It was about this time that I stopped to wonder about the electricity. If my assumptions about the past month (had it been a month, I hadn’t really been keeping track) were true, then shouldn’t the power have given out a long time ago. I know they had to have a pretty big generator in this place, but who the hell had been feeding it? I could tell it was still running because I found working lights in about a third of the rooms I checked. I was broken from my musings by a scraping sound coming from a room down the hall. It was accompanied by a weird, gurgling moan. Not good. I set down my duffle and hefted the hammer in my right hand. I moved slowly toward the door, reached out for the handle, and cracked it open an inch. I was immediately thrown backward as the weight of the thing crashed into the opening door.
It looked like one of the previous residents of the barracks upstairs, at least 6’6” and somewhere in the neighborhood of 350 pounds, even with a sizeable chunk of his midsection torn away. He stumbled toward me as I scrambled backward. At least he wasn’t moving too fast. I made it to my feet and swung the hammer in a wide, sidearm sweep. It made solid contact with the thing’s jaw, tearing it off. The shock went straight up my arm, numbing my hand and I dropped the damn hammer.
The ragged remains of this thing’s face bore down on me as it tried to grab my arm. The stench of it was unbearable. I looked around for another weapon within arm’s reach but couldn’t see anything worth it. I landed a kick in the thing’s chest trying to drive it back. It was like kicking a slab of beef. I flew backward with the recoil and landed on my ass.
“Back to square fucking one,” I thought, crab walking my way backward to get the hell out its reach. With Beefy between me and the only semblance of a weapon I had managed to find and no hope of effective hand to hand combat, I will admit I had my doubts about the survivability of the situation. I got back on my feet and turned to run when I spotted it; the body of a guard half buried by a fallen bookshelf in one of the offices. I recognized the boots and the black fatigue pants. I crashed through the door hoping this guy wasn’t carrying one of those fucking batons, although given the circumstances, I would be happy to go after that thing with anything other than my dick in my hand. I could hear the fucker limping after me. He was close, too close. If there wasn’t something I could use in this room, I would die here. I rammed the bookshelf with my shoulder ignoring the jolt of pain. It flew across the room and revealed my savior. A beautiful little .45 tucked neatly in a holster on the belt of my new, dead best friend. In one smooth move, I un-holstered the weapon, flipped off the safety and brought it around to where I judged the waiting head of Beefy would be. There wasn’t time to cock the weapon; I had to pray that there was a round in the chamber.
As I squeezed the trigger, a received the satisfying crash that only an M1911 can give. I saw the top half of Beefy’s head disintegrate into a fine red, brown mist and his body hit the floor.
I stood for a moment relishing the ringing in my ears because that meant I was still alive to hear my ears ring. I took a couple of deep breaths smelling the cordite in the air and waited until I felt like the world wasn’t going to give way under me. Then I fell on my ass.
This was some fucked up shit. My head was spinning. I slumped there for a few minutes and took a swing from my canteen. I wasn’t going to bother making sense of any of this right now. I didn’t have that kind of time. I need to get the fuck out of this dungeon.
I checked the guard’s body and found two more clips for the pistol and a ring of keys that I thought might come in handy. I also found the back of his head missing and the majority of his brain gone. I moved past Beefy cautiously. I knew from experience that a good head shot kept them down permanently, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I checked the mag in the pistol and found that it held four rounds. That plus the two full ones gave me eighteen rounds total. Decent start, but I needed to find a rifle.
I made it back to my feet and decided to finish up my search as quickly as possible. I started wondering if I should be checking bodies for car keys. There were plenty of those. Bodies I mean, the kind that don’t get up and chase you. I realized it would be pretty fruitless unless I grabbed all the keys I could find then spent God knows how long trying to match them up to a car in the lot. Then there was the question of gas. Too much to worry about right now.
I continued making my way down, floor by floor. In the cafeteria I found some decent canned goods and a shitload of spoiled food. I stuffed a couple cans in my duffle. I didn’t want to grab too many and weigh myself down in case I had to go on foot. And since I still had no idea where I was going on foot, I thought it might be better to travel light. I did refill the canteens and I also snagged a few bottles of water. I had about given up hope of finding a real weapon when I landed on the bottom floor.
As I came out of the stairwell I was greeted by what looked like the aftermath of one hell of a firefight.
Twenty men in black fatigues lay sprawled on the floor. Among all the bite marks and gouges, each one had a neat little hole in the center of his forehead. The front doors were disintegrated. Bullet holes pocked all four walls. Brass littered the floor. If I was five floors up from here, how the hell did I not hear this going on? I knelt down to examine the casings. I found some .556, some 7.62, and a lot of .30-06. That last caliber meant civilian hunting rifles. What I didn’t see were any bodies not wearing a security uniform. No civilians, no military, no zombies. What the fuck happened here? Again, I didn’t have too much time to wonder. I sorted through the scattered rifles and found a handful of serviceable M4s. I scrounged of half a dozen magazines, each with a few rounds in them. I checked belts and found a few boxes of ammunition. I scooped up a Kevlar helmet and was delighted when half a brain didn’t spill out. Into the duffle it went.
I figured I should scan around outside to see if I could figure out where the hell I was and where I was going to go. I moved out through the space where the doors used to be and out into the entranceway. More bodies outside. Here were the civilians I was looking for. Scattered among the carnage were several bodies in ACU camo. That meant Army. My guys. I moved cautiously out through the bodies and turned back to check for a sign on the outside of the building, just an address, 109 Governor St, in big-assed letters on the side of the building. I moved among the few cars in the lot trying to plan my next move when out of nowhere a face slammed into the driver’s window from inside a sedan.
It looked female-ish. It was bloated and grey-green and as it smashed itself against the glass trying to get at me, the skin of its face started to slough off and smear down the window. I pulled the pistol pressed it against the glass right in the center of the things forehead and pulled the trigger. She flew sideways into the passenger seat minus the top of her head. Brown and black chunks of rotted brain sprayed the interior of the car. I just stood there wondering if this was going to be a regular thing now. Me shooting people in the head I mean.
I was dragged out of my reverie by the moan. I flashed back to Bentonville as I turned and saw five or six of the things making their way toward me through the cars. I immediately fell back toward the building not wanting to be out in the open and possibly get flanked.
The noise, the gunshot, that’s what had to attract them. Fucking idiot. I realized I would need to find another, more silent weapon when I got the chance. I got back inside as they started to catch up. I tossed the duffle and the M-4 off to the side by the stairwell, scooped up one the other rifles and prepared for a little hand-to-hand. Without a bayonet to fix, I was going to have to Mark-McGwire it on these guys and swinging a rifle like a club is the quickest way to ensure that it never fires again. I grabbed the barrel in both hands and waited. As soon as the first of those things was within range, I brought the butt of the rifle down in a lumberjack swing into the top of its head. I say “into” because that’s exactly what happened. The top of the skull caved completely in like stomping on a spongecake. No crunch, just squish. It fell like a stone. I reared back to take a swing at th
e next one and saw three more come through the doorway. I had a pretty decent bottle neck here, but if there were many more out there, this may become a problem. I couldn’t let them get between me and the stairwell in case I needed to beat feet.
I swung at the second guy and received a more satisfying crack as the rifle butt made contact with the side of his skull. Apparently I didn’t hit him hard enough because he kept coming. I stepped back and tried the overhead shot again. This time he went down. Numbers three and four were slouching in and I saw another three moving toward the building from outside. Shit. I wasn’t panicking yet, but I couldn’t risk more gunfire in case there were a whole lot more out there, I didn’t want to bring them in here. I wasn’t going to be able to stand here swinging for the fences all day. Eventually, my arms were going to give out.
I took down the third, fourth, and a fifth son of a bitch. By then I knew it was about time to make my retreat to the stairwell. Then, from outside, I heard the unmistakable thuppa-thuppa-thuppa of a chopper. It was coming too low and too fast for me to even hope to get outside before it passed, but the things in the yard all turned at the same time toward the noise. I crunched the skulls of the two left inside with me and saw the mob in the grass turn to follow the chopper. They apparently lost all interest in me which I was not going to complain about. I watched as a rain of paper obscured the view from out the door. I would have preferred they dropped napalm, but then I would have been toast too so I guess you have to take what you can get.
The mob lumbered away following the noise and as the last few stragglers left my line of sight I cautiously made my way out of the building and out into the parking lot again. I snatched up one of the papers. At first glance it looked like your average, run of the mill flyer for a pizzeria or a dry cleaner’s, only done by a four-year-old. I took a moment to cautiously watch the herd of them wander off toward the sound of the chopper, now a barely audible thump way off in the distance.
I wasn’t going to hang around out here all day, but I did pause to wonder why the hell they would have chosen this spot to drop their payload. There were a fair amount of papers scattered over the parking lot, but it was by no means covered. The breeze has already begun picking them up and blowing them toward the highway. I wondered again where the hell I was and where I was going to go from here.
“Fuck it,” I said to nobody, “I’ll deal with that shit tomorrow.”
I read the flyer as I made my way back inside. Some outfit claiming to be a safe haven. Apparently they had walls and food, weapons and safety. Apparently, they were trying to consolidate those of us who were left. Apparently, shit really had gone to hell while I was relaxing in my little hotel room.
According to the coordinates on the flyer this place was located somewhere in southern New Jersey. Great, the armpit of the east coast. I’d been through the northern part of the state once on my way to New York. Interesting smell is all I can say. Maybe I would head that way anyway. Where the hell else was I going to go? Of course, it would help to know where the hell I was now. Maybe there was a map somewhere inside, or at least a piece of mail.
I scooped up the gear I collected and made my way back up the stairs. I figured I would spend a night in the caf and head out in the morning. I could spend a little more time searching the building. It dawned on me that if this was a government building that they might have a motor pool. That would mean a whole line of gassed up vehicles with keys in same general vicinity. Beats digging through corpses’ pockets trying to find some keys then trying to figure out which vehicle they belonged to. It also beat the fucking hell out of going on foot.
I was tired and hungry and pissed off, but at least I had a destination. Such as it was. I dropped down at a table and rummaged through my bag for a can of whatever. Tuna. Great. I hate tuna. Fuck it. I scooped it into my mouth with my fingers and washed that horrible fucking taste out of my mouth with a bottle of water. I could replace them from the stores in the kitchen. I wandered around the room kicking at garbage and I decided to check out the maintenance closet. I listened for any noise coming from inside, I had learned that lesson already, and when I didn’t hear any I pulled the door open. Pretty standard cleaning closet, map, broom, bucket, cleaning fluids, and there, in the back leaning against a shelf was a three-foot-long crow bar. The curved end was painted bright orange with the name “Cappy” scrawled in indelible ink.
“Hello Cappy,” I said as I hefted it in one hand judging the weight, “You just might be my new best friend.” For a silent weapon I could do a hell of a lot worse. I went back to my table and set down the crow bar. I sat there staring at it for while just letting the realization that the whole world, or at least the east coast had gone to shit. I was living in a world where crazy, fucking cannibals roamed the streets and if you didn’t kill them the right way, they would just keep coming.
My dad used to use the word “fuck” a lot. Like, literally every other word a lot. Hearing it over and over kind of desensitizes you to it. It loses a lot of its impact, but as I sat there at that table idly fingering that crow bar contemplating the last few months, or however long it had been, I suddenly started laughing. Because never in my life, or my dad’s, had there ever been a more appropriate situation to express the exact meaning of that word.
So I sat there, staring alternately between the crow bar and the flyer trying to figure out my next move.
Mick
Amy was almost gone a few times since we left the town. She pushed us all away. For days she stared out the passenger’s window, with nothing to say to the rest of us. There was only a hollow shell of a woman, eyes glazed over, unable to function. I did my best to keep the kids from going crazy too. It was selfish, but I couldn’t handle anymore zombies, and that is what Amy had become.
Then she got angry. Damned if that woman didn’t wake up one morning with revenge and hellfire in her soul. Supply runs became dangerous as hell because she had become reckless. I don’t know where she found it, but she started using a bat on the dead. It was as if she wanted to get as close as possible to them, and get sprayed by as much goo as she could when she cracked their skulls. The problem was, she no longer cared if she lived or died. A woman without fear doesn’t watch out for danger, and even worse she goes looking for it.
I think Garett got tired of saving her ass when she got in over her head. He knew we needed her, not just to be around, but to actually be around. We had stopped to see if we could syphon some gas, and get some much needed food and water out of a pileup we came across, when Amy spots a few moaners shuffling in the wood line. They would have never known we were there, except she starts tapping the bat on a car’s hood.
“What the hell do you think you are doing Aunt Amy?” Garett barks at her.
“Fuck’s it look like Garett?” she flatly replied.
“I don’t really know anymore? Are you trying to get killed, or are you trying to get us all killed? From what I can see, you could give a shit about whether we live or die anymore.” He spit back.
“You should respect your elders, Garett”
“I’ll respect you when you start acting like an adult again!”
As they got louder, more zombies noticed. The few in the woods were within biting reach now, and in the distance more could be heard making their way towards us. Amy starts swinging away with a rage that could only be appeased by death. One, two went down, and then another. Each swing brought more destruction, not just to the dead, but to Amy. She looked like a feral animal.
Seven, eight, nine, all down in an instant. Then the group began to overwhelm her. She couldn’t keep up with the numbers. No amount of rage could fight away the wave of rancid, rotting flesh that was soon going to engulf her. That’s when Garett and I stepped in. Within minutes the zombies were down on the ground, with no threat to rise again. In the middle of the carnage stood Amy covered in what was once blood.
Garett walked up to her, pulled his arm back and bitch slapped her. “Grow the fuck up! We are
done with and tired of your shit. She died Aunt Amy, and it sucks. But this whole God damned world sucks right now and we need you to stop being such a jackass. Now get in the car and knock this shit off. If you can’t do that, if Mick and I are going to have to spend the rest of our days pulling your ass out of the fire because you don’t feel like living anymore, then just fucking say so. That way we can leave your sorry ass on the side of the road with your dumbass bat and you can spend the last few minutes of your life swinging away. Otherwise, we need you to be right here, right now. Helping us figure out how to get my other sister to a safe place. Do you understand me?”
She shook her head slowly, and broke down in tears. But the boy did the right thing. She climbed into the car, and that was the last time she played chicken with the zombies. She cried till she was out of tears, then she slept for a whole day. When she woke up she was back to her old self. All she needed was a good kick to the ass, and I am so grateful that Garett had enough courage to give it to her.
Days went by, and we only talked about the here and now. We avoided any real conversation, and many nights we were silent on watch. The car started to feel like a prison. The weather was turning warm again, so I decided we would find a roof to get some fresh air. It sucks that you just can’t decide something like that, and magically find one. Everything takes forever now, and simple things like finding a safe place for a quick rest test your patience.
Aftershock Zombie Series (Book 1): Aftershock (A Collection of Survivors Tales) Page 13
