by T. W. Brown
“They wanted to send a message to the United States Army,” I added. “If you ask me, I think that this is the work of one of those nutjob military types. Those groups have waited for some sort of apocalypse for years. They have some misguided fantasy that the Constitution allows them to avoid getting a driver’s license, paying taxes…all sorts of wingnut crap under some mythical sovereign declaration.”
“What in the hell are you going on about?” Dave asked.
“Remember Oklahoma City and that federal building that got blown up?” Barry piped in. Dave nodded. “Well, there’s groups all over the country that are like those assholes. Everything is a conspiracy; Waco, Ruby Ridge, 9-11…I imagine that they’ve pinned this nightmare on the government as well. Most of ‘em are closet KKK members.”
And there it was. I was wondering why Barry had jumped into this so suddenly.
“I’m just saying that, whoever attacked our foragers and our camp were well organized, but they have an obvious dislike for the boys in uniform. My guess is a local militia. That means they are very structured. Our best bet is to put this place behind us.” I slung my M4 over my shoulder.
“And just abandon Billy?” Aaron’s voice trembled.
“And Ian?” Barry added. “We aren’t just abandoning them, Aaron. But we have a responsibility to ourselves…each other…like Thalia.” That made Aaron’s head snap up. “We looked, now we pray for them. If they’re alive, we hope and pray for their peace.”
Neither Dave nor I had anything to add. I was more than a little surprised when Dave went over and put his arms around Aaron in a comforting hug. Aaron’s shoulders slumped, and his muffled sobs were barely audible.
Footsteps approached and I turned to see Jamie and Teresa coming up the grassy hill. They’d insisted on making one last trip down to Kamela. I didn’t see the reason…we’d been on this hill for ten days and not seen one single sign of anything living. We’d gone so far as to torch a pile of zombies that we’d dragged to where the party’s burned out vehicles sat. At night, we’d scanned the area with the pair of night-vision equipped binoculars that Paul Wimmer had given us.
The only thing we’d truly accomplished in the week-and-a-half that we’d been here was a drastic thinning of the zombie population. Every day we’d gone down to the outskirts of Kamela and picked off the stragglers. There was absolutely no bunching up here. That was another clue that our friends weren’t holed up anyplace in town.
Today had been agreed upon as the last day that we would try to make contact. It had been just as fruitless as the previous nine. The look of resignation on Jamie’s and Teresa’s faces was simply more finality.
“Aaron?” Jamie placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s time to go.”
The young man took a deep breath, stepped out of Dave’s awkward hug, and wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. He looked at Teresa, then back to Jamie who both nodded. The three teenagers came together in a little huddle for a moment, sharing something exclusive amongst themselves.
We’ve picked up a transmission. We’ll move in with caution because there is just no way to tell anymore. I would’ve never expected that a scenario like this could happen. I certainly would not have thought that humanity would crumble so quickly. I was no optimist…but I certainly didn’t anticipate such barbarism and wickedness.
I can see La Grande. The town is a nightmare. Fires have done spectacular damage. The undead are all over the place. Looking at my tattered AAA Road Atlas, this is the largest concentration of population for miles.
“Think that’s them?” Teresa moved up beside me, peering through her own set of binoculars. She pointed at a tan warehouse sitting beside a big railyard.
“Mm-hmmm,” I grunted. All that open space was a mixed blessing. It made it tough to cross without drawing considerable attention. But it also cut down on possible hiding places for zombies or ill-intentioned survivors.
The warehouse had one large roll-top door in the center of the east and west facing walls. The building runs lengthwise north and south. I’m guessing it to be about fifty feet wide and at least a football field long. It’s probably thirty feet tall and, fortunately for those inside, the windows are in the upper third.
The walking dead are ten or twenty deep in places and have the building completely surrounded. I could see hundreds more laying scattered about. The folks trapped inside have certainly tried to shoot their way out. Judging by the hundreds if not thousands I see just wandering around the town from where we sit parked on a ridge in relative safety, for every one they dropped, they probably attracted two more. And they weren’t alone. I could make out at least a dozen more clusters around everything from what looked like a church, to an apartment complex that appears to be a big open square with iron gates at the two courtyard entrances.
“You aren’t seriously thinking about going down there?” Dave said.
“Of course he isn’t,” Barry scoffed. “Right, Steve?”
“The people on the radio said they are in a warehouse on the outskirts of the town.” I pointed to where Teresa and I had been looking, not that I needed to…it was fairly obvious.
“But you aren’t considering even for a second about going down there into,” Barry paused and looked again at the swarm around the warehouse, then back to me as if he had confirmed something, “into that!”
“I’m not sure what I plan on doing or not doing,” I shrugged. “There is a group of people down there pleading for help. They are out of food…low on water…”
“We can’t save everybody,” Barry said, pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiping his forehead.
Here we go again, I thought. I like Barry as a person, but when it comes to helping anybody other than himself, he just seems uninterested. We’d been in verbal spats before. Once was due to him seeming to have a problem with Thalia. She’d been suffering from some bad nightmares. On a few occasions, it compromised our hideout and brought the zombies pawing at our door or bursting through our windows.
“My conscience won’t let me simply abandon those people to certain death if I can find a way to help.” I kept my voice calm. Points for me.
“You can’t—” Dave began, but was interrupted.
“Oh no!” Randi wailed.
At some point, everybody with the exception of Thalia and Emily had gathered around. For whatever reason, we couldn’t hear it, but we watched as the big roll-top door buckled. The barricade those survivors had constructed gave way to the sheer weight of all those bodies pressing against it. Teresa was instantly on the radio trying to make contact.
Nothing.
A moment later people were pouring out onto the roof of the warehouse through some—unseen by us—hatch access. I trained my binoculars and was not encouraged by what I saw. There was no telling how long those folks had been trapped in that building. They looked terrible. Like human skeletons in most cases. Of the baker’s dozen, a few were bloody.
One of the folks, who looked to be a rather large man even after going hungry, had blood all down his chest and still round belly. There was a lot of pointing, pushing, and shoving. Those not bitten clearly wanted to dispose with those who were. Friends or loved ones of the newly bitten were trying to defend from, or in some cases, plead with the ones who were intent on survival. Nobody was paying attention to the fat man. He wandered away from the ruckus and came to a swaying halt. Then…he fell face down. Still nobody paid attention. I watched, helpless, waiting for him to stir.
It had grown silent around me. The sounds of yelling and screaming carried with the moans of—what was now growing in numbers exponentially—the swarm of walking dead. I glanced around. Everybody who had a pair of binoculars was watching. The others had eyes shielded with hands. But everybody was watching.
Then the fat man got up.
“Shit,” Teresa breathed.
There was nothing we could do but watch helplessly as fat-zombie t
rudged across the roof. The nearest survivor was a long-haired woman. She held what looked like little more than a sharpened stick. I felt like I was watching a scary movie. Even if I screamed, the figures on the screen couldn’t hear me. I could, however, hear her. The only good thing to come from it was the sudden mobilization of survivors.
Fat-zombie and his victim tumbled to the roof. My mind amplified the jet of blood from where the woman’s throat was ripped open. The whole mood of the survivors on the roof changed before my eyes. One of those bitten took their fate into their own hands and took a running dive off the roof. Another was more dramatic. An elderly woman with gray hair. She sat the butt of her sharpened stick on the roof, bracing it in a corner, then she lined the sharp end up—probably on an eye-socket—and thrust her head down. She twitched a few times as she slumped out of sight behind the two- or three-foot lip that ran along the roof’s edge.
Some of those already bitten simply submitted to their death. Others fought, kicked, and screamed. Still, in less than two minutes, there were nine left standing.
I was still trying to figure out a plan where we could rescue those remaining when Jamie tapped me on the shoulder. “Look over at the church and that apartment complex.”
I did, and took a moment to be sure I wasn’t imagining things. Both of those sites were on the edge of town, closer to the warehouse. Each had seen a lessening of the zombies surrounding their location as they’d headed towards all the excitement at the warehouse. It was a zombie low-tide, and with apparent practiced ease and purpose, the occupants of both the church and apartment were on the move. In singles and teams of two or three they fanned out to the buildings in their surrounding vicinity. Some had packs, a couple had wheelbarrows.
“Supply runs,” Dr. Zahn said with an amazed lilt in her voice.
“Why don’t they make a break for it?” Barry asked, sounding frustrated.
“Maybe they don’t want to give up their homes.” I shrugged. Although, even to me that sounded like thin reasoning.
“So they wait until it gets so bad,” Barry’s voice was growing louder and more angry with each word, “that they are near death from starvation or lack of water and send out a distress call that will get others killed?”
“Dude!” It was Jamie. “Maybe they don’t want to simply surrender their town to these fucks?”
“Or maybe they have children,” Teresa piled on. “Maybe they are trying to take care of their little ones and don’t want to expose themselves to the uncertainty of the wide open wilderness.”
“So they lock themselves away and let those things surround them?” Barry was yelling. So much for this observation post. Already I could see figures turning our way.
“Being on the move hasn’t exactly been a flawless plan,” Teresa countered. “Or have you forgotten Dillon? Ian? Billy? Joseph?”
“Staying put doesn’t seem to work,” Barry snapped. “Or have you forgotten the place we just left behind?”
“Maybe there are no answers.” Now Melissa was in the dispute. “Maybe all we can do is make things up as it happens. Learn from our mistakes. And,” she paused deliberately looking over to the Hummer where two little faces were staring out at the crazy adults with wide eyes and expressions that were a mix of fear and concern, “hopefully keep a good grip on our humanity.”
“We have to decide what sort of people we will be.” Everybody fell silent and turned. Very seldom did Randi Jenkins speak to anybody, much less to the group. She walked up to her husband and placed her hands on his shoulders. “We lost our baby. We’ve lost everything. So has everybody. When this unthinkable horror began, it…” she looked around at all of us as if realizing for the first time that we were there.
“Barry,” Randi continued, but moved so that she could also face everybody, “we spent our lives helping people. Men, women, and children who allowed drugs to ruin their lives. And you took pride in taking the hardest cases that came through the door. When that boy Juan Hoya came through the system twice, only to be hooked up to the pipe again each time, it was you who took his file out of the administrator’s hands. When he said it was a hopeless case, you told him there was no such thing. And how many others? You told me once that it wasn’t about ‘saving the world,’ but simply ‘saving the ones we can reach.’ Those people down there,” Randi turned and looked down the hill, “we can reach them.”
We all stood there silent. Personally, I was just dumbstruck. Randi’d always done her part around the camp. She’s always been polite. She just wasn’t ever much for talking. I watched Barry, he seemed as surprised as the rest of us.
“I haven’t thought of that young man in a couple of years.” Barry’s eyes were far away now. “What was it he was always sayin’? Somethin’ about Tigers.”
“Tight like a—” Randi began.
“Tigah!” they both finished together with a laugh. That was the first time I think I’d ever heard Randi Jenkins laugh. The couple hugged, still laughing. After a few seconds, Barry turned to me. “So what’s your plan?”
Just like that? I thought. Randi nodded slightly as if reading my mind. I rubbed my hands together and turned back to the warehouse, bringing my binoculars up. I let my enhanced gaze sweep the area back and forth, then I saw it. If it worked, it would almost be too easy.
Almost.
“I think this might have a chance of success.” Dr. Zahn crouched down beside me, handing me the canteen she’d just sipped from.
Taking a long drink in hopes that it would wash away the terrible case of adrenaline dry mouth I was experiencing, I only nodded. From our place behind a lone CSX railcar, we had a clear view of the wide open railyard, the south end of the warehouse, and the truck.
The truck was the centerpiece to my grand scheme. Barry and Jamie were making their way towards it, but since they had to skirt the area so wide, they would be a few minutes. Once there, Jamie would get it started—by hotwire if necessary—then they would set it into motion. The truck is on a special carriage that lets it drive on train tracks. Railroad workers apparently use them when they’re out doing maintenance. They would put a brick or something on the gas pedal.
It is the next part of the plan that has me feeling queasy. We all agreed that the truck alone might not be sufficient. Somebody has to be in the back making a lot of noise to really have a chance at this plan working.
There was a discussion as to whether one or two should be sufficient. I put my foot down and said that I would only be willing to risk one person. Whomever it was would have their choice of handheld weapons, a pistol-grip shotgun that holds five shells with a bandoleer of twenty reload rounds, and a single handgun with a half-dozen spare mags. We each put a tiny rock with our initials on it. This was the other part of the argument…and I lost. I didn’t want any of the women in this sinister lottery.
“The old ways were long gone, Steve.” Teresa had actually sounded like she felt sorry for me or something. “Each of us has to step up when things get crazy. I’m not being a feminist or anything.” Barry had tried to interrupt, but she raised a hand his direction to indicate silence. “The time for the women to hang back or let the men shoulder the lead is dead. Probably forever.”
We agreed that there would be three stones drawn. The first would be in the back of the truck. The second had the unpleasant duty of keeping a scope trained on the person in the truck—none of us wanted to be torn apart, and would prefer a quick bullet to the head if things go badly. The third is the back-up in case the one person is unable to pull the trigger. I drew that task.
“They seem more spread out from here,” Melissa whispered. She’d “won” the lottery. Aaron was drawn second. From the look I’d seen in his eyes, I was already consigned to the fact that it would be me pulling the trigger.
Randi would be in one of the Hummers, prepared to swoop in and gather up the survivors. Dave had given us the method to make contact with them. We’d tried the radio, but I guess that, in their
hurry to get up to the roof, they didn’t have time to grab it. Dave had us write a note that we secured with a bit of thread from Dr. Zahn’s medical kit to an arrow. I guess his hobby was archery. Who knew? He had a composite bow and a box with a hundred or so arrows in it packed in the vehicle. Honestly I didn’t think he had the strength. He moved to a place he was happy with and fired one arrow—I imagine to get a range or fix, whatever—then another with the note. We watched the small group gather around. A few started hopping up and down like their names had been called to “C’mon down!” on The Price is Right.
Teresa would be with the girls in the other Hummer. She would pull up to a spot we determined as the pick up location. Melissa would jump out—if she made it. It was a large grassy patch on a gradual uphill slope about a half of a mile from the warehouse. That spot was chosen for two reasons, First, the slope would slow the vehicle down just a bit, and second, it was the softest looking place for somebody to land.
I saw Barry step out from the cover of the truck and wave his arms. That was the signal.
“Okay, Melissa,” I grabbed her by the arms and turned her towards me, “follow that fenceline and down that ditch. Come up when you see the second overhead walkway. If anything—”
“Steve,” she put her finger on my lips, “I know. We went over it.”
“It’s just—” she cut me off again.
“It’s just that I’m a girl and you are being a total guy about this,” she said “guy” like it was a bad thing.
“Be careful,” I sighed.
“See you in a little while.” She winked and kissed me on the cheek.
I watched her scurry away, hunched over to stay behind as much cover as possible. Still, by the time she reached the tall fence and made a run for the ditch, she already had a few dozen of the things on her trail. Her ponytail bobbed like a lure leading the fish to the juicy worm. Then she slid down the embankment that would take her to the wide ditch where some sort of runoff used to flow. A cold feeling flooded into my stomach.
