“Fuck me!” He curses and turns off the engine. He will have to use his winch. He figures he can attach the end to a tree on the other side of the road. Bruce grabs his .44 and his double barrel as he exits through the hole in the roof.
He walks down the windshield and lowers himself from the truck. God, what a mess, he thinks as he looks at his poor incapacitated truck. It looks like a kids unused teeter totter. He jumps up to grab the winch’s hook.
He and Dan had installed the winch before he had left his kingdom for just such emergencies, or if he had to move something out of his way. It should do the trick, he thinks. If the cable is long enough.
“I’ll make it enough.” He says adamantly as he pulls the slack out of the steel line. He is in the middle of the road when his actions come to a halt, and his ears perk up. In the distance he can hear engines whining. More of them, Bruce thinks. A lot more.
His binoculars are still around his neck. He brings them up and spies down the road toward the source of the noise that grows louder with each passing second.
He counts at least six of them. They are like a swarm of bees. At the center of the swarm is the queen, a wrecker. He doesn’t have time to set the hook and get back into his truck. He doubts he’d be able enter it in a hurry anyway, considering how it’s now positioned. He has no choice but to run.
Bruce sprints to the woods that border this farm and the next. Two quads emerge from a trail in the forest. He skirts around them and barrels down the embankment. He enters the dense growth of trees and heads off in a way they can’t follow on their ATVs. The raiders are forced to give chase on foot.
5
The soldiers travel in silence. They have traded seats and Rash is now behind the wheel. It isn’t too far to their next location, Lynton prays they find an active base. He hopes when they arrive at Fort Breyers they find it teeming with regimental life.
Rash feels guilty. She almost hopes to find it another lost cause. If it turns out to be a dead zone, she and Zee can find a place of their own. Some secluded location and a means of survival. She wonders whether there is a difference between wishing all those soldiers harm, and just hoping for it. It probably doesn’t matter, she figures. If she was given the option she isn’t quite sure what she would actually choose.
“What is that?” Lynton sits up straighter when he sees a lump on the road. Someone is lying on the asphalt trying to get up. The person’s bones are obviously broken by the awkward angles at which the bend, like he or she has too many elbows and knees. It wears a safety helmet that is fractured all the way down the middle; only a few stickers hold the faceplate together. The truck halts a few yards from the mangled cyclist.
The soldiers approach on foot and the figure begins reaching out to them. Green plastic shards are all over the road. The remains of a dirt bike are off to the side. Its front tire spins uselessly in the air.
“This happened recently.” Rash points to the rotating tire. The cyclist is crawling towards them. Its legs are twisted and painful to look at.
“He’s dead.” Lynton says simply. Rash is about to aim her M-16 at the zombie biker’s head until Lynton holds up a hand. “He isn’t worth the bullet.”
“What if he bites a survivor?” Rash debates with her friend in the middle of the road.
“What if there aren’t any survivors? Besides, with the helmet on he can’t bite anybody.”
She lowers the weapon and they return to the truck. They see large troughs dug into an open field that look like tire tracks. They follow them with their eyes as the furrows veer across the un-toiled land.
Another zombie biker is on the road, walking towards the approaching truck. It seems to think it can intercept and stop the massive olive machine. The soldier just runs it down as it tries to grab on to the front fender.
These zombies are pretty fresh and must have come from somewhere, Rash thinks. Clearly there are survivors out there, despite what the barren landscape leads them to believe.
“It’s like a joy ride gone bad.” Rash says. Lynton is still following the tracks that double back and return to the road. A deep gouge has been taken out of the embankment. Bare topsoil is exposed surrounded by grass. The soldiers come to a stop again and get out.
“It looks like whoever made those tracks,” Lynton traces the path with his finger and stops at the gouge. “Was trying to make it up and got stuck. He must have used a winch, or was towed out.”
The ground surrounding the scar in the Earth is compacted with footprints and littered with trash; among the discarded rubbish are feathers and a hard cover composition book. Rash picks up the notebook and starts to read.
“What’s that?” Lynton asks.
“A journal.” She responds after reading a few passages. “Written by the King of New Castle.”
“Who?”
“No idea.”
“If this is any indication of survivors,” Lynton says. “We should locate them before heading to Breyers.” He consults a map for the nearest towns.
6
Bruce Williamson was on the run. He was forced to run faster and longer than he has in the past 20 years. He had to hurdle fallen logs while dodging trees. The two men who followed him knew the woods; Bruce was on their turf.
Old Bruce is no stranger to the woods himself; he grew up surrounded by similar terrain, and knows a few tricks. At one point, he was skipping down a deep ravine with the grace of a gazelle. The trick is to let gravity take you and use the thin trees for balance and to change direction. He had grabbed them like Tarzan grabs vines. His feet left the ground at the same time in a gallop; luckily for him his pursuers didn’t know that technique. Out of fear and self-preservation they took what Bruce calls the ‘sissy way’. They had crab crawled down and lost precious time, losing sight of the old man in the process.
Bruce needed this advantage. He had watched them from behind a tree as they came down the hill, they hit the ground running. He remained crouched among tall ferns as they meandered around, aimlessly looking through the woods. Bruce threw a rock to get them running where he wanted them, just a little deeper into the forest.
They had passed Bruce’s location by mere feet. Now what? He had asked himself. He couldn’t shoot them. The rest of those assholes will come running in. He couldn’t try to knock them out since they still had helmets on. Their heads were encased by bubbles of protection.
He knew he had to move. They would give up before long and return to their wheelers. Back on the road Bruce heard shouting, and the sound of metal scraping against metal. He backtracked to the road and found climbing the hill many times harder than his descent had been. He had to stay low. At the top he saw the swarm of bikes leaving, heading west. The king had to watch as the tow truck carried away his mobile kingdom.
He heard the foot soldiers returning. Old Bruce darted towards the farmland and dove between some large round hay bales. The engines started and the ATVs sped away across the wasteland. Bruce watched the path they cut into the dirt, leaving a trail of dust like a tracer round.
“Their club house must be nearby.” He deduced and decided he would follow their tracks. He figured he really had no other options or anything else to do. Bruce was stranded in the middle of nowhere and he was damned sure he was going to get his stuff back.
7
The soldiers had to turn around from their present course and head west according to the map. There is a small town named Sinclair not too far from the ‘accident’. They figure they can check in on any survivors before heading to Fort Breyers.
The deuce and a half takes a left and rolls into town. Parked outside of a bakery they let the engine idle. The streets are busy with zombies; they stop their inane pacing to look at the new arrivals. The hungry corpses head to the green truck.
“Lost cause.” SGT Lynton says. Rash hears the sadness in his voice. “Let’s just go to Breyers.”
“Sounds good.” Rash replies. She has never seen her friend so defeated before. She wonders
if Fort Breyers is going to be a wash as well. If so, can we find a safe haven? Such a place seems like an unobtainable dream to her.
Lynton is turning the large truck around. He drives onto the sidewalk, knocking over trashcans and demolishing a mailbox. He puts it in drive and begins to pull onto the main street of the town. Rash’s hand grips his forearm.
“Wait.” She points to her mirror. It reflects the image of a man standing inside the bakery banging on the glass trying to be noticed. He is screaming inaudible words in hopes of being heard.
The living dead citizens of Sinclair are congregating around the truck. Withered fingers try to reach up into the high windows. The crowd is too thick for the soldiers to get out. Lynton wonders if he should just drive to another part of town. Rash looks to the bakery window, the man is gone.
Buckshot pelts the side of the truck. The zombies take the pellets in stride, it wasn’t a killing blow. Another shot rings out spraying the window by Rash’s head with bits of bone and desiccated flesh. Another blast clears her side of the vehicle.
The soldiers rush out through the passenger door. The stranger is in the entrance to the bakery, holding it open and firing at the zombies behind their truck. They rush into the dark sweets shop.
A bell rings as the man closes the door. The lock is clicked and he pulls a shade down over the door’s window. The word closed can be seen backwards as the diminishing daylight shines through the white plastic.
The air smells sweet and inviting. Considering the horrific sights of the outside world, it doesn’t seem possible. Rash and Zee haven’t eaten since yesterday, the heavenly aroma makes their stomachs rumble.
Their rescuer lights a lantern. He appears to be in his mid-twenties. He holds a pump shotgun. Between the fingers of his left hand he holds three spare shells. Rash knows that hunters tend to do this because of the restrictions on how many rounds they can have in their guns at a time.
Rash has slung her weapon over her shoulder by its strap. Lynton isn’t so eager to drop his guard; his rifle is still out in the open. He heard rumors of looters, bandits and rapists, people who prey on the weaker survivors. He’ll wait for this man to lower his weapon first.
“Wow,” The stranger says with a smile. “That was exciting.”
Rash finds his smile to be very charming. His blond hair is longer than she typically likes on a guy. He has it pulled back in a loose ponytail. Overlooking the hair, the female soldier finds him to be very cute.
“We haven’t had any one new in town for a long time, especially soldiers.” The man breaks the ice. “I’m Dane.”
“Sergeants Lynton and Steele.” Zee introduces them both.
“You can call me Rash.” The petite soldier smiles. “It’s short for Rashida.”
“Welcome to Sinclair.” Dane says as he lays his shotgun on a glass counter that once displayed goodies and confections, but now only displays cobwebs and dust.
“Thanks for the rescue, Dane.” Rash is beaming. Lynton hasn’t seen her smile waver since they entered the bakery. She’s smitten, he knows the signs. “That’s supposed to be our job.”
“Everyone needs to be rescued every now and then. I’m sure we’ll find a use for you guys.”
“We’re just here to see if there are any survivors and how many.” Zee says sternly. “We need to get to Fort Breyers. If the post is still standing, we will come back for you. No sense extracting people if there’s no place to go.”
“You said ‘we’ just a minute ago. Who’s we?” Rash asks.
“The other people.”
“How many?” Zee asks.
“23.” Dane’s mood darkens. “We’ve lost many people during all of this. The winter took many as well, between illness and exposure, and supply runs gone bad.”
“Any kids?” Rash asks and Lynton isn’t sure if she is talking about the town in general or of his own personal stock.
“Sinclair has been dying long before this. People move away in search of better prospects. The few kids we had are gone now.”
A loud ding startles the three people. Dane excuses himself and heads into the back room. He takes the lantern leaving the soldiers in darkness.
“What do you think?” Rash asks after the man leaves them alone.
“Seems nice enough.” Lynton responds.
“Maybe if Breyers is a wash we can come back here to live?” She seems excited about the prospect. Lynton wonders if she is hoping to find the base a dead zone. He is about to ask her that very question when Dane re-enters the storefront.
“Hungry?” He asks while setting a plate of muffins onto the counter by his gun.
“Starved.” Rash responds, ravenously grabbing one of the warm treats. Lynton picks one up, but doesn’t take a bite yet. He looks at the offering. Rash is halfway finished with hers already.
“There’s no power?” Lynton notices. “How did you make these?”
“Gas.” Dane answers through a mouthful of blueberry muffin. “We have to be conservative with it, only use it sparingly. This is the end of the muffin mix, end of everything actually. Unfortunately, this whole mess happened the day the market was due to receive its delivery.”
Rash is attacking another one while Lynton starts to eat the top of his. He looks around the bakery. Tables and cases have placards that name different baked delights, but there are none to be found. The people of this town must have picked this place clean within the first week.
“I should get these to the others.” Dane says taking the plate of muffins over to the now useless register. From below the counter he takes a pink box and dumps the muffins into it. “Would you guys like dinner before you take off?”
Rash looks at Lynton with pleading eyes. He gives her the slightest of nods and she is elated, blurting out. “We’d love to.”
Dane takes them into the back room where the shop’s kitchen is. It is still warm from the oven. On the back wall they see steel rungs are affixed into the cement, the ladder leads all the way up to the ceiling.
Dane has to climb one handed so he can carry the box. He leaves his shotgun behind. The soldiers follow, Rash is right behind him, enjoying the view from her vantage point.
For a baker he has a really toned ass, Rash thinks. Her perception of cooks and chefs comes from stereotypes. She always imagines them as fat and jolly people whose love of cooking was not only fostered, but surpassed by their love of eating.
On the roof the soldiers can see the dead overrun the streets. They didn’t have a huge population to begin with, but with all of the denizens now zombies, it seems quite foreboding. Lynton estimates there to be at least two hundred of them below. The bulk of the horde is still gathered around the truck, wanting to get into the bakery, some are starting to lose interest and wandering away.
The roof is connected to the next via a makeshift bridge. The people salvaged every door and table they could find to build it. The pieces of wood are laminated together for extra strength. Dane easily travels over the bridge and waits on the other side.
“One at a time.” He calls over to the worried looking soldiers. He points down at the alley between buildings. Below, vacuous hungry eyes are cast upwards.
Rash braves the feat next, staring at her boots the whole way. She stays in the middle, walking heel to toe. Dane made it look so easy, she thinks. Now he’ll think I’m a pussy.
“See,” Dane says offering her a hand when she reaches the other side. “Easy as pie.”
Lynton is left on the other side. He steps onto the planks and starts across. He is terrified of heights, but refuses to let it show. He keeps his eyes on the two people he walks towards, and off of the legion of faces staring up at him. The rickety span bows under his weight. He’s not only a tall man, he is also solid muscle.
“Cool.” Dane says as Lynton nears. He offers a hand to the large man, but is left hanging. Zee stoically walks past him and onto the gravel roof. His body relaxes every tensed muscle in relief until Dane announces. “Just two m
ore to go.”
8
The tracks in the dirt field end at a series of trails through a wooded area. Grass grows down the center of these well-traveled paths. Bruce crouches and examines the dirt, looking for evidence as to which he should follow.
His senses are on edge as he keeps his eyes moving, and his ears primed, not too long ago he thought he heard gunfire. Every step he takes down the trail angers him. I shouldn’t have to walk.
“Who has the audacity to do this to a king?” He asks himself. The trail ends at a road that passes a small town. He is on a hill looking down, from his position he can see the backs of businesses along the town’s main street. He sees a used car lot, the back of which is closed off by chain link. Inside the fence he sees several parked dirt bikes and the two four wheelers.
The green bikes look like grasshoppers standing side by side. The Road Master is nowhere to be seen, but he spots the tow truck parked in an alley between buildings.
“Where the fuck is my truck?”
9
The aerial crossing of the town of Sinclair comes to an end at a nice looking inn. The soldiers are lead inside and down flights of stairs, all the way to the first floor. None of the guest rooms have doors anymore; all of them had been confiscated for making the bridges. They follow Dane through a lobby and reception area.
Rash always preferred these mom and pop establishments to the sterile chains. Lynton, on the other hand, is a sanitized for your protection kind of man.
Dane escorts the two new comers into a banquet room. It is lit by lanterns and candles, a fire burns in a hearth on the back wall. In the center of the room is a large table covered by a white sheet. All around the table sits smiling faces.
Life Among The Dead Page 42
