by Steven Pajak
She turned to me now and smiled, her face immediately shining brightly. Unconsciously, she cocked a hip to the side, making me take notice of her figure. “Sure, boss. No worries. And maybe one day you’ll have me over so I can show you how to make real coffee that doesn’t taste like yak bile.”
I laughed. “I might take you up on that,” I said, taking note of her reaction. That little spark in her eyes confirmed what I already knew; there could be something between us if I allowed it happen. She was pretty, no doubt, and I was attracted to her, but the fact was that I just wasn’t ready for a relationship. It had been only three months since my wife passed. It just seemed too soon, like I was betraying my wife, like our ten years of marriage meant nothing.
Swinging the axe up onto my shoulder, I turned away from Lara and made my way toward the CP.
“Be safe,” Lara called out.
I stopped and gave her a wave, then took a direct route through Harper’s Knoll, where our fallen residents were laid to rest. With snow crunching beneath the heels of my boots, I passed the section of the knoll where Charlie Pruett was buried. Charlie had been the first buried at Harper’s Knoll—our first casualty after the world started to change. His once lonely grave no longer stood solitary. All of the men who’d accompanied me and Charlie on our supply run now rested beside their brother-in-arms.
Shortly after Iggy attacked Darla at Charlie’s funeral and was gunned down by Brian, the rest of the men started to show signs of infection. I had been weak then, and Brian personally put down each man, doing what I could not. I was quarantined for seventy-two hours, until they were sure I wouldn’t turn like the rest of them. Eventually, Ravi concluded that I must be immune to Mad Swine, although that was just speculation on her part.
We were lucky, though. Somehow the disease was contained before it could spread further. Sixteen were dead and from that point forward we were careful about our contact with the infected. These were lessons learned too late for the sixteen, though.
When this apocalypse began, there were one hundred and eight souls in Randall Oaks. We returned from Kappy’s with three refugees, bringing our number to one-hundred-eleven. Only three months later, thirty-one of us remained. Our war with Providence lasted three weeks. We lost thirteen men and women to sniper fire, five men died during the mission to burn down the sniper’s nest and another twenty-two men and women were killed in action during Providence’s final attack. In the two months following the war another eighteen died at the hands of the infected during duties outside the walls.
The number of our dead was staggering. Each time I thought about the number of brave men and women who died I felt numb, dumbfounded. In Afghanistan, during two tours of duty I’d only lost six men under my command. No matter how much I tried I could not wrap my mind around how many were lost in so little time.
Stopping at one of the graves, I bent low and brushed a thin layer of snow away from the marker to reveal the name of the departed: Robert Brown. Beloved Husband and Father. Brave Soldier.
“I miss you, Bob,” I said.
Chapter 3
The Council
I stepped into the garage, passing under a hand painted sign that read ‘Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again’, and sighed as warm tendrils of artificially generated heat found my face and neck. I closed my eyes for a moment to adjust to the change in light, relishing the dry heat.
“Close the damn door,” Ray grunted from somewhere within the garage. “You’re letting all the heat out for Christ’s sake.”
“Sure thing, Ray.”
I reached back, grabbed the knob and closed the door behind me, plunging the room into total darkness. At first it appeared as though the room was completely void of light, but after a moment my eyes adjusted and the faint orange glow of the space heater and the pale green light from Ray’s equipment became apparent. Ray liked to live in the dark. Most of the residents called him the “troll under the bridge”, although none would dare call him that to his face.
Relying on the artificial light and memory, I navigated my way across the garage to where Ray sat at his command station. The desk, borrowed from one of the furnished model homes before we used all spare furniture for firewood, was set in the northwest corner of the garage. The desk had been chosen not only for its vast surface space, but also because of the cavernous knee opening. The wide space was able to accommodate Ray’s wheelchair comfortably, even granting enough space for the arms of the chair to fit under the desktop.
As I approached, Ray turned away from his machines long enough to give a curt nod which was the best you could expect from Ray as a greeting. In the pale green-orange light, Ray’s face looked strange, almost ghoulish. The dark circles under his eyes and his narrow cheeks gave him a Halloween look. It was clear that Ray didn’t sleep much. He had demons that haunted him in slumber, bad memories from his past that he could not put to rest. I knew the feeling well.
“Good morning, Ray. I brought you some coffee.”
Ray grunted as I set the cowboy coffee pot down onto the desk. He grabbed it up with little fanfare and started to pour himself a cup. Ray was so familiar with his layout that his hands moved confidently, even in the dark room. I don’t think he spilled a drop.
“Got some news,” Ray finally said after taking a swig of my swill. His voice was scratchy but strong. It was the voice of a man who smoked too much and drank even more.
Ray was also a man of few words. He had a tendency to get down to the point straightaway; he felt that any more words than were necessary were just a waste. Ray had once told me that too many people liked to talk just to hear their own voices, especially the educated types with their degrees and egos. Having worked at a university for most of my adult life, I spent a lot of time around faculty and administrators who all held advanced degrees, and I had to admit, Ray had a point.
In the dark, I suddenly felt a warm tongue caress the side of my left palm. I bent to one knee and in the glow of Ray’s command module, looked at the German shepherd. I took his ears in my hands and gave him a good scratch.
“Hey, Cody, that’s a good boy. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” More warm tongue lapped at my forearm and then my chin. Cody’s attitude was completely opposite his master’s.
Ray’s wife had divorced him two years earlier, shortly after the accident that took his legs and claimed the life of a family of four in Wisconsin. Ray was a truck driver on his way back home from an overnight haul. He’d obviously had too much to drink and had fallen asleep at the wheel. The semi wandered into oncoming traffic, slamming head-on into the Honda CRV, instantly killing all four members of the Halverson family, who had been returning from a trip to the Wisconsin Dells.
Ray had suffered a head injury and a fractured spine. After surgery on his spine—luckily the doctors were able to save him from being a quadriplegic—he’d remained in a coma for nearly two weeks. He didn’t at first remember the horrible accident and didn’t believe it when the nurses told him of the incident. He realized the truth when the next day his wife served him with divorce papers, telling him she wouldn’t stand by while he ruined her life, her children’s lives, or his own. His wife took the children to Tennessee to live with her parents and Ray hadn’t seen them since. In the two years since, Ray had become a bitter man who felt sorry for himself and hated everyone. Ray only seemed to show affection for his dog, Cody. And recently he’d seemed to take a shine to Wesley.
“So what’s the news? Is it about the weather?” I asked.
Ray vigorously shook his head. “This isn’t a damn radar station that tracks weather. Besides, who gives a damn about the weather anyway?”
“Lara was worried there’s a big snow front moving in. We can’t take another storm. We’re worried about drifts and we’re out of gas for the plows. We’ve siphoned what we could from all the cars weeks ago.”
Ray grunted something I couldn’t quite hear—I’m sure it was something derogatory or mean-spirited or bo
th—and took another drink of coffee.
“That’s good,” he said and I almost laughed.
“So what’s this news that has you all worked up?” I asked.
“It’s about those freaks of nature out there,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the garage door. “I heard from my contacts in Great Britain that Japan was hit by a huge tsunami. They tell me there are waves fifty-foot high; wiped every last one of those unholy creatures the hell off the island. Good riddance. Sayonara as the Japs say.”
“When did that happen?”
“Just a few hours ago, but I’m not sure if that’s our time or Brit time. We heard from some Japs that are broadcasting from high ground, up in one of those skyscrapers they have all over Tokyo. I can’t understand what the hell they’re saying, but the Brit says the damn Japs are celebrating like goddamn school girls. They say the freaking zombies can’t swim and don’t float. They just go down under and stay under.”
“Jesus.”
“They’re saying they expect Japan to be completely clear of those freaks when the tsunami subsides. They say the whole damn island will be free of zombies. Figures it would be the damn Japs that would get so lucky. We need a damn tsunami here. Wipe those damn things clean away.”
“We’d be wiped away with them.” I reminded Ray, “We don’t have any skyscrapers to hole up in.”
“Well maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Ray said. “We all fucked this planet up anyway. Might as well start over fresh. I’m all for it if it sends the demons back to hell and gives the rest of the good folks a chance to survive.”
“I don’t know if I’m one of the good folks, but I’m not ready to die yet, Raymond. Keep me posted on Japan. And please see if you can get any local news. We need to know what’s going on outside our walls. And try to find out something about the weather, please.”
“Damn the weather,” Ray said as I opened the interior door that connected the garage to the house. As I was about to step inside he asked, “Send out the boy, will you? Cody has to be walked.”
“The boy has a name,” I said. “It’s Wesley.”
“Whatever. Send him out.”
Shaking my head and rolling my eyes, I closed the door behind me and stepped into the kitchen. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the natural sunlight that spilled in through the window over the sink. I set my axe down on the island and took off my scarf and gloves. I was already beginning to sweat now that I was indoors.
The command post had quickly become the hub of the community since it was the only place that had electricity thanks to the solar panels that were removed from the construction signs on the west side of the community where the builder had just broken ground before Mad Swine infected the populous. Under Paul Dazzo’s guidance, we’d been able to remove the four solar panels from the construction signs and transplant them onto the roof of the command post in just six hours. Paul was amazing; he had a sharp mind and his years of experience as a civil engineer served us well.
Although closed during the morning during Council meetings, the command post would soon come alive during late morning when most folks would stop in to get warm or just to be social. The house had four bedrooms, all on the second level of the home. The master bedroom had been converted into a classroom where Al Sanchez’s wife, Araceli, currently worked with the children for five hours each day studying various subjects. One of the remaining three rooms had become an activity room where Belinda Sanchez, Al’s fifteen year old daughter, kept the five younger children of the community occupied with board games and puzzles.
The other two bedrooms remained sleeping quarters, with enough mattresses to sleep ten, five per room. Usually those returning from patrol or guard duty grabbed a few hours of warm sleep before heading back to their own homes. Down in the family room someone had hooked up a DVD player and everyone had donated their DVDs. In the afternoon, kids’ movies played one after the other, but evenings was movie time for the adults. Sometimes sitting there watching a movie you could almost imagine things were back to normal.
After hanging my coat and scarf over one of the island stools, I paused a moment and listened. Beyond the kitchen I could hear voices of the council members talking animatedly in the dining room. I consulted my watch and noted I was five minutes late.
The members of the council were seated around the eight seat dining room table, each in their usual space. They were talking animatedly in their little cliques, using the time before the meeting to catch up on the latest gossip. Before anyone took notice of my arrival, I spotted Wesley in the living room and waved over him to me.
“Hello, Mr. Danzig,” he said when he stood in front of me.
Wesley had honey-gold hair that had grown thick and somewhat bushy over the last three months. His dark brown eyes sat below thin eyebrows and his pale skin was not quite the color of milk, but very light. He wore a brown pullover sweater and tan corduroy pants, both items donated from my children’s belongings. Wesley was small for his age, and he fit well into my son, Mark’s clothing.
I ruffled his thick hair. “Hey, champ. How are you doing?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m fine. Just watching a DVD.”
Wesley had come a long way in the last two months, thanks to the nurturing of Sam and Kat, who had taken Wesley in after his parents were killed in action. Already a quiet boy, Wesley had become more withdrawn and introverted with his parents’ passing. Although the whole community rallied to his aid, and Sam and Kat had the patience of saints, it was Cody the dog that really started to bring the boy out of his shell.
One morning after the council meeting, Sam, Kat and myself were huddled in the kitchen quietly discussing Wesley’s depressed state when the garage door opened, revealing Ray, seated in his wheel chair with a blanket tossed across his knees. From his spot inside the garage, Ray told us he was tired of hearing us conspire about how to pull the boy out of his funk; Ray’s order was to give the kid something to be responsible for and that would take his mind off of his parents and get him right in no time. At Ray’s suggestion, Cody officially became Wesley’s ward. Wesley’s new responsibilities were to make sure Cody had food and water, was played with, and taken out to do his business at least three times each day.
Surprisingly, the therapy worked. In as little as a week we noticed that Wesley was perkier and less withdrawn. He started talking to Ray, asking him questions about Cody, learning his schedules and habits. Although he wouldn’t admit it, Ray liked having Wesley around, and he liked being able to teach the boy. When Wesley was around, Ray was a completely transformed man. The two were an odd couple, but they seemed to need each other.
“Ray wants you to take Cody for a walk. Can you manage that?”
“Yes, sir,” Wesley said and sprung away like the devil was giving him chase. He eagerly snatched his coat from the back of one of the kitchen chairs and exited the kitchen through the garage. Before the door closed, I glimpsed Cody greet his little master with wagging tail and wet tongue. I had a feeling that some of Wesley’s excitement might have something to do with the mounds of snow outside and all fun things a kid could imagine to do with it, not just spending time with the dog.
“Good morning, everyone,” I said as I took my seat at the head of the table. “Sorry I’m late.”
The murmur of chatting almost immediately ceased as I pulled in my chair and got myself comfortable. I looked around the table and saw bright faces ready to start the day and meet any challenges with determination and tenacity.
The council was made up of nine individuals, myself included, who were leaders, each in charge of a major infrastructure unit within our community. At the head of the table across from me sat Kat Dudyck, who was currently the leader of our militia. Tall, blond, and beautiful, with a commanding voice that demanded respect, Kat pulled double duty as lead for our internal security team, assuming the position after Bob’s death. Kat also acted as my second in command and broug
ht great experience and logic to the decision making process.
To Kat’s left sat Sam, her life partner. Although not as tall as Kat, Sam was exotically beautiful with her dark brown hair and green eyes. Formerly a yoga instructor, Sam was fit and always on the move. After our tragic losses during the war with Providence, Sam volunteered to take over as our supply leader, taking the position Kat previously held. Sam was perfect for the job. She was stern but fair and she was a natural people person. Her energy and enthusiasm were tireless.
Next to Sam sat Reverend Reggie who also filled a double role as our morale officer and graves administrator. A shock of light brown hair and thin framed glasses, along with the somber look gave credibility to his character. During the war, Reggie and his volunteers showed considerable courage and dignity in attending to the dead and administering last rites for our fallen. In the aftermath, Reggie provided counsel to those in need and guided others in prayer, giving each individual what they needed, spiritually and mentally, to get them through their extraordinary experiences.
Albert Sanchez was a squat man with a strong build and a thick, slab-like stomach. Prior to retiring to Randall Oaks, Albert had been the top man at Streets and Sanitation, so it only made sense that he’d become our man in charge of grounds and maintenance. At age sixty-three, Albert was extremely active. I think the fact that he had one young child and one teenager had something to do with his activity level. Over the last three months Albert and his crew had come up with weekly trash services, but more importantly, they had taken readily to the task of dealing with the dead infected. With knowledge imparted from Brian and myself, based on what we knew from our years of military service, Albert and crew had successfully disposed of all infected to date, without incident.
Across from Albert and to my left was Paul Dazzo, our engineer and the man responsible for providing this place with electricity and converting our gas stoves to wood burning. Paul was also retired, but unlike Albert, Paul had difficulty getting around; two kidney transplants and other numerous surgeries had taken their toll on the man. You wouldn’t know it, though, because of Paul’s can-do attitude to all problems and his willingness to volunteer for any assignment to which he felt he could offer a solution. And with a background in mathematics, Paul was always certain that there was a solution to any problem. His ingenuity and inventions saved our lives and made living in a post-apocalyptic world easier than it would have been otherwise. Paul’s health, however, continued to deteriorate. With limited supplies, Paul was unable to get the medications he needed; his supply was running very low and Ravi was unsure of how quickly his condition might deteriorate without medication and treatments. She was monitoring Paul closely.
