by Tom Calen
Life bustled around him on the farm, but Mike maintained a constant wariness and an expectation for the proverbial other shoe to drop. The isolation and independence he had sought when he first moved south had now amplified to a level from which he could see no escape. Only now his independence was marred by having so many dependent on him.
After his breakfast of eggs, scrambled as usual, Mike headed out, making his way towards one of the two still functioning cars. Along the way, he was greeted by several of the refugees as they went about their work. A few small children ran through the yard chasing after chickens that squawked loudly at the pursuit. He smiled as he saw them at play, their carefree spirits oblivious to the danger that surrounded them. Few children had survived the initial outbreak and the subsequent hardships of life on the road—only three of the farm’s occupants were under the age of ten.
Hopping into the old Jeep Wrangler, Mike turned the engine over and began the short drive to the location of the first broken fence. Several cows and the bull that were grazing in the outlying fields barely lifted their heads as he drove by, accustomed to the movements of humans since birth. Reaching his destination, he was met by two men, Tyler and Phil. In his mid-forties, Tyler Aaron had spent much of his life tending to a farm of his own in Eastern Kansas. He had arrived at the refugee farmhouse that winter with his wife and teenage son. The Aarons were the only ones in the camp that had survived the virus with all members of their immediate family unscathed.
Phil Armstrong, a rail-thin thirty-two year old, was one of the most recent arrivals, having joined the group in late January. A drifter by nature, his years spent on the road had honed many scavenging skills that had proven invaluable among the refugees.
“Morning,” Mike said as he stepped from the Jeep. The men returned his greeting and gratefully accepted the warm thermos of coffee Sarah had given him before he departed.
As the trio walked closer to the fence, he could see a four foot section where the additional boards they’d used to increase its height, had been splintered and ripped free from its tethering.
“Like I said last night,” Tyler began. “I ain’t never seen an animal do that. Horse might could if panicked, but there’ve been no sightings of one as such.”
“Wind?” Mike asked.
“Not likely. Any wind that did this would have been felt at the house, and the weather has been pretty calm,” answered Phil.
Gazelle padded cautiously along the winter-hardened ground, her nose taking in the scents of the area. As she neared the broken section of fencing, a low growl rumbled in her chest. Her reaction was the final confirmation Mike needed to be sure that it had been Tils that had damaged the structure. Certainly not of a size to be considered a guard dog, the terrier mutt had a keen sense of smell that had proven reliable in the detection of the infected.
“The other site looks the same?”
With affirmative nods from the two men, Mike continued. “I’ll send some guys out with supplies to patch them up. For now, keep the patrols focused on the breaches. Moving forward I want daily inspections of the entire barricade.”
As he took his leave, Mike was tempted to turn back to instruct the two not to discuss the damage with others, but he continued on, knowing that a request of silence was fruitless in the small community. With Gazelle leaning her head out the windowless vehicle, he made a quick pass to the other breach, informing the men there that supplies would be sent.
That Tils had in fact been that close to the farmhouse had Mike’s brow creased with concern. Since establishing themselves at the farm, sightings of the infected had dramatically decreased. Untended fields that stretched for miles had served as an herbaceous deterrent for the carnivorous Tils. The few sorties beyond the farm’s acreage had reported some signs of them, but those had all been located near previously well-populated areas. Food must be getting sparse for them to venture out this far.
After surveying the entire perimeter, Mike returned to the main house and signaled to Andrew, who was engaged in a comical battle trying to herd the roaming chickens back to the rear of the house. Try as he might, the birds found every possible means of escape.
“Have you seen Erik?” Mike asked him.
With a chicken cradled under each arm, the youngster informed him that Erik was at the barn. In recent weeks, several members of the community had begun construction on a lookout platform atop the barn’s high roof.
“Do me a favor and tell him I need to see him ASAP, okay?”
“Okay!” the boy said, eager to pass his Sisyphean task onto another.
As Andrew ran off on his new errand, Mike climbed the steps to the house’s porch, entering the house. The lightweight screen door closed with a bang behind him, as he walked down the long hallway to the small study that the refugees used for conducting camp meetings. After they had moved in, Jenni had discovered a file drawer that contained several surveyor maps detailing the surrounding land. The documents were now marked with symbols added by the refugees to indicate various important features of the farm’s defenses.
In addition to the maps, the previous tenants had collected a wealth of genealogical and historical papers regarding their farm and holdings. The Tuft family had owned and worked the middling-sized farm for the better part of one hundred years. The photographs that adorned the walls of the farmhouse chronicled the generations that had dwelt there and the evolution of the farm and its many structures. As the family grew, so too did the size of the home, first expanding horizontally and then eventually receiving a second and third level.
Mike had spent the first few months at the farm pouring over the Tuft history as he sat by the fireplace after his companions had gone to sleep. Twinges of guilt eventually subsided over time, a decreasing sense that he was in some way invading the privacy of the former occupants. Diaries and logbooks recounted the daily activities of the past century, with special attention given to the many births and deaths the years had seen. Mike cherished the documents, losing himself in a history of an era long gone from time and familiarity.
Now his attention focused on one of the large maps that sat atop the massive wooden desk occupying the majority of the small room’s space. Marking the two breaches with a pencil, Mike involuntarily began to chew his lip, puzzling over what else could be done to keep the Tils out.
“You needed to see me, Mr. A.?” Erik said as he entered the study.
“How’s the platform coming along?” he asked in response, moving to the large leather chair behind the desk.
Taking a seat of his own, Erik wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, a testament to the strenuous labor in the still-cool days of early spring.
“Not the prettiest thing I’ve ever built, but it’s sturdy enough. Probably have another few days of work left.”
“Good,” Mike replied before changing topics. “Listen, we have a problem. Some of the guys came to me last night about two breaks in the fence. I checked them out this morning. It’s the Tils.”
With a nod of acceptance, Erik leaned back in his chair. Since coming to the farm, he had been devoted to the security of the refugees. Though for the most part a loner in school, he had considered Blaine a friend and had taken his death hard. A drive of relentless vigilance had quickly settled over the young man, which Mike had leveraged to the benefit of the entire community. In truth, the majority of the security plans that had worked to keep the farm safe had originated with Erik.
“I’m going to send some guys out to repair the damage, but if the Tils have gotten this close then it is likely they have either seen us or picked up our scent.”
“Which means they’ll be back,” Erik said matter-of-factly.
“Exactly. I need you to get with the other security folks and start thinking of ways to strengthen the fence. Also, we may need to up the number on patrol.”
“That’s going to be tough, Mr. A.,” he began. “Half the people here are already working security. You’re not going to h
ave enough to run the farm.”
Mike knew there was no denying the validity of Erik’s assessment. Though the addition of so many refugees over the last two years had provided more bodies for security, it also required more bodies for food and other necessities. A fine line had to be navigated to avoid a very secure but severely malnourished and exhausted population.
“I know. All right, for now start brainstorming ideas with the others and I’ll see where we can scale back some of the work duty to free up people for security. Let’s talk again tomorrow morning.”
* * *
The following morning’s meeting proved to be a wasted exercise. While several ideas had been generated to increase the farm’s security—everything from reinforcing the fencing, to building a second fence, to even digging a moat—the fact remained that both labor and supplies were in short order. To actualize any of the suggestions would require diverting resources, human and material, from the current security and labor tasks. In the end it was decided that further security improvements would have to wait for warmer weather, at which time Mike could re-assign the refugees who spent their days providing firewood for the farmhouse. When spring came wood would only be needed for cooking, thus freeing up at least four people to work on other projects. He could only hope that spring would hasten to their need.
* * *
With a sharp breath, Mike’s eyes jumped open. The night still clung heavily to the room, only the fading glow of embers in the fireplace provided illumination. A cheek-stretching yawn escaped from his lungs, and he rolled to his left as he allowed his eyes to close for his return to slumber.
POP. POP. POP.
Springing from the bed, Mike knew it was not a nightmare that had awoken him, but rather the familiar eruption of gunfire. Quickly donning his clothes and boots, he swung his holster harness over his shoulder, and bounded down the steps as other refugees began to react to the disturbance. Rushing out into the night, his breath thick in the chill air, he could see the beams of flashlights dancing in the distance. Muffled shouts were made unintelligible by the interruption of repeated gunshots. Mike could already sense the hysteria that was building behind him in the house.
“Get me a flashlight!” he shouted to one of the refugees who stood dumbstruck at the door. Before the man could even move, Derrick and Jenni followed quickly by Andrew, raced out of the house. The fourteen year old tossed Mike his flashlight before being pulled back by his mother. As he struggled to free himself from his mother’s grasp and join the fight, Mike pointed down to Gazelle. The boy understood the message and scooped the dog up in his arms.
“Follow me,” Mike called out to Jenni and Derrick.
The two followed him into the Jeep as Mike retrieved the keys from the car’s visor. As soon as the engine roared to life, he engaged the high beams. Though still too distant to discern the situation, he could clearly see shapes running and firing in the direction of the farm’s outer perimeter. The Jeep bounced along the uneven ground, slamming its passengers into the old vinyl seats.
In under a minute, they reached the center of the confusion. A large section of fencing had been completely ripped down, creating an opening a dozen feet wide. Several refugees knelt on the ground some yards from the breach and continued their punishing defense of the farm. At this range, even the loud, constant bursts of gun battle could not overcome the bloodthirsty sound of their attackers.
Infected bodies filled the ground in front of the opening, while more climbed across, and still others could be heard slamming into further sections of the fencing. It was clear to Mike the onslaught they faced rivaled any they had seen before that night. The number of Tils battering their entrance into the refugees’ stronghold would soon overwhelm the defenses of the farm. Now that the hunt had been engaged, the enemy would not relent.
The front line—the only line—of defenders consisted of six men and women armed with a combination of hand and machine guns.
“Where are the others?” Mike shouted above the din as he, Derrick and Jenni joined the line.
A man’s voice answered. “There were gunshots at the west side and we were heading there when the fencing came down here.”
As he reloaded, Mike looked to his right and squinted into the darkness. Though the muzzle flashes and high beams severely damaged his night vision, he could still make out the faint sights of a second front waging along the western fence.
Two? Two attack points? he thought with dejection. We’d be lucky to hold them back at one with all of our guns.
“Derrick, take the Jeep and tell the others to fall back to the house.”
Without replying, Derrick quickly returned to the vehicle and sped off into the direction of the other battle. Issuing short orders, Mike instructed the men and women beside him to withdraw to the farmhouse. Before any objection to the retreat could be voiced, the ear-ringing squeal of breaking timber marked the collapse of another large section of the fencing. With the gap spreading to well over thirty feet wide, it was evident that defense of the barricade was over. Mike’s goal now was to reach the house and determine some method of escape before the entire farm was overrun.
In unison, as the Tils swarmed through the destroyed fencing, the security line abandoned their defensive positions and began the retreat. Even with bullets streaking through the darkness, they were merciless in their advance.
Racing backwards, Mike could see the Jeep’s headlights drawing closer to the homestead. Those that had been defending the western breach were piled into the small confines of the vehicle. Assured that the others would reach the farmhouse safely, Mike turned his attention back to the enemy bearing down on him. Unlike a typical foe, the infected were undeterred by the hail of gunfire raining down on them. He realized that any attempt to slow the Tils to cover the retreat would only result in losing precious ground and time. With quick shouts to his companions, he ordered a cease fire and instructed them to make a headlong dash to safety.
With no light by which to navigate the rough terrain, Mike and the others stumbled frequently as they sprinted towards the house. Despite the cold, his legs burned with the effort he demanded from his muscles. Still a half mile in the distance, he saw the Jeep reach the farmhouse. After a brief pause to unload its passengers, the Jeep joined the other vehicle now hurtling to rescue Mike and the security team. Men and machines met in seconds and he struggled to maintain his grasp on the roll-bar as the cars cut sharp turns to return to the house.
“I want a full retreat from the house!” he shouted above the roar of the engines. “Security will hold the line while the cars shuttle everyone else to the east gate.”
The vehicles would cover the two mile stretch to the eastern gate quickly, but Mike knew that at least three trips would be needed to safely transport the refugees, with a fourth to rescue those that provided cover. Fifteen minutes, he told himself, we just need to survive for fifteen minutes.
Upon reaching the house, the security members dispersed with more exactness than he had expected. Forming a quarter-circle in front of the structure, they used the brief minute before the Tils were in range to reload their weapons. Derrick rushed up the porch and began ushering frightened refugees into the two waiting vehicles. Screams and tears of confusion echoed into the vacuous blackness of night. Sparing no time for collecting supplies or possessions, the cars lurched into motion, carrying the first group of refugees to safety. Without the headlights, Mike and the remaining survivors depended on the few flashlights they had to break through the dark. However it was the guttural sounds of the Tils that gave away their proximity.
To his rear, Mike heard Erik drop additional ammunition and weapons by each of the fighters. With relief, he reached back to grab the magazines he had not taken with him earlier. Fanned out in a Mafia-style hit formation, over a dozen men and women stood firm and fired into the ever-encroaching mass of Tils. Even with the overwhelming firepower, Tils still managed to break through the line. Mike could hear the screams of humans as
infected descended and attempted to feast.
At his immediate left, Mike saw the yellow and red flashes of an M-16 arc into the dark sky above as one of the refugees fell to a Til. Turning, Mike drove two bullets into the infected, but he saw the damage had already been done.
“Kill me!” the man pleaded as the convulsions began to shake his body, his blood already beginning to force the change. With a silent curse, Mike fired a shot into the man’s head. Only in the brief flash of the muzzle did he see the face of Tyler Aaron.
Minutes passed with stubbornly slow speed before the headlights returned for the second, and then third, collection of refugees. As more Tils broke through the line, Mike thought he heard Andrew scream for his mother in the distance.
The bodies of fallen Tils created a short-lived impediment to the advance of the endless stream of attackers. While most climbed over the corpses, others began to shift around the obstacles, forcing the refugees to expand their range of defense.
“Into the house!” Mike commanded as he inched backwards up the porch steps. Even with a two mile head start, he knew the distance was short enough for the Tils to pursue their prey tirelessly. Though he hated the sacrifice, he knew his next actions could possibly turn the tide in favor of the refugees’ safe escape.
The armed defenders fell back inside the house and quickly barricaded the front door. As Mike raced through several rooms, he could hear the crush of bodies slamming into the home’s exterior. Windows smashed and the sounds of gunfire returned before he finally found the large, red plastic container in the basement. Climbing the stairs, the pungent liquid splashed through the nozzle and began to soak into the wood flooring.
The scene in the front rooms was one of horrifying chaos. Tils pressed through the broken windows, unaware of the glass shards that scored their flesh. Bloodied hands groped blindly and tore away at the window casings. The sheer weight of their number pressing on the outside walls caused the house to groan in dwindling defiance.
