Haven From Hell: Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse

by Won, Mark

  All the old timers would hate to admit it, but our economic form was best described as ‘socialistic’. I just couldn’t see any other way to make sure everyone got fed. If I didn’t organize things, it would have been every man for himself. Besides, almost everyone actually did have a stake in reclaiming almost everything. Why should the farmers get the farms? Others fought for them. The same could be said about everything. We’d all had to work together to make it happen, to get what we had.

  Socialism was the oldest system of organized economics. I’m not talking about the dole, that’s different. In the old days the boss man was the local ruler. The business was food production. The ruler of the government took half (or more if he thought he could make that work). The king (or whatever) owned the land, and in some cases, the people. It was all his. Socialism.

  What the old time kings never did was to hand out enough food for the people to eat, without working. That just wouldn’t work. Just before the Change the dole was how and entire class of society subsisted. It was a doomed system. I wouldn’t want anyone from my generation to hear me say it, but the Change may have saved us from an even worse collapse.

  That’s why I set up things the way I did. Haven would find a job for anyone. Useful, profitable work, too, not just busywork. Maybe spinning at home, maybe weaving, maybe chopping wood. There was always something to be done. Everyone who could work could have work found for them. All that organization had to come from somewhere. That somewhere was me. At least we didn’t have taxes.

  The Haven Work Program was in full swing by then. Everyone had to keep a job to stay on the ration system, unless permitted an exemption. The populous insisted. Almost everyone wanted to work, anyway, even if they did qualify for an exemption. Work was the only way to get paid, the only way to buy anything. The ration system was nice, don’t get me wrong, but beans, corn, potatoes, apples, fish, eggs, milk, butter, oil, and a little salt weren’t always enough. Sometimes people just needed a pork chop or a steak. Toilet paper was a major seller at the Haven Stores, too.

  By then we were handing out a new set of garments for every citizen, once per year, along with the salt ration. People bought them, too. Those clothes were more like one-size-fits-all jumpsuits but we were getting better. Between linen and cotton we were at least keeping our people clothed, with no little kids running around naked.

  Our housing dilemma was long since fixed. Everyone had a roof over his or her head. Each home had a wood burner and radiator system, with a ration of wood, to keep the water pipes from freezing come winter. It had been Marty’s idea to use the empty oil drums we’d found on a barge to make the burners. Each house had running water (even hot water if one lit the burner) and electricity (depending on the wind). Each home was covered with aluminum siding/roofing and well insulated. Everyone had a right to a home. Well, unless he wrecked it. Those folks got public housing.

  We had even established public television. I’m proud to say that our fifteen channels had programming vastly superior to public television before the Change (which, admittedly, wasn’t saying much). Our internet was up and running, too. That’s how we handled elections. The penalty for screwing with either that or the banking system was death. No exceptions.

  Obviously, we couldn’t actually build most of the things we were using. I hoped that would come later. By then we’d stockpiled a ton of replacement units, but those things would suffer the effects of time also. My special concern was automotive in nature. We had to keep the tractors running or the farms would need a lot more people to operate. Frankly, for us, those things were the difference between the Industrial Revolution and The Middle Ages. We had them converted to running on vegetable oil with a corn alcohol primer, and the chief motor head, Craig, had figured out a way to bypass the need for battery powered ignition, should the need arise.

  The school program was doing nicely. We had school buses (also running on corn oil) for transporting all the kids to and fro. There were a number of fine teachers. No one had summers off. The educational system focused on the practical over the academic. Shop class was vastly expanded and made almost into an apprenticeship program.

  Sunday schools had cropped up too. Not by my hand, but there nonetheless. Religion had really taken off after the change. And that brings me back to Pastor Ert.

  He was a True Believer through and through. His congregation loved him. The man had established the H.E.L.S. That’s the Haven Evangelical Lutheran Synod. When he put that on the sign to his church, out front, I had thought that it was an act of graffiti. Once, when I had him in private, I asked if he’d consider changing the middle two initials around. He’d said no. Then he made a sermon based on the inappropriateness of my request. Something about grace overcoming sin. He left my name out of it, but I could just tell.

  All that was without a hint of rancor. I made a point of attending his sermons just in case he was a nut trying to set up an anti-government cult. Something leaving him in charge, no doubt, but I found that nothing could have been further from the case. When the fourth of July came around his sermon was all about a Christian’s Duty to the State, and Respect for Lawful Authority. Render unto Caesar and all that. According to him I ruled from a position of Divine Right. Wow. Talk about sucking up to the boss. At least that’s what I thought at first.

  When I asked him how much he thought a pastor should be paid from the public trust, he laughed in my face. Not a little laugh either. A real gut buster. That was the funniest thing he’d heard in a long time, maybe ever. The idea of him taking the State’s Money was Anathema to him. Me trying to give him money might have precipitated the very kinds of troubles that I was keen to avoid. Nothing could have been more offensive to him.

  You see, as a servant of the Lord, it was his Duty to preach the Law and Gospel Truth to everyone, strictly in keeping with the Principles of Sola Fide, Sola Gratia and Sola Scriptura. For that he could never take the government’s filthy lucre, unlike a number of apostate churches he could (and did) name. His income came from the donations of his parishioners. Everything in excess of an average wage he put at the church’s disposal, for works of charity and outreach. At least, that’s how he put it.

  When Haven was just getting started I’d noticed that there was a lot of praying going around. At the time I just thought that sort of thing was normal. After any great disaster there’s always a rush to church. That’s just how people ‘think’.

  I didn’t have any problem with it. Desperate times make people desperate. I figured that when people had enough food in their bellies and a sound roof over their heads everyone would get back to making their god their stomach, like normal. But that’s not how it worked out.

  As soon as the crowd thinned out and the church buildings were vacated, people found religious leaders and set up shop. Technically, I could have stopped it since the buildings belonged to everyone, that is, the State, that is, me. At least in the sense that it was up to me what the buildings would get used for.

  However, I knew that any attempt to hamper people’s religious fervor could only result in political suicide. If the people wanted the opium of the people then who was I to deny them. At least it wasn’t real opium.

  Actually, I was pleased by the turn of events. It gave everyone something to do with their spare time. There are far worse pastimes than focusing on faith, hope and love. The concomitant advantages of religion are the cornerstone of any civilization. Even the dumb religions offer some rules for moral conduct. And Ert’s was anything but dumb, that man had an answer for everything.

  It was almost impossible to have anyone keep an eye on him for me. I never knew who I could trust in that regard. I couldn’t exactly have word get out that I was intimidated by the synodical chief. People would wonder why.

  Actually, that was a good question. For a while I didn’t know why. Ert had never done anything to me. Never insinuated anything malignant, never voiced discontent with management, absolutely never advocated violence (except against t
he ‘undead’). He never even complained when he had a legitimate axe to grind. Like that time I kicked him off the ration for not doing real work.

  That had been my plan to break up all that religious unity. Kick the pastors off the dole and then they’d all have to hold down jobs, leaving them little time for more spiritual pursuits. Things didn’t work out that way. They started to pass the plate. Pretty soon the Church had more money than I was comfortable with. All it had to do to create inflation was make a point of not spending. It felt like I was losing control.

  I know it seems strange, based on my concerns, but I’ve always been a believer. My concern wasn’t regarding the spread of faith. After some intense soul searching I realized that my fear was of some ‘crank vending a panacea’. We were in the perfect environment for some lunatic to stand up and proclaim that he had just had a divine revelation. Next thing you know the liar would have everybody’s money, women, and military support. Don’t laugh, that stuff happens.

  I guess I was also a little jealous that I’d missed my opportunity to be that crank. I think I would have made a wonderful religious leader. I’m sure I could have whipped up some excellent theology, maybe added a few new books to the Bible, or at least the Apocrypha. It would have been fun. My problem was that I never had enough time to organize anything along those lines. Regrettably, there just hadn’t been enough hours in the day before my window of opportunity had closed (sigh).

  So there I was, among the first in church before the final fading of the faint zodiacal light. I used the time to do a quick meet and greet with the masses. When it got to be to much I found a pew and folded my hands in prayer.

  That’s a surprisingly effective way to spot a phony parishioner. Anyone who would interrupt a praying man in church can’t be trusted, no matter what his complaint. Another good one is to sit in back and see if anyone rubber necks to get a better look, excepting kids of course. I always made sure to listen for compliments regarding my piety, too. That’s the worst, most obsequious, hypocritical thing anyone could try on me. I’ve had enough idiot bosses in my day to know how important it is to never trust a flatterer. Those methods were just my little way of separating the sheep from the goats.

  When Ert finally came in, dressed in his fancy pastor gown, all was silent just as it was supposed to be. And then we got down to business. The service was exactly what one would expect, given the holiday. I especially enjoyed the extended gospel harmony. Then things got weird.

  It all started when Reginald Savoy failed to sit down after all the candles had been lit. I distinctly remember groaning inwardly. Poor Reg had just lost his father and was inconsolable. At first I thought he was going to begin a vitriolic tirade, give the pastor a piece of his grief stricken mind. Then he drew a gun.

  “You’re right, Reverend, Dad is in hell and now we’re all going to join him!”

  Not an encouraging beginning. And not exactly fair, either. Ert had never said any such thing. I’ve noticed that grieving people aren’t usually interested in logic or self consistent reasoning, though.

  What to do? I really wasn’t ready to die but what kind of a boss would I be if I snuck out the back? So I said a quick prayer and stood up. Emotion had never been in my wheelhouse, so I had no idea what to say.

  “Reg, let’s the two of us go out front and talk about this. All these people haven’t done anything to you. There all just trying to go to church.” Pretty feeble, I know. Mostly I was stalling, hoping someone besides me could come up with something.

  Reg let out a maniacal laugh “It’s time to face the Truth. Let’s just see who turns into what!”

  Ert stepped forward “Put the gun down, boy. Is this what you think your daddy would want? No matter where he is, he doesn’t want you to join him today. That’s what’s going to happen if you keep this nonsence up.”

  Reg swung the revolver around to point it directly at Ert. “Maybe if I kill you the Devil will let my dad go.”

  Ert’s face clouded over. “He can’t, Reginald. Satan isn’t the king of Hell, he’s destined to be an eternal inmate. Even if he could, why would he? Once he’s got you, boy, he’ll never let you go. Forsake this mad folly! Repent and live!”

  While Reg had been distracted, I pulled out my handgun and trained it on Reg. I wasn’t the only one with that idea, half the church had their hands on something lethal. The main thing holding me back was the chancy nature of shooting into a crowd. That and the fact that I’m a real bad shot with a pistol at any target over five feet away.

  Reg saw the man to his right trying to draw something out of a shoulder holster. That caused him to spin about. With that action the woman behind him shoved him forward. A few shots rang out, but the push had saved Reg. His own gun went off and a couple of people fell. Then people started screaming while every good christian tried to grab that gun away from him. All the rest of us were busy trying to line up a shot. Reginald managed to empty the cylinder before anyone got the gun away from him.

  A monkey pile on a church pew is a sad thing to see. The screaming kept going on while some folks checked to see who wasn’t going to be getting back up. Doctor Smith was a member of the congregation and started toward the wounded.

  The monkey pile had just started to sort itself out when the men in it started doing some screaming of their own. They were all puling back as best as they were able, when at the same time, a fresh made ghoul broke free of their grasp and jumped on the nearest one of them. The thing that used to be Reg sank its teeth into some poor guy’s neck (his name was Gregory) before rounding on the crowd.

  It was plain to see that at least one of Reginald’s shots had been a fatal, possibly intentionally self inflicted, wound. Now we had a ghoul on our hands. Everybody panicked, guns fired all over the place, people started running out of the sanctuary doorway and the emergency exit.

  There was a core of men who were trying to stand their ground. The ghoul could move around so fast and jump so far it was impossible to draw a bead on its head. Half my people were shot from friendly fire and that damned thing was just getting started.

  After taking a bite out of the nearest forearm it jumped clear up to the balcony where the pipe organ was. Most of the choir had cleared out already, but our organist remained. The ghoul jumped from the rail and landed on Mrs. Jones’s back and started tearing into her. I did risk a shot then but was way off my mark.

  I started running out into the narthex where the stairs up to the balcony were located. I shouted back for the men with guns to kill it if it came back down. I doubt they heard me over all their own gunfire.

  After fighting my way past the last of the descending choir I finally made it up to the balcony, only to see that the ghoul had left Mrs. Jones mortally wounded and jumped back down into the crowd below. A number of men had finally decided to try and kill it using knives or hammers but the ghoul just wouldn’t hold still. As soon as it bit one it would move on to the next.

  I tried crying out to it, “I’m up here all alone! Come get me!” I doubt very much that it cared about my words, but I did get it’s attention. Seeing me all alone and a prime, juicy target, it leaped back up to the balcony. I was waiting for just that sort of repetitious action.

  I had grabbed a giant music book from off its stand and swung it with desperate strength. The blow caught the ghoul solidly in its ankles as it landed on rail. Down it went, right onto a waiting and bloodied crowd. I thought we had it then, but I was wrong.

  Somehow, it managed to land on one of the guys down there, feet first. I heard the awful sound of bones breaking and felt sure that we’d lost another. Then the whole mess started up again.

  I think the ghoul could have fled any time it wanted to, but that wasn’t its plan. It was perfectly happy to just keep on killing us with no thought for its own survival. I tried calling down to it again, jumping up and down and waving my arms. When that didn’t work I ran back down the stairs to rejoin the fray.

  Back in the sanctuary things still
didn’t look to good. Then I remembered something an overgrown farm boy had told me when I’d last visited Old Man Althaus. I dropped my pistol, threw my arms out wide, and charged the ghoul head on. It leaped right at me and I grabbed it with all my strength. It was way stronger than me but I’d expected that. I held on for all I was worth while everyone else started to grab hold of it.

  The ghoul bit my face, my arms, my scalp, and even bit half of one ear off before Craig Ludwig (an excellent automotive mechanic, a true visionary in the field) bashed its head in from behind using an old claw hammer. I got to my feet and tried to nod my thanks but just kept right on going until I fell flat on my face.

  When I woke up I was in the clinic, along with a dozen members of the congregation. Reverend Ert was there too. We were sharing a room. He’d been shot but no one knew whether it was form Reg or someone else.

  I looked over to him and said, “I sure am glad you let people come to church armed. Maybe next time it would be better if things were a little more organized. More clubs for the congregation and just a few firearms for some well trained ushers.” He agreed.

  When I asked him how many we lost he gave me a list of eight names. Three by gunshot, five by ghoul. Seven more had been shot but were expected to live and six more had been bitten, but not fatally. None of the non-fatal bites had resulted in either the Change or death. When I asked him how many of the dead had got back up as zombies, he gave me a curious look and said ‘none’. Interesting.

  Some months back, I had commissioned a report on the spread of the Change in the hopes of procuring some useful intelligence on the subject. My geeks poured over all the news feeds and other sources of information that had been saved. I had been desirous of finding something, anything, which might help us to defeat them. The data was straightforward, the interpretation less so.