Zompoc Survivor: Chronicle: A Zompoc Survivor Boxed Set

by Ben Reeder

  “What’s your name, miss?” the man asked, his voice suddenly warmer.

  “Dr. Ruth Hollinger,” she answered.

  “And then there is you, Mr. Stewart. In spite of your daughter’s subterfuge in concealing a weapon after being asked to disarm, Jason has vouched for your character, but good intentions only go so far. What else do you bring to the table?” the woman asked.

  “Aside from a talent for killing zombies, I’ve also learned the skills necessary for a self-sufficient homestead, and I’m willing to go out to get supplies. And…well, I have this rule. Know how shit works. There’s all kinds of interesting stuff rattling around in my head. Comes from being a part time writer.”

  “You also managed to piss off the other major player in the city,” the man said. “You might think that’s pretty damn impressive, but that means taking you in is gonna paint a big damn target on our backs. None of what you offered so far is worth the danger you’re bringing with you.” I shrugged. Getting in to whatever little clubhouse these people had going wasn’t a priority for me, and the man had a point.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I am bringing a shitload of peril with me. But I have some place to be, and it’s a long way from here. Willie tells me you do, too. We can help each other out, or you can take us back to where you found us and we’ll find out own way across the river. ” They exchanged glances again, this time including Willie in on the silent confirmation.

  “Daniel’s afraid of him,” Amy said. All eyes turned to her. “And we’ve been in his little Garden of Eden and made it out. Besides, how’s he gonna know where we are?”

  The woman turned back to me.

  “Are you heading west, Mr. Stewart?” I nodded, and she pressed on. The man beside her looked like he was about to say something but she shook her head and went on. “Jason does speak highly of you, and we can use all the strong arms we can get, both wielding the sword and the plowshare, if you take my meaning. We also have a way across the river. Our goals are closely aligned, I think. But if we are to help you with your objective, we must have your promise that you will help us in obtaining ours.”

  I looked over at Amy and raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Rule twelve?” Assume people suck after shit hits the fan, and that they’re after your stuff. I was reluctant to trust anyone, but it had to start somewhere. But it was also Amy’s ass on the line.

  “Rule thirteen,” she said drily. Don’t be one of the people who suck after shit hits the fan. Trumped by my own rule, I turned back to them.

  “Okay, you have my word. I’ll help you do whatever you need to do,” I said.

  “Just what are you expecting in return?” the other man said.

  “A promise isn’t a deal,” I told him, quoting my grandfather. “My grandpa always taught me that your word of honor is something you give, not something you trade.” Behind him, Willie smiled. He leaned down and whispered something to the man and the woman who’d been talking to us. The woman smiled and nodded.

  “You have our word that we will help you make it to where you need to go,” she said. “Come morning, you’ll all be allowed inside, and we can discuss the particulars.”

  “One thing,” I said as they turned to leave. “What are your names?”

  “Still a secret,” the woman said. “It isn’t that we don’t have faith in you, Mr. Stewart. We just don’t know who else we can trust yet.” She disappeared from view, and the two armored guards on our side of the barrier opened the door behind us to let us back into the enclosure.

  Kaplan and Hernandez were waiting just outside the door, looking as worried as I’d ever seen them. Considering where we’d landed, that was saying something. Beth’s body was nowhere to be seen, and the rest of the refugees seemed to have split into two groups.

  “Well?” Kaplan asked.

  “We’re still in, and we’re going to help them get out of town.”

  “That helps us get out of town, so that’s good,” Hernandez said. “But what the hell happened with Simmons?” I gestured to Ruth, and off she went. While she was busy playing the verbal highlight reel, I pulled Amy to the side.

  “So, what happened?” I asked her.

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “Amy, you charged in with a knife and killed someone. You stabbed her so many times, her back looked like Swiss cheese. A week ago, you had problems swatting flies.”

  “She wasn’t someone anymore,” she said softly. “She was infected. And she was trying to kill you.” She turned and walked toward the fence. All I could do was let her. I was too tired to stop her, and I had some new bruises to work on, so I headed for the shelter again and laid myself back down on my blanket.

  The next thing I knew, I was awakened to bright light on my face. I yawned and eased myself up. Someone had laid Beth’s thick blanket over me, and as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, I discovered the most likely culprit sitting against the shelter’s wall. The blanket lay over Amy’s legs, and her head was tilted back so that she let out a tiny little rasp of a snore with each breath.

  “Wake up, princess,” I said. I got to my feet slowly and looked around. Hernandez was a few feet to my right, racked out next to Kaplan’s equally inert form. The offending ray of sunshine that had awakened me was a sliver that had slipped between a narrow gap in the low lying pall of smoke and the horizon and a pair of buildings that were doing a terrible job of blocking that one ray of light from getting to my face. The morning air was chilly, but still not cold enough to warrant more than a sweater.

  “’m ‘wake,” Amy muttered without opening her eyes. Blankets were laid out along the shelter’s two walls, most with less than a foot between them, except one spot where there was a large gap. I did the math in my head. We’d rescued twelve people from the Prophet’s compound, and there were four of us before that. With Beth gone, there should have been fifteen people in the shelter, and I was coming up one short.

  “Someone’s missing,” I said. Behind me, I heard Amy stir.

  “Tate,” she said a few seconds later. “He was next to Mr. Garza. He kept giving you the stink eye last night.” She followed me to the body shop. Different people were on the roof, and they came just as quickly as their predecessors did when I approached.

  “Did anyone ask to leave last night?” I said.

  “No,” an armored woman in a green tabard said. “Is someone missing?” At my affirmative answer, she pulled a radio from her belt. After a brief conversation, the door to the shop opened and a bleary eyed Will stepped out.

  “Who’s gone?” he demanded.

  “Guy named Chris Tate,” I said. “He was tight with Beth, the woman who turned last night. You guys are gonna want to pull up stakes and relocate.” He just smiled and shook his head, leaving me confused.

  “Get everyone up,” he said. “You’ll understand when we get there.” Half an hour later, the fifteen of us were standing at the gate. Our packs and weapons were laid in a neat line on the other side.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I know the last twelve hours have been rough,” Willie said once the gate had opened. “Everyone here has gone through the same thing these past few days, and I’m not going to apologize for what had to be done. This is probably the least difficult thing you’re going to have to do in the next few days, so if you think things are going to get easier…this is your chance to change your minds.” He paused for a moment to look us over, but no one seemed eager to leave. “If you want to be a part of Heartland, it’s going to take a lot of hard work. Over the next few days, we’re going to be getting ready to leave Kansas City, and when we find a place to settle, we’re going to build a home. Nothing deep or fancy, just a safe place to live and raise our families. If you don’t mind getting your hands dirty, raising a few blisters, and busting your ass, you’re more than welcome. If not…” he gestured behind himself. When no one left, he nodded and walked out the gate, leaving anyone who wanted to come to follow on their own. We grabbed our gear, buckled on hols
ters as fast as we were able, and double-timed to catch up.

  Willie and his squad led us to a sprawling white building to the west. Semi-trailers were backed up against loading docks, and several tractor rigs were parked near them. We were led up a set of concrete steps and through an open loading door, then through the shelves of the main storage area and out another door into a parking lot that was enclosed on three sides by the building itself. Two members of the squad went to a silver Lexus and pushed it back a few feet, then one of them pulled a hooked rod from his belt and lifted a manhole cover. One by one we were led down the ladder inside it and into a broad concrete spillway that ran north and south. They lit the way with the same kerosene lanterns that had illuminated the enclosure the night before, and after several hundred yards turned left down another tunnel branch. Finally, we were ushered up another metal runged ladder and found ourselves standing between two five story brick buildings.

  All around us, people were working, laughing, or just going from place to place. A group of children were gathered around a woman and a man in one corner of the open space, while a group of men unloaded a hand cart and carried its contents in through a set of double doors. Near one wall, three men were swinging practice swords at thick posts set in the ground, each of them aiming for the head, the body, and the legs in order. A sturdy looking cinderblock wall blocked off one end of the space, with a set of wooden steps leading up to a platform that ran along its length about four feet from the top of its nearly twelve foot height. Three people stood guard on the walkway, each armed with a rifle and some variation of a blunt object. Two of the buildings were joined by a catwalk that spanned four stories.

  “Welcome to Heartland. Part kibbutz, part craft fair, and part SCA event,” Will said as we blinked in the brighter light. “Let’s get you settled and you can take the tour after lunch.” He led us into one of the buildings and up several flights of stairs. The first floor was filled with neat rows of crates and boxes, as well as miscellaneous equipment I could barely put names to in the few seconds I could see it. The second floor seemed to be one giant workshop dedicated to…well, everything. I saw two complete forges, a woodworking bench, what looked like an auto body or mechanical tool bench, and a half a dozen crafts, from textiles to papermaking. The third floor was mostly empty of people, but had furniture scattered all around it. Not far from the stairwell, I could see an expedient field kitchen with several camp stoves, large metal washtubs, and improvised counters set up. A group of men and women were seated around one tub peeling potatoes while a smaller group was chopping up vegetables. We finally stopped climbing on the fourth floor and found ourselves facing a sea of blankets, sleeping bags, and hammocks. There was still plenty of open floor, but this area looked like it was easily home to fifty to sixty people.

  “There’s blankets and sleeping bags over there, and even a couple of hammocks if anyone’s up to the challenge,” Willie said as he gestured toward the pile of soft fluffy things near the stairwell. I grabbed a hammock and a couple of wool blankets, and Amy grabbed a heavy sleeping bag and a blanket of her own. She laid her bag out with the blanket on top of it and helped me string the hammock up between one of the support columns and a heavy eyebolt that had been sunk into the wooden column set in one wall. We both left our backpacks and the cache tube on our bedding, and Amy followed me back to where Willie and a couple of his people were waiting by the stairwell.

  “What’s your rule on guns?” I said.

  “Everyone who can, fights, everyone who fights is armed,” he said. “Once they authorize.”

  “How do you authorize?” Amy asked.

  “You have to take a gun safety course, then pass an oral exam and a practical range test. But, if you have military or law enforcement experience, all you have to do is the oral exam and the range test, unless you were still in on Z Day.”

  “Sign me up,” she said. I nodded and raised my hand to be included.

  “Amy, go with Nick here. He’ll get you started. Dave, I need you, Kaplan, and Hernandez to come with me.” I motioned to the two Marines and followed Willie to a hallway further on one side.

  “What about authorizing?” I asked as we stepped into the hall. It turned out to be the catwalk between two of the buildings.

  “I’ve seen you shoot in a fight. You’re authorized,” he deadpanned. I looked over my shoulder at Kaplan and gave him a smug grin. He flipped me off casually. “Besides, we have something more important to discuss.” We came out into an open area that held a row of desks that were set up facing each other. Piles of paper were held down on more improvised tables by anything that weighed more than a postage stamp. If the activity in this room wasn’t as physical as some things I’d seen being done, it was just as loud and animated. It seemed like every non-productive meeting I’d ever had to sit through at Prov-Am was taking place at the same time in here. Fortunately, Willie led us to a set of stairs that ran along one wall, and we found ourselves on the top floor of the building.

  Where the floor below reminded me of corporate America, this floor was more of a military command post. Maps of Kansas City, Missouri, and Kansas were posted on bulletin boards that were set up on one side, while a conference table had been set up in the middle of the room. Opposite the maps sat a table with a shortwave radio set. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of it, and my heart fell into the pit of my stomach when I saw a man fiddling with a circuit board in the table in front of it. Maya’s name was on my lips as I took a step toward it.

  “Mr., Stewart,” a familiar voice called out. The man who had been questioning me at the quarantine station straightened from his place at the table. “It seems we were right to be concerned about you.”

  “Lay off, Pete,” Willie said without breaking stride.

  “You’ll have to excuse Peter,” the older woman who’d been beside him said. She got up from her chair and walked toward us. When she wasn’t out in the field, she wore a long gray sweater that hung down below her hips over a plain wool top. She had a pistol on her hip, and wore a pair of olive drab fatigue pants. As she got closer, she held her right hand out. Her hand was rough with callouses and her grip was firm enough to convey strength without trying to crush my own hand. “He is accustomed to seeing the worst in people as a necessity. He also forgets that he has earned equal enmity from this so called ‘Prophet’. Though he does take pride enough in that to remind us of it when the occasion warrants it.” Pete gave her a long suffering look as he came around the table and held his hand out as well. My hand pretty much disappeared in his grip, but I got it back without it being crushed. They shook hands with Hernandez and Kaplan as well and gestured for us to take seats at the table as well.

  “Pete Gill,” he said. The antagonistic tone was gone from his voice, and he even managed a little bit of a smile. “Robert Hall and I go way back. I busted him for attempted murder about ten years ago. This here’s Dr. Devira Shaked. I take it Willie told you the basics of what we’re doing here?”

  “Yes, he did,” Kaplan said. “Though I’m sure there’s more to it than just finding a safe place to homestead.”

  “Much more,” Devira said. “Though more by necessity than any philosophical leanings. Let me show you something.” She turned and headed toward the stairs. I followed her down to the third floor, where she stepped into the darkened area and turned to face me. Willie stood behind me as Dr. Shaked turned around and gestured to the men who had come with us. They pulled heavy cloth away from the windows to reveal stacks of boxes on palettes that reached to at least eye level. Off to the right, one palette held sacks of something, and to my left the floor was largely empty. I headed over to the stacked burlap sacks and searched for a label. Rice 50lbs. (22.67 kg.) under the brand logo. I straightened and looked the palette over, then went to the next. Boxes of salt sat atop baking powder and yeast.

  “You could feed dozens of people for a month with what you have here,” I said, then stopped with one hand up and my mouth open. Most
days I was pretty quick. Today, it was taking me a few seconds to understand the sheer scope of what this one room actually meant. “The floors below us are already full,” I said softly.

  Devira nodded. “Realistically speaking, the institution we know…knew as the United States of America was as much an entity of infrastructure as ideals. With most of the population turned into a hostile element, that infrastructure is fractured beyond its own ability to repair itself. This city will provide us the supplies we will need to survive until we can repair some parts of that infrastructure for ourselves and begin to rebuild. Currently, we have about a year’s worth of food and other supplies. In time, we will be able to advance our own skills so that we can help others, too.”

  “How do you decide who to let in?” Kaplan asked.

  “We don’t,” Pete said with a rumbling laugh. “A night in quarantine weeds out most of the special snowflakes who think the world owes ‘em something. A couple made it through that, but like my pop used to say, they’ll either wake up or get woke up. Everyone pulls their weight or leaves. Any problems with that?” His last sentence was meant for everyone, but his eyes were on me. All three of us shook our heads. “Okay. So Willie thinks you’d all do pretty good on his search teams. But I want you inside the wire, Mr. Stewart. At least at first, so we know if this Tate fellow is going to go running back to his buddy the Prophet or not.” Willie, Kaplan, and Hernandez protested immediately, but I shook my head and held up my hands.

  “He’s got a point,” I said over their objections. “And you two both know Hall ain’t the only one gunning for me.”

  “Please, Mr. Stewart,” Devira said, gesturing to me with one hand. “Elaborate.” That one word scared me more than anything I’d run across since the world went to shit, and left me with no doubt that if she thought I was a threat, Devira Shaked wouldn’t hesitate for a microsecond to put a bullet someplace important on my anatomy. I was also left with the chilling sense that she was perfectly capable of doing it from whatever distance she chose.