by Ben Reeder
“Dave, look,” Amy pointed to my left. A small, gray building labeled itself as “The Farmer’s Pantry – Bulk Foods.” No cars were parked in front of it, but a Ford truck was parked just behind it. I pulled into the parking lot and drew the SOCOM. Amy got out as I screwed the suppressor onto the big pistol’s barrel and got out. Nothing seemed to be moving, so I made my way to the door. A white rectangle was taped to the glass from the inside.
“If you’re alive, come on in and take what you need. Gale and I don’t have much use for it now. Try to leave a little for the next person if you can, but if you take the last of what’s here, please take this note down. Don’t worry, we’re not inside.”
The door opened easily, and I stepped inside. The SOCOM’s tac light illuminated half empty shelves. Whoever had been here before me had evidently taken the note to heart, and had left at least half of everything. Five gallon buckets of bulk foods like beans, flour and rice were stacked along one wall, while sacks of corn and grains took up half of the adjacent wall. Spices and canned goods were on the shelves on my right, and a display of grinders was on the counter in front of me. A lot of what was there, we wouldn’t be able to use on the road, but some of it would come in handy later. Following the example of the person before me, I took one of the two grinders and only some of what was left, partly out of respect for the owners, and partly because we didn’t have a lot of room in the truck.
“Next stop, a gas station,” I said as I climbed back into the truck.
“There’s one just up the street,” Amy said. True to her word, there was a Casey’s a hundred yards up, next to a pharmacy and across the street from a vision clinic. The pharmacy was gutted, the front doors and windows shattered. The convenience store didn’t look much better, but it was worth checking out.
“Inside, use your pistol. Cover the side you’re on,” I said when we got out of the truck. “If you see something, don’t be shy. Let me know.”
“How do you know this shit?” she asked as we walked up to the open doors. “I mean, no offense, but you were some kind of radio guy, right?”
“Nate told me a lot of it when I was writing Operation Terror and The Frankenstein Code. Of course, knowing about it and actually doing it are really different.” She gave me a shrewd look as she racked a round into her pistol.
“So, you’re pretty much just winging it,” she said as we got to the door. I shrugged and nodded. “I can’t tell you how confident that makes me feel,” she said. I stepped through the open doors and turned to my left. Three aisles of mostly empty shelves occupied the floor. The end of the first row was clear, so I sidestepped and shined the tac light down the next row. Something shuffled across the floor, and I sidestepped again. The tac light shone on a pair of wide eyes that glowed in the narrow cone of its beam. I barely had time to register its shriveled lips peeling back from its teeth before I pulled the trigger. Even with the suppressor on, the shot was loud in the confined space and I could feel the overpressure against my body. Behind me, Amy’s pistol boomed twice.
“I got ‘em,” she called out.
“Mine’s down, too,” I said. “Let’s see if there are any maps and get the hell out of here.” The store had been stripped bare of pretty much everything except the rechargeable phone cards and ugliest of the cheap decorative crap. However, the rack with the maps on the counter was still full. Even the Slurp-it machine was gone. The tobacco section had been stripped bare, leaving only the bright ads for the various brands in place, and the liquor cabinet had been left just as empty. Amy grabbed a Nebraska state map on our way out the door. In the parking lot, the coast looked pretty clear, but I wasn’t betting on that staying true for too long. I trotted to the road and saw a handful of zombies shuffling our way from either direction. From the headcount, I figured they weren’t anything we couldn’t handle, but the gunfire would probably draw more.
Across the road, I saw a blue sign that I’d missed as we’d pulled in.
State of Nebraska
Dept of Roads
Maintenance Yard
The gate was open, and a couple of Z’s were shuffling around inside. But what had caught my eye was the gas tank and pump that was set inside. The pump was probably so much spare parts now, but if there was gas in the big tank, I could top off the truck’s tank and fill the five gallon can the rest of the way without having to shoot a ton of zombies in the process.
“Get in!” I called out to Amy as I headed for the truck. Seconds later, I was closing the gate behind us, and Amy was out of the truck with her Ruger laid across the hood. The little rifle popped twice, and the two Zs dropped.
“Keep an eye on the road,” I said as I went to the back of the truck and pulled out the hand siphon. The cap came off the top of the tank with a little elbow grease, and I ran the end of the long hose into the tank. The shorter hose went into the truck’s tank, and I started pumping the piston handle. It was rated for about eight ounces per pump, so it took a few minutes to fill the tank all the way, and a few more to get the jerry can topped off. Once I was finished, I threw the siphon into the back of the truck bed, and set the fuel can back in with a lot more care, then I pulled the truck up until its nose was only inches from the gate.
“I’ve got this,” Amy said as I went to get out. With a heave, she pulled on the gate as hard as she could. It slid open part way, and she pulled again. The second pull got the edge clear of the passenger side of the truck, and she ran for the door as the infected shuffled toward her.
“So,” I said as she pulled the door shut. “Where to now?” She glared at me as I pulled out of the maintenance yard and turned back south.
“Give me a minute,” she said.
“Well, shopping post apocalypse is a pain in the ass,” I said as I drove past the shopping center. Infected were milling around in the parking lot, and they started shuffling our way as we passed.
“So is driving,” she said. “We need to be about a mile north of here.” I turned right at the first intersection I could find, and ended up headed down a concrete road that ran by a trailer park. The south side of the road was open fields, and the north side gave way to what had once been well manicured lawns. Two weeks without maintenance had taken a little of the cultivated edge from them, and the occasional bloodstain or lump of bloody goo on the road robbed it of its rural charm. After half a mile, things went from rural to rustic, spoiled by the occasional blank eyed face staring at us from a window. Graveled alleys that ran behind houses gave way to simple ruts in the grass. Then we came to a sign that said “Pavement Ends.”
“Keep going,” Amy said as we neared the straight line of pavement. “You’re looking for 638 Avenue.” I grunted an affirmative, hoping that the street sign was still there. Luck was with us, and I found myself turning north a mile later. I marveled at how clear the demarcation was between “town” and “country.” Like the southern side of Auburn, the western edge was an all or nothing thing. One side, houses and streets, on the other, open countryside. Like Missouri, Nebraska was pretty in the fall, though October was feeling more like November just then. Then the town part fell away and we were traveling down what looked like any country road miles away from a town.
Pavement started again with no sign to warn us, and I pulled to a stop at an intersection with a broader road. Off to our right was an upholstery shop, and a cemetery loomed across the larger road to the left.
“This is it,” Amy said, pointing to a green street sign across the way. “This is 136. Turn left.” I pulled onto the highway, and wished for a radio station. At this point, even talk radio would have been a welcome distraction. Rural Nebraska was awful scenic, but after a certain point, the only thing that set it apart from Kansas was a slight roll to the landscape.
Two hours and a lot of turns later, we found a convoy of Army trucks and Humvees just north of a little town called Clay Center. They were pulled over on the south side of the road, and we could see bodies littering the parking lot of the big, tan b
uilding beside them. Worse still, there were dozens of infected walking around in the parking lot, along the road, and a few were wandering in the field on the north side of the road. The weapons on the convoy’s vehicles were all pointed toward the building, and the tan walls were pockmarked with bullet holes. Only one of the vehicles showed serious damage. The lead Humvee was blackened and the roof and doors were gone. I could see them laying several yards away on either side of it.
“So, we just run on through, right?” Amy asked.
“No,” I said. “We need to get into those trucks and see if they have a working radio, or find out where they’re from. I figure this was a supply convoy that got overrun. Let’s see what kind of supplies they were carrying. Who knows, maybe they have crates of M4s and ammo.”
“And maybe we’re risking our asses for three truckloads of tongue depressors and rectal thermometers,” she said. “But, now I have to know. Damn it, Dave. So, what’s Plan A?” I looked at the horde for a couple of minutes as I thought about it. Porsche and I had drawn off a horde of ghouls back in Springfield just by showing up and getting their attention. Once you had the attention of the infected, you had it until something else came along. Dumb as rocks, but persistent. The problem was that at the time, we hadn’t planned on going back to Kickapoo High School, so we hadn’t worried about drawing off all of the infected, and we weren’t sure of the results. But, Captain Adams had checked my story out with the folks that were holed up there, so I figured it had to have been at least partially successful. Most of the infected there had been ghouls, though. I wondered how it would work with a mixed group.
“Plan A, they’re all zombies, we show up, honk and get them to follow us for about half an hour, then come back a lot faster and check out the convoy. It worked in Springfield.”
“And Plan B?”
“Plan B, some are zombies and some are ghouls, and we just do it twice, in different directions.” I put the truck in gear and drove toward the church. The infected started to notice us when we got about a hundred yards away from the intersection, and I realized the flaw in my planning. I had planned on being able to make it to the cross road and turning north. As the zombies left the trucks, I realized they were a lot closer to it than we were.
“Dave, they’re looking at us,” Amy said with a note of concern in her voice. “They’re in the intersection…did you happen to have a Plan C, or are we already making shit up as we go?”
“Yeah, we’re playing speedchess,” I said as I turned the wheel and sent the truck off the right side of the road. One thing I had to give Nebraska, they didn’t seem to be big on fences in a lot of places. We made it through the shallow drainage ditch and into the field without getting stuck, then we were bouncing across the field, hoping the tires didn’t get bogged down in the soft dirt. I pulled behind a house near the north bound road and turned to take the other drainage ditch at an angle. Once we hit pavement again, I let my hands relax on the wheel a little and turned to look back south. Infected came at us with glacier like speed. I looked over at Amy and shook my head.
“This…may take a while,” I told her. I waited until they got within a few yards and gently pulled forward, making them follow us.
“This was a lot more exciting the last time you did it, wasn’t it?” she asked a few minutes later.
“A little, yeah,” I said. “There was a school full of kids involved, so there was a little more urgency to it, too.”
“Which school?” she asked.
“Kickapoo,” I said.
“I wonder if any of my friends are still alive,” she said.
“Actually,” I said after I goosed the gas to get a few more yards on the shambling horde, “I’m pretty sure they are. Aside from certain high value targets like yours truly, most of the military’s efforts seemed to be centered on getting kids out of schools. And Glendale wasn’t near a hospital.”
“You know, after the stuff we found in that hospital in KC, I’ve got to wonder why they picked schools,” Amy said. “I mean, people call kids the future of America and all that crap but it’s not like a bunch of high school kids know how to save the world.”
“That’s pretty self-aware for a fifteen year old,” I said. Amy shook her head and gestured for me to go.
“Dave, until we crashed in Kansas City, I didn’t know how much I didn’t know. I learned more stuff hanging out with you, Hernandez and Kaplan for one week than I did in a month at school. And that’s after you taught me all the stuff you did when I got to stay with Mom. There’s no way a bunch of kids in high school know squat about saving the world or fighting zombies or shit like that.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that,” I said as we coasted to a stop. “But kids can learn.”
“Yeah, that’s what’s got me worried,” she said. “What the hell are they teaching them?”
“I don’t know,” I said. It had been in the back of my mind, but nothing more than a passing thought since I’d left Springfield. I’d had other things on my mind. Even now, it was mostly an abstract, since I didn’t know much more than I did when shit hit the fan. “Sometimes, we just have to hold on to the question until the answer presents itself.” I could tell by the look she gave me that she wasn’t any happier with that than I was, but it was all I had.
Forty five minutes later, we were a good long way from the convoy. I sped up and took the first right turn I could, then two more. That brought us to the road we’d originally been on, and we approached the now mostly abandoned convoy. A couple of still-upright zombies were still wandering around, and half a dozen crawlers were inching our way. I drove over one as we approached, then went past the convoy so that the truck’s rear was pointed at it. From behind, I could see that the rearmost truck was filled with rolls of concertina wire.
“So, are we shooting them from here?” Amy asked me.
“No, swords only. I don’t want to advertise that we’re here to everyone in ten miles.” I pulled the Deuce from the back of the cab, and Amy grabbed her curved blade from its spot behind her seat. “Get the ones on their feet first, then we’ll take care of the crawlers. The first one I came up on was blackened from the shoulders up, and his face was melted. Eyes and ears were burned away, leaving it with no way to find anything. It went down with a crunch as the Deuce cut into the side of its skull. I turned in time to see Amy pulling her blade out from under the second walker’s chin. The crawlers were easier to take care of, mostly a matter of getting close enough to get a shot in from the neck up.
“Dave,” Amy called out as I hit the last of the crawlers. She was standing over one of the crawlers, but she’d transferred her sword to her left hand and she’d drawn her pistol. I followed the direction she was pointing it, and found myself looking toward the back of one of the covered trucks. Dead infected were scattered around the rear of the truck. I switched hands with the Deuce and drew my Colt from the holster under my right arm. I gestured at her with my head, and she scurried over to take cover beside the nearest truck. I came up beside her and watched the back of the truck for a moment. The tarp moved slightly, and I saw the glint of light on metal.
“We might have a survivor,” I said as I racked a round into the chamber.
“Not likely,” Amy scoffed. “It’s been two weeks. There’s no way someone could survive that long in the back of a truck.”
“Then cover me and hope I’m right,” I said as I stepped out from beside the truck. I kept the Deuce down to my side, and the Colt pointed down but visible. “Hello in the truck. We aren’t looking to hurt you or take your stuff,” I raised my voice.
“Stop right there,” a woman said from inside the truck. The barrel of a rifle slid out from the split in the middle of the back tarp. “Tell the girl to step out from behind the truck.” I shook my head.
“Not gonna do that,” I told her. “She’s my kid. I’m not going to put her in your sights. I’m just trying to get to a radio. Could I use one of yours?”
“Batteries are de
ad,” she said.
“Well, my truck’s battery is working just fine. I could try to give you a jump in exchange for using one of your radios.”
“Nope,” she said.
“Then I just have one question. Where was this convoy from?”
“Hastings,” the woman said. “We’re from Hastings.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks. Look, we’re heading that way. You’re welcome to come with us. We’ll wait for a couple of minutes.” I took a couple of steps back and then to the side before I turned around and holstered my pistol.
“We’re just leaving?” Amy asked when I walked past her.
“In a few minutes,” I said as I went back to the truck. “We have at least part of what we need.” I stopped long enough to cut a swatch of cloth from one of the crawlers and wipe the blade of the Deuce down before I put it back in the Kydex sheath.
“Wait!” we heard from behind us. We turned to see a woman in BDU pants and a green t-shirt stumbling toward us with her rifle slung. Her skin was pale, even more so against her dark hair. It made her eyes, almost as dark as her hair, stand out. “Please, wait.” I put a hand out to Amy, a caution against drawing her pistol again.
“You’re really going to Hastings?” the woman asked when she caught up to us. I nodded. “Then I’ll go with you.”
“Invitation’s still open. I’m Dave, this is Amy,” I told her. Up close, I could see the white lines of salt rings on her t-shirt.
“PFC Allie McKay,” the woman said. “First Squardon, 134th Cav, Troop A.”
“Is there anything you need to grab from the truck?” I asked her.
“Come take a look,” she said. We followed, and she pulled the rear cover aside to reveal stacks of cardboard boxes labeled “Humanitarian Daily Ration” and cases of bottled water. The wind shifted and I caught a whiff of excrement. On the south side of the road, I could see its source. To McKay’s credit, she had managed to get her waste a pretty good distance from the truck. She’d used the empty ration bags to keep things contained and as close to sanitary as possible but two weeks in the same little space made for a lot of smell. More than one of the bags had come open as well. She climbed into the back of the truck, and I pulled myself up behind her.
