McCartney.
“Lieutenant, Take three men and get in that other truck. Bring me back my man.”
“Yes sir! Ace, Simmons and Harris, let’s go.” Responded the lieutenant and started for the door.
On the radio, the soldier came back,” I’m out of ammo, there are just to damn many of them, I can’t …” his voice turned to a screams before eventually cutting out.
The lieutenant had stopped at the door to listen, but again snapped “you heard the man, let’s go!”
“Belay that, it’s too late.”
“But captain we can still get out there,” objected one of the men.
“No son, it’s over, nothing there to find but a corpse, I can’t risk what I have left for body recovery.” The captain hung his head and stormed from the room and into the front yard.
Not long after, the truck could be heard coming down the county road that lead to the farm. The captain met it as soon as it was inside the gates.
“What the holy hell is wrong with you Clarke, you just ran off and left those people to die?” bellowed the captain as the soldier climbed down from the cab.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help them. I saw them coming down the road and knew I had to get out of there. I yelled for them to get in the truck…” sniveled the young specialist.
“You yelled for them? Was this before or after your cowardly ass was a mile away with the gas lever to the floor?” The captain drew his side arm and slammed its butt into the side of the cowards face, crumpling him to the ground. “I should have you against that wall for a firing squad!”
The soldier lay on the ground and sobbed, muttering apologizes and begging for mercy. The gathered soldiers stared down in disgust. One went as far as to spit.
“What do we do with him,” asked the lieutenant eventually “can we shoot his ass, sir?”
“We should, but no. I can’t have any cowards in my unit. See that he is stripped of his weapons and gear. And show him his way off my farm.” He then rounded on Clarke and put his finger in the face of the now terrified man, “but if I ever see you again, here or anywhere else, I will shoot you myself.”
His pronouncement done, he turned and walked back inside as his orders were carried out. The sudden silence was almost deafening for the short time it lasted. Within the hour, the century posts sent in reports of large numbers of infected following the road the truck had come in on, hundreds of them. The radio had given news that in the absence of food, the infected would follow vehicles, forming groups of hundreds. The scouting parties had been lucky enough to avoid these, until now. Returning vehicles had always followed a circuitous route when returning to the compound.
“Not just a coward but a damn fool as well, he drove straight back here, and he may have killed us all. Corporal, get back on that radio and tell those sentries to get back here double time. We are going to need every gun we can get. Get the survivors back to safety and get ready.” Robertson’s words started a frenzy of activity.
“We could just run captain, load up and get out of here.” The second in command suggested.
The captain thought for a moment and responded “We don’t have enough vehicles. We are almost fifty seats short.”
“You know I didn’t mean to take them” responded the lieutenant with a head nod towards the barn.”
Anger returned to the captain’s face. “I’ve already gotten rid of one coward today; do you want to join him? You have your orders!”
A menacing look filled the face as the other officer snapped “yes Sir!” and rushed off.
This conversation seen through the open front door of the house filled the ladies with dread before another soldier rushed them out the back door.
Panic filled the hearts of the people on the farm. The civilians were brusquely shoved into the barn, an
d a rattling of chains told them they were locked in. Angry shouts could be heard, but not understood. A short time later, explosions began to ring up and down the road that one old veteran explained was probably claymores. Soon after the sounds of automatic gunfire punctuated the silence, sporadic at first and increasing in intensity until the metal walls of the barn echoed with it. It drew closer and closer, until it seemed to be coming from all sides. The survivors trembled in the barn for what felt like hours as the noise and explosions rose and fell, Screams could now be heard and the fighting sounded closer than ever.
The chains rattled again and the door was flung open to reveal the captain, pistol in hand. “We are over run, any able bodied person, grab what weapons you can and help, please!” The please caught her off guard.
Almost everyone including her and Mark could feel the desperation in the air and had grabbed farm tools to rushed out to join the combat. The farm was littered with bodies, and everywhere the dead moved. In several places, they were grouped kneeling over bodies of soldiers. She and Mark stood together, she with her scythe, Mark with his shovel swinging wildly at the advancing corpses. The gun fire was becoming less by the moment, soldiers reduced to using their rifles as clubs as the carried magazines ran dry. One in the more resourceful soldiers was driving the farms tractor around complete with its vicious looking mower and large wheels chewing the undead into apple sized chunks as he repeatedly screamed “Yeehaw!” It would have been funny if she wasn’t splattered with the ichor of split skulls and severed limbs. Her arms screamed in protest at the repeated blows. Her shoulders ached and she could hear Mark panting beside her. But already she could tell the enemy’s numbers were falling. Less than a dozen moving dead could be seen and already the diminished survivors were closing in, assorted weapons raised to deliver the finishing strokes. When finally the last one was re-dead, they stood and took in the scene. Bodies littered the ground, near the front of the property, a Humvee burned as a nearby frantic voice screamed “medic” repeatedly. Seven of the soldiers and another nine of the refugees lay amongst the hundreds of bodies.
