by Ben Reeder
The bug out bag had a lot of the stuff I was already carrying, but it also carried more long term survival gear, including a small tent, a ground pad and a wool blanket. I tucked the maps into the tan pack then slung it across my back, grabbed the ammo case and slipped out the door. The sound of a truck pulling away reached my ears as I slipped out the back of the facility the same way I came in, then trucked across the tracks and headed for my bike.
Leo gave me a disapproving look as I stuck the ammo case in among everything else, but he stayed put otherwise. My bug out bag went on top, and he perched atop it like a little king on a padded throne. The bike took more effort to get going, but it was a light enough burden once I got moving. I followed my route back to the dirt road and turned down it. The brown clay rolled past below me, and the road turned to the south as it paralleled the tracks, the curved back to the east. I followed it under Schoolcraft Freeway to the area where the road construction crews that were widening the overpass parked their construction vehicles. A temporary crossing had been set up under the overpass, and I took advantage of it to get my bike on the north side of the tracks. Then came the ride up the hill. In a car, it would have been a pretty gentle grade, but on a bicycle, pulling more than fifty pounds of gear and a miniature lion behind me, it was torture. It finally leveled off and turned to the right, which put me on an access road called Eastgate that ran beside the freeway. Once I was on the street, I kept going north, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was past the worst of the roads blocking my way out of the city, and even if I could see ghouls pawing at the glass of car windows, I was still away from the worst of the zombie clusterfuck that Springfield had become.
On my right, an empty road beckoned, and I took the turn, heading east again on a quiet residential road. The asphalt strip I was coasting down barely qualified as two lanes, but it was a straight as a nun’s ruler and level. Now that I was free of the city, I could indulge myself a little, and put some miles under my wheels. I set my phone on the pad attached to my front handlebars and activated the app that controlled the electric motor mounted to my bike’s rear tire. It hummed to life and I let my feet stop pedaling as it kicked in. Not much more than a disc inside my rear tire, the FlyKly motor would take me about twenty miles before its battery gave out. Even better, it would recharge as I pedaled or when I coasted downhill if I couldn’t plug it in. I set the speed on the app to fifteen miles an hour and let the motor do its magic.
Once I turned north, I looked back to make sure Leo was still safe on board. He had propped himself upright on my bug out bag and was letting the wind ruffle his fur, his eyes slitted closed so that he looked more than a little smug as he rode along. We passed the Rolling Hills Country Club Golf Course, and I noted the irony that I was back on Cherry. The gentle hills and manicured landscapes on either side of me made it hard to believe that the world had pretty much come to an end not ten miles behind me, until I came across a man in pajamas wandering in the middle of a wide expanse of well kept lawn. Only a black iron fence stood between us, but as soon as he saw me, he sprinted in my direction. As he ran my way, I could see the blood staining his face, hands and the sleeves and front of his pajamas. He hit the iron fence at a dead sprint and bounced back with a meaty sound that left the fence vibrating and left chunks of him attached to the chest high points of the fence’s top. As if only then recognizing that the fence was a barrier, he ran along beside it for a good five hundred yards without slowing down. When the fence curved away from the road, he stopped and watched me roll past, defeated by his inability to grasp that there was an opening less than a hundred yards away because it wasn’t in his line of sight. As I passed him, I looked back over my shoulder to make sure he didn’t get a sudden burst of common sense. He just stood there, straining against the fence, and I felt the urge to stop and put a pullet between his eyes grip me for a moment. From the corner of my eye, I could see Leo crouched down, his ears laid back and his teeth bared in a hiss, looking like I felt just then. One thing certainly stood out in my mind as I turned my attention back to the road in front of me: the ghoul had kept up with me all the way. He hadn’t even slowed down.
Another thought struck me as I turned north again a few hundred yards later. The ghoul who had chased me had probably been in bed when he’d become infected. Had another infected bitten him, or had he come in contact with an infected? How far from a city did I have to go to find pockets of unaffected people? Or was pretty much everyone going to turn into zombies? Was I going to turn into one? Was Maya? Or Amy? Thoughts of them as ghouls and worse, as zombies, promised to give me nightmares as I cruised along the little farm road. The houses out here were set too far back from the road to see, and the prices were too high to purchase without an annual income that was at best stratospheric. I knew from personal experience. I’d tried to buy land in this area when I was setting up Sherwood, and my realtor laughed at me, then suggested I aim at something north of 44. So, here I was, aiming for a destination north of Highway 44. The road started to slope downward and I felt the slight resistance as the SmartWheel started to charge itself as I coasted into the cool, dark shadows of a tree covered stretch of roadway. It curved left, then bottomed out and angled back right as I crossed a creek and emerged from the trees on to another straight section. More green pasture and sporadic trees dispelled the apocalyptic nightmare I’d just survived, and I felt like I was just on another practice run out to Sherwood. I tried to imagine spending the weekend out in the woods with Maya, drinking beer and wine by the campfire. The last time we’d been out to Sherwood in August, we’d laid out on the grass and watched the stars overhead, and made love under the full moon.
Unbidden, the image of Maya suddenly turning ghoul and trying to rip my throat out inserted itself into my daydream, and I shook my head in revulsion. It was too early to start getting zombie related PTSD. Half a mile later, I started to doubt that, as I passed a little subdivision. Zombies wandered aimlessly down the side street, all of them moaning incessantly. I heard Leo growl behind me as we went quietly by, and I silently agreed with him. Minutes later, we passed the Rolling Hills High School (Home of the Fighting Spartans!), and I found myself hoping that the ring of unmoving bodies lying near the entrance to the school was the work of someone evacuating a bunch of kids last night. Then we were past, and none of the dead rose to follow me or try to eat me. I offered a silent prayer of thanks for small favors and pressed on, knowing the next two miles were the last easy part for a while.
The next half hour was quiet as I rode along, following the route Maya and I had spent three weekends perfecting, both in our cars and on our bikes, until I finally came to the last choke point. Maya had probably led everyone through here while it was still dark, which would have made things a lot easier for them. But as I pulled up to the overpass that covered 44, I found things a lot less convenient. In the daylight, I could see at least a dozen infected wandering around among the solid line of cars that blocked the road over the highway. There were narrow gaps between cars, but the dead filled a lot of them. A long, empty, open length of asphalt stretched between me and the overpass, so sneaking up on them in broad daylight wasn’t an option, either. In fact, as I braked the bike to a stop, one of the dead turned my way and started shuffling in my direction. Others turned as it moved and followed it. A low, dreadful moan rose as more and more of them began to make their way toward me. A dozen became twenty, and I saw another group start my way from across the overpass, doubling their numbers. With the subdivision full of them behind me and this group in front of me, and God alone knew how many were on the highway, my options narrowed themselves down to only one: shoot my way through.
My first rule of survival was that staying alive is ninety-eight percent mental. Up to now, I’d been able to play things pretty smart, but I was pretty sure I’d finally been forced to make a dumb decision. I hopped off the bike and grabbed the Ruger plus a spare magazine from my vest. For what I was about to do, I needed its light weight and higher
powered scope more than I needed the HK’s higher powered rounds. The Ruger also had an almost non-existent recoil, which made it very easy to keep it on target, and it had the advantage of being the more familiar gun. I’d spent hundreds of hours practicing with it, and I’d put thousands of rounds downrange at Sherwood, aiming at cans and six inch targets. If there was one gun I knew I could pull off fifty consecutive headshots with, it was the Ruger, and with forty grain Velocitor rounds, I wasn’t likely to need more than one shot for most of them. The sight picture came up and I brought the crosshairs down on a zombie forehead, then stroked the trigger. My trusty little 10/22 barked, and zombie number one dropped. The recoil was minimal, another reason I loved the .22 long rifle round, and I was able to put my sights on another zombie head in a heartbeat. Two shots, two really most sincerely dead undead. I took aim at another one, and it dropped, then moved from target to target until the first magazine was empty.
When the hammer fell on an empty chamber, I brought my right hand back and flicked the extended magazine release with my left middle finger. The empty mag dropped into the palm of my right hand and I popped the full mag in, then pushed the bolt back with my thumb to put the first round in the chamber. The closest one was still ninety yards away. Fifteen seconds later, I had nine more really dead zombies and two empty mags in hand, and the shambling horde had almost covered another ten yards. I dumped the empties in a pocket and pulled another one out, popped it in and cycled the bolt back again with my thumb. Almost half the zombies were down, but they were getting closer, and my targets were getting bigger and easier to hit. Again, I emptied the mag, trying to keep my breathing even in spite of the rising sense of panic as they just kept getting closer, now less than sixty yards away. As I popped the fourth mag in, I looked over my shoulder to make sure nothing was creeping up behind me. The coast was clear, but the movement had let them gain another five yards before I put the lead shambler down. When the hammer clicked the fourth time, only a dozen or so were left standing about thirty yards away from me. As close as they were, they were also spread out further, and it took longer to get the scope on them. When the eighth one fell, the last five were twenty yards away, and I was almost out of time. The SOCOM would have given me more rounds, but it was in the holster on my right leg, and I didn’t want to just drop the Ruger. I slung it across my shoulders as fast as I could right handed and pulled my Colt from its holster, then dropped into a Weaver stance and walked my fire from right to left, the forty five caliber skull-busters making paste of zombie brains from about ten yards away. Even that close, I managed to miss twice, leaving me with only one round in the mag when the last one fell.
Brass hit the ground with an almost musical ping as the echo from the Colt’s last shot faded. When I lowered the pistol, I was treated to the sight of a hundred yards of bodies in front of me.
“Final score in the tenth round, Dave Stewart, forty five, zombies, zero,” I said with a little more bravado than I had a right to. My shoulders were knotted and I took a deep breath for the first time in…I checked my watch…two minutes? It felt like I’d been shooting for an hour. The air smelled of cordite and something foul. I looked over my shoulder and saw that I’d finally gotten the attention of the urban zombie dwellers. Most were stumbling down the road, but a couple of ghouls emerged from the pack and broke into a run. I let out a tired sigh and grabbed the HK, then brought the ACOG’s red dot down on the chest of the one on the right. Three rounds went down range, and his feet went flying out from beneath him. He landed on his shoulders, with his feet hitting the ground on either side of his head. I swung the sight over to the second ghoul and fired three more times. That one went stumbling and left a long smear of red on the asphalt before he slid to a stop.
“These fuckers just don’t stop coming, do they, Leo?” I said as I unslung the Ruger and slid it under the bungee cords, then changed out the magazine in the HK and the Colt. Leo just looked at me with feline disdain and tilted his furry head. “Yeah, yeah, we’re going.” I hopped on the bike and started pedaling, weaving my way through the bodies. The bike fit between the front of a little Honda and a Ford F150, then I was on the overpass. It was surprisingly clear of vehicles, but 44 was clogged. Ghouls and zombies moved between the permanent traffic jam, some of them heading for the south side of the overpass. By now, I figured there was no one left alive down there. I kept my head low and prayed none of them looked up. Someone must have been watching over me, because I made it across without any new friends in my six. The road behind me was starting to fill with infected, but the way in front of me was mostly clear, and I could see nothing but open fields for nearly a mile in either direction. The gentle downhill slope went on for another quarter mile, and I let the Smartwheel recharge while I coasted. I was on the road, and on my way to Sherwood. The worst part, I hoped, was going to be how long it took to get there.
Chapter 12
Respite, Reunion & Revelation
Every parting gives a foretaste of Death, every reunion a hint of the Resurrection.
~ Arthur Shopenhauer ~
Even after the world ended, Missouri was beautiful country. My route kept me on farm roads most of the way, with beautiful views to my left and right, green fields with trees just showing the first hint of autumn color in little groves that gave way to thick trees and gently rolling hills as I got closer to 65. The highway was nothing more to me than two bridges that I rolled under. Then I was back out in rolling fields and open road. Eventually, I saw the sign I was looking for, announcing that I was a mile from Fellows Lake. Wooded lots crowded up on the left side of the road, and thicker copses of trees started cropping up on my right. The road sloped down again, and I found myself coasting through a series of gentle S curves, then I was cruising across the bridge over the northern arm of the lake. To my right, it looked like it was a huge pond, with a thick covering of green moss on the surface a hundred yards out. On my left, the lake was blue and vibrant. A few boats were out on the water, and I got the impression that they were probably some of the few safe people in the area. In October, there weren’t many people out on the lake and most of the casual boaters congregated on the southern arm anyway. The only other sign I saw of people was a blood trail leading off the road on the north side of the bridge. I followed the twists and turns that took me off the lake’s shore and deeper into less cultivated areas, and in another half hour, I found myself slowing down to take the last turn before I got to Sherwood. Asphalt gave way to parallel ruts of packed dirt and rock, and I switched the motor off to cover the last half mile on my own. The road curved to the right and then snaked back left before I hit the last hundred yards, which ran pretty much straight.
I heard a deep booming bark start up when I got about fifty yards away from the hand-painted sign that marked the entrance to Sherwood, and a few seconds later, Sherman bounded out to the road. I coasted to a stop by the sign and stuck my hand down for him to sniff.
“Good dog,” I said as he gave me his slobbery seal of approval. From behind me, I heard a warning growl from Leo. Sherman immediately bounced to the back of the bike to look the new arrival over. A hundred pounds of black and brown Rottweiler faced down fifty pounds of orange tomcat for a few seconds. Leo reared back and raised one paw in the air in warning. Sherman stuck his nose forward, and Leo’s front paw turned into a blur. I expected it to turn into a free for all as I tried to get off the bike in time to save my cat from my new-found canine friend.
As fights went, it ended quickly. Sherman’s head snapped back and his brow sort of wrinkled as he tilted it to one side. Then, he dropped down on his forelegs and rolled over to show his belly. I stopped in mid-stride, and Leo, apparently satisfied with the newcomer’s show of fealty, hopped off the trailer. With his usual feline nonchalance, he strutted over to Sherman, swatted his nose again for good measure, then hopped back on the bike trailer to reclaim his mobile throne.
The sound of footsteps behind me brought me around, and I found myself being ru
shed by Maya and Amy. “Don’t you ever do that to me again,” Maya said into my shoulder while Amy got her arms around her mother and me from the right. My ribs creaked in protest but I was giving as good as I got, my fears laid to rest for the moment. Over her shoulder, I could see the others come out onto the road, every one of them armed, even Bryce. Porsche had the M-4 I’d been carrying, Bryce was carrying his Ruger and Karl was toting his Mini-14, while Cassie’s pistol was holstered at her hip. Porsche’s work clothes had been replaced with a pair of Maya’s jeans and one of her t-shirts, but everyone else was still wearing what I’d last seen them in.
“No promises,” I said softly. “But I’m pretty sure I don’t have to worry about being captured by the Army again.” She pulled away and gave a weak laugh, then reached up to touch my face for a moment.
“I thought I’d…” she started.
“Me, too. But you didn’t. I’m okay, baby. Not even the zombie apocalypse can keep me away from you.” I kissed her hard, and when we came up for air, we were surrounded by the rest of the group.
“How did you get away?” Porsche asked.
“Did you kill a lot of zombies?”
“Were you followed?”
“What’s next?”
I held up my hands and shushed them. “I just got here guys. Let me at least sit down for a minute first!” I said. Amy took control of my bike and started pushing it while I fell in behind her and finished my trek to Sherwood. I reached out and touched the hand-painted wood sign Maya had made as we passed it, and took a quick glance around as we headed for the picnic table and the fire pit that were the center-piece of our little clearing. Our little shelter house looked okay, and the two storage buildings seemed undisturbed. A little further back, I could see the old windmill and the stone and wood barn that had been all that was left of the original farm, its blades turning steadily in the morning wind. Beside it were two blue metal cargo containers that were padlocked shut. Another degree of tension eased from the knot in my shoulders, and I sat down at the wooden picnic table feeling a little better. Maya put a brown bottle in front of me with a bottle opener beside it as she sat down beside me. I popped the cap on mine, and we touched the necks of our opened bottles together before we took the first swig from them. The first taste of Gwydion’s Heartland Ale was like nectar of the gods on my tongue, and I fought down a pang of grief at the thought of how many people I knew who might be walking around dead right now. Gwydion made a damn good ale, and Maya had traded him several pieces of period garb for a case of his home-brewed liquid gold.
