Tomahawks & Zombies

by Joe Beausoleil

  Our haul:

  Three boxes of M-67 fragmentation grenades,

  Six FGM-172 SRAW, looks kind of like a bazooka to me. Dave and Ron are pretty much salivating to test one out. It’s unnerving.

  Four MGL (Multiple Grenade Launcher), a lightweight 40 mm semi-automatic, six shot grenade launcher. Grabbed boxes of ammo for these.

  Two crates of M-16s

  Crate of AA-12 fully automatic shot guns

  A dozen 12 gauge shotguns modified to fire from a magazine

  One Vulcan mini gun. It’s small Gatling gun belt-fed. It looks like it could do a lot of damage quickly.

  Plus as much ammo as we could get in. I got the names off the crates these weapons were nestled in, some I’ve seen before playing video games, most I’ve never heard of before. If this is what was left I can’t even fathom what they took with them.

  Ron opened yet another case dragging it to the middle of the road. Bending down he opened it and pulled out what looked like a big plastic space gun.

  I have no idea what the hell this is but I like it. There are two more similar cases in the far back of the truck. I flipped open the instruction manual while Ron was examining the weapon.

  Personnel Halting and Stimulation Response rifle (PHASR)

  This is a prototype non-lethal laser dazzler. The PHASR was developed by the U.S. Department of Defense at Kirtland Air Force Base, part of the Air Force Research Laboratory Directed Energy Directorate in New Mexico.

  This low-intensity point and shoot device uses a two-wavelength laser for a temporarily blinding effect to disorient and/or blind a target/s.

  The temporary effects of this weapon comply with the United Nations Protocol on Blinding Laser Weapons, Protocol IV of the 1980 and 1995 Convention on Certain Conventional Weapons.

  The United States government acceded to this protocol January 21, 2009 by changing the duration of weapons effects.

  Battery life approximate 1500 shots.

  Effective range 750 meters.

  Directions:

  Aim at face of target.

  Wear proper protective eye wear.

  Do not stare down the barrel or stare directly at the laser.

  Do not fire towards reflective surfaces due to possible ricochet effect.

  Holy shit, it’s totally a space weapon, and it came from Kirtland, right next to the gathering. The maniacs who made this must have had a hard on for Star Trek. Phasr, they really called it that. Emmitt and anyone who knows Star Wars is better would be pissed. This convoy was part of the military that bugged out of Albuquerque. I don’t know if I saw it in a movie or if it’s true but isn’t there some big base in a hollowed out mountain in Colorado? I know there were cold war era bunkers in Canada, the “Diefenbunkers” were emergency government headquarters, scattered across the country but those were decommissioned years ago. There was one in somewhere in southern Alberta. If something like Kirtland, a military airbase sharing the runway with the city’s airport but having a huge underground complex complete with armament and nuclear weapon storage exists anything is possible. Maybe they were going to where the government was evacuated to, maybe they were going to put down the resistance in Montana or maybe they were rounding up natives. Too many maybes. Where ever they were going, they never made their destination.

  These weapons are better than money. Down the road, they will save our lives. The trade possibilities were worth their weight in gold. We made sure to take all three space weapons. It took hours unpack our vehicles and then repack them, jettisoning what we didn’t need to make room for these weapons.

  We each armed ourselves with a couple grenades and an M16. Ron threw in a MGL behind his seat and everything else we placed in the SUV underneath our food, bedding, and other gear. The Ranger’s truck is loaded down as well. Both vehicles are full. Even after unpacking the trucks and dumping what we don’t need, we left plenty of weapons behind. After a long day the excitement of the find left us enough energy to haul a few crates into the woods across from the convoy, squirreling them away if we ever return.

  With the work done it’s time for some fun. The boys are itching to try the FGM-172 SRAWs. I swore I saw Ron drool as they each grabbed a weapon. When vandalizing U.S. military property I’m a bit more realistic and chose an M-16. I’ve never fired an automatic weapon before but I have a feeling it’s going to get more use than that bazooka.

  The M-16 is so easy a child could use it and I’m sure in many parts of the world they have. I had fun playing with the settings, single shot, semi and then fully automatic. I think the semi setting is the best of both worlds, not too much kick so as staying on target is easy and doesn’t blow through ammo as fast as full auto.

  With the instructions read and re-read, it’s time for the grand finale. Ron and Dave argued at who was going to fire the rocket at the last truck in the abandoned convoy. The solution was easy enough, I pulled out another rocket. Two happy boys ready to blow the hell out of some U.S army vehicles. Ron and Dave each pointed the dangerous end at a truck. Dave was sweating with nervous excitement, while Ron was laughing so much that he couldn’t aim. It was a maniacal laugh that made me take a step away from him. He had to take a few calming breaths before putting his eye back to the scope. They listen to me as I read the instructions out loud and convinced them to back up another dozen feet.

  It was time. They stood with legs shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent in anticipation of the kick back. Eyes pressed against the scope. With a thundering roar and a great whoosh, a cloud of white smoke shot from the back as the rocket left the tube at the front, almost dropping to the ground. One after another they fired. From there, the rocket ignites and it’s off. Two seconds later one hits the truck right in the grill and the other through the driver’s window. The FGM-172 SRAW, is called a one man portable short range assault weapon, we just call it fucking awesome. If you have the opportunity and the means I highly recommend it.

  February 28

  We feel safer being armed. Hell, we feel cocky. Almost wanting to run into a horde of the undead. Almost. Bikers? For sure, bring it.

  So much has happened since I found Ron and then found Dave that I had no time to dwell on how I was bitten yet did not turn. I have no special connection to the undead. I can’t read their minds or know how or what they think. I do not have any powers to control them or move them out of our way. I know no more about them than anyone else who has lived this long.

  Luck, I chalk it up to luck. A second chance. I’m not even sure there is a guarantee that if bitten again that I’d be able to fight off the infection. It’s my deepest hope that the poison that runs in their veins does not run in mine. I want no connection to these things.

  I was almost embarrassed or ashamed to tell Dave what happened. I was worried about how he’d react. He acted the same way a Ron did when I first told him. Dave didn’t have the added shock of thinking I was supposed to be dead. Sideways glances, worried expressions but they see that I am he same person, a few pounds lighter, we all are, but the same person. Well, not the same person that was on vacation in Mexico, we’ve all done and seen a lot of shit since then. We’ve all changed.

  March 1

  Near the Canadian border, Fortuna, North Dakota.

  The border was so temptingly close. I could almost taste the fresh air, the maple syrup, the poutine, the RCMP driving the homeless to edge of town in the middle of winter, the rednecks using purple gas, the metal testaciles hung off the chrome bumpers of their pickups. So close. For all its faults and stereotypes, home is still home.

  But now we sit dejected around the fire. The orange glow casting shadows on our gaunt faces, making us look years older. Today we were within sight of the border. We saw the familiar eight wheeled armour vehicles used by the Canadian military parked next to American Humvees and tanks. Soldiers from both sides mingled and milled about. I have no idea what is going on. Are they working together? If so against who? Zombies? The Montana militia? Are both sides roun
ding up the native population? What are they doing when they catch us? Best not to find out.

  I can’t make it through a check stop and loaded with stolen weapons I’m not sure Ron and Dave can’t make it either. Certainly not if they get stopped by the Americans. They don’t plan on giving up their weapons and I don’t plan on turning myself over to the military of either nation. Dammit, we’re stuck. So close to home.

  March 3

  The fire burnt down to soft orange coals as I looked up at the cold black sky. No trace of a psychedelic Moose tonight just a faint green ribbon of northern lights slowly danced across the sky. It’s something familiar, something from home. In Edmonton those green lights are were so faint from the city light that you could easily miss them. Many people do. Just going about their night oblivious to what’s above them. When we were young I remember my family driving just out of the city to watch the lights.

  Home is still far away, crossing the border is just another milestone on this long journey.

  Maybe I’m scared of what’s waiting for me. So far nothing we’ve seen along the way gives me hope.

  Either way Ron and Dave are pushing on. When the American troops left the next afternoon I told them that they should try to get across. I’ll check out Pine Ridge and when it’s safe, I’ll cross over. I shouldn’t be surprised about how reluctant they were to leave me. I couldn’t be the one that stopped them from going home. It took some arguing but no one could see another alternative. We could go further east trying another crossing only to come up with the same scenario or worse. Someone has to make it home.

  There was no long good bye. A quick handshake, a man hug and they were gone.

  When they were out of site I got in the truck and headed south.

  March 4

  Passed the National Grassland forty-five minutes ago. Trails of white smoke in the distance. Some type of settlement out there in the hills. No time to explore, my goal is south.

  Later that day.

  The truck ran out of gas, just enough vapors in the tank to glide into a hiding spot. I’m on foot from here. Traveling light, taking nothing more than my back pack and a rifle slung over my shoulder. If things go bad I can circle back, hopefully find some fuel and head north. I’m still not sure about my decision. Maybe I could have tried to cross the border.

  The roadblock was made of earth, logs with a couple flipped over state patrol cars added in for good measure. Hidden from a distance I watched. Logs and sticks jutting out of the tangled mess, an upside down American flag hung on a pole, the roadblock was manned by three men. They were dressed in mismatched camouflage, one wearing a baseball hat stood at the highest part of the barricade scanning the horizon with binoculars, the other wearing a boonie hats sat on the barricade, their legs dangling over. They both wore bandanas over their faces.

  It took an hour for anyone to approach. A pick up with half a dozen people slowed and came to a stop. After talking for a short while the guards waved them through. It looks safe enough; my ass was cold from waiting.

  Later.

  I’m in. The guards greeted my friendly enough. They said they saw me hours ago and were wondering what was taking me so long. As I expected they took my weapon. They asked me if I was bitten. Unexpectedly they didn’t so much as flinch when I showed them the healing wound. One of them reported my arrival on a walkie-talkie. They gave me directions down the road to the main camp, telling me which tent was expecting me. It was a long lonely walk to camp.

  Entering the camp there was a sign:

  “What force on Earth can be weaker than the feeble strength of one?" Ralph Chaplin

  Anything people could sleep in was used, campers, RV’s both old and new, tents, tee pees, flimsy structures made out of plywood and blue tarps, even a yurt or two. Dogs and kids ran past paying me no attention, the smell of wood smoke and bannock drifted around as I walked on the packed snow between the neat rows of shelters.

  It was clear by all the different tribal flags that they took the quote at the entrance to heart. Ribbons of all colours hung from the tops of the tee pees and flags from all the nations floated in the cool breeze on anything one could hang a flag on. Upside down American flags (conveying the distress the country is in) flying next to U.S. and Canadian flags with a proud native portraits on them. Some of the flags I knew but many of them I’ve never seen before.

  The red flag with multi pointed sun with a warrior in profile let everyone know that the Mohawk nation was here. I was young and remember watching the news covering the standoff at Oka Québec in the 90’s. The town wanted to expand the golf course treading on ancient pines and Mohawk burial grounds. The police moved it, tear gas was fired. Who fired first? The police retreated. Soldiers came. Protests and road blocks in support all across the country lasted the summer.

  Next I passed the purple and white flag of the Six Iroquois Nations, the four square white wampum beads symbolizing the union forged when former enemies buried their weapons under the Great Tree of Peace. Hopefully they have dug up those weapons, if not I’m sure the Mohawks have enough to spare.

  The simple crisp white, a black thunderbird in the middle the flag of the Anishinaabe people, these “good humans” walking the right path given by the creator.

  As I continued I came across flags closer from home. The Métis with their two flags, the red or blue, depending on which fur company their ancestors worked for, each with a white infinity symbol, representing the uniting of two peoples and the existence of a people forever, held camp next to the Cree, who had a variety of band flags. Both took generations to recover from the government’s treatment, the worst of which was the Red River Rebellion in 1885 when thousands of government troops moved in on the few hundred old men armed with flintlock rifles at Batoche, Saskatchewan. They hung Louis Riel in Winnipeg, Wandering Spirit and seven others at North Battleford, burying them in an unmarked grave. The defendants had no legal counsel, hellthey didn’t even know what a trial was. Just prior to the executions, Sir John A. MacDonald included in a letter to the commissioner of Indian Affairs: "The executions of the Indians ought to convince the Red Man that the White Man governs." That was our glorious first prime minister of Canada, whose portrait is on the ten dollar bill, and who looked just like that evil rotten bastard that bit my fingertip off.

  From the tribes and nations I recognize, I know that there are warriors here, people who fight against the odds, people who refuse to surrender.

  Never before had all these nations been unified, historically there had been alliances and confederacies but not between nations thousands of miles away. If only we had had this 400 years ago, things in North America might have been different.

  A quad pulled up, which was good because I hadn’t thought about where I was going or where I was going to sleep. I was just walking around, taking it all in.

  “You the new guy?” the feminine voice surprised me. In her puffy jacket, baseball cap and sunglasses, I thought she was a teenager boy.

  “Just came in today.”

  Pointing her thumb over her shoulder, “Hop on.”

  I did.

  Her hair smelled like campfire smoke mixed with shampoo. I held on with my hands behind me on the back storage rail, going against all my instincts to wrap my arms around her thin waist. Lucky I did (hold on that is), without warning she twisted her wrist, the engine roared as we accelerated. The snow kicked up by the quad’s tire made dogs scatter.

  We weaved between rows of tents, and small paths leading finally to a larger main thoroughfare. There must be thousands of people at the All Nations, maybe even tens of thousands. Soon we passed rows and rows of tractor trailers; I’m assuming they are full of food. A few minutes later we arrived at the community centre. She drove off before I could ask her name or what shampoo she used. Hell, she drove off practically before I was off. I watched the quad drive off, waiting until the exhaust dissipated before heading in.

  There is no one person in charge, no general, no all-powerf
ul leader, instead war chiefs from each nation meeting to decide action. Even though there are not many non-native people here there have a voice on the council. The non-natives have two representatives. David Boyd was coming off his second season as a relief pitcher with the Cleveland Indians (of all teams). He is sometimes teasingly called ‘Chief’, as he still wears his ball cap with the racist cartoon Indian from his former team, but more often he is known as King David. Rumour has it he pegged an undead with an 94mph fastball right in the forehead from fifty yards. Dropped it dead. Today, He carries a sling and a pouch full of large metal ball bearings to fire at the undead, but he prefers his AR-15.

  The other rep is Felix Brodeur of the Dreadful Motorcycle Club. He looks like a Viking with his long brown beard. Braids haphazardly tied, bits of food stuck in here and there, who knows what else lurks in that bushy beard? Twenty members from the Montréal chapter and a handful from Michigan were on a run when the outbreak happened. In their own right they are a tribe, having a strong brotherhood for years. The rest of the war chiefs weren’t chiefs back home, those in power most often chose to stay.

  Because we were all in Oglala territory, their chief had the final word if there was a deadlock on any topic. They also have certain hospitality obligations. Since everyone was invited down they have to provide (as much as they can) people with shelter and food. In the town, families are taking people in. The houses are over capacity now, sometimes with more outsiders than people from here. Whatever tents or camping equipment they had was given to those in need. Luckily, most who came brought something to sleep in and what supplies they could manage.