Surviving the Dead (Novel): The Hellbreakers

by James N. Cook

  I glanced behind me and saw the nearest ghoul—a normal looking one, not another gray horror like the one I had just dispatched—had drawn to within ten feet. I took aim with the Glock, breathed out, lined up the sights on its forehead, and squeezed the trigger. The shot hit low, smashing through the creature’s nose. Nevertheless, it got the job done. There were no other ghouls in that direction close enough to be a threat, so I stowed the Glock, took the axe in both hands, and began jogging toward where I had left the bicycle.

  *****

  It was over a hundred degrees outside, but the air felt downright cool as I took off the motorcycle helmet and firefighting suit. My clothes were soaked with sweat and I smelled like a gym sock, but I was alive and newly provisioned. Mission accomplished.

  Before leaving, I wanted to see exactly what was following me. In my experience, the ghouls usually gathered from the east and north. I had no clue why. Maybe there were higher concentrations of them in the once-affluent Scottsdale area. A lot of retirees had lived there, people who would not, or could not, evacuate. Maybe there was more shade. The infected prefer shade. Maybe animals sometimes wandered in from that direction and the ghouls hunted them. Whatever the reason, I needed to see how many were foraging in my neck of the woods.

  I slung the rifle and climbed the big hill behind the bicycle. The footing was bad. Lots of rocks, loose sand, not a place meant for humans to tread. I had to ascend on all fours. At the top I stood up, leveled the rifle, and peered through the scope. A small army of the undead had gathered in the streets and were headed west. I scanned behind them. There were a few natural obstacles formed by buildings, roads with concrete barriers, and ditches dug to channel flash floods. A few hundred ghouls wandered around there, not really seeming to have a fixed direction. I looked farther out. Scanned left. Scanned right. I started to lower the rifle, then raised it again.

  The fuck was that?

  I looked where I thought I had seen something. The scope was dialed to its highest power, but the image was still difficult to make out. After a minute or two of staring, I figured out what it was.

  Smoke.

  Someone had built a fire on the other side of the city, maybe a couple of miles out. Maybe farther. I stared as long as I dared—the infected were still coming—trying to see if there was anyone moving near the rising black pillar. I saw nothing.

  Could be anything. Fires happen out here.

  The howling of the dead was loud enough to make my heart beat faster. I slung the rifle, resolved to investigate if opportunity presented itself, and headed back down the hill.

  The duffel bag and the rest of my haul were in the bicycle trailer. I hopped on the seat, knocked back the kickstand, and began pedaling westward. Behind me, a horde of ghouls was gathering on West Bell Road, attracted by the gunshots and the howling of the other ghouls that had spotted me. I knew if I did not get out of sight soon I would have a few thousand hungry infected dogging my trail.

  The extra weight in the trailer made it tough to get up to speed. The sun was hot on my back and I needed water, but now was not the time for refreshments. I pedaled hard for roughly nine miles until I hit the curve where Sun Valley Parkway turned southward in the lee of the White Tank Mountains. I put another two miles behind me before I stopped for a rest.

  The first canteen went down quickly. It was the kind of thirst where I could not have stopped drinking even if wanted to. The water was piss warm but tasted wonderful anyway. I could feel parched tissues and membranes re-inflating like dry sponges under a faucet.

  A woozy feeling in my head told me I was closing in on heat exhaustion. After tossing the empty canteen in the trailer, I grabbed another one and poured half of it over my head and then drank the rest. A glance behind me revealed an empty, dust-blown road. My efforts had paid off. The ghouls were miles away now and would soon forget about me and head back to the city. The undead, from what I had observed, did not like the hot sun any more than I did. When there was no food in sight, they sought shade and went into hibernation.

  After a few minutes’ rest I was ready to roll. Now that I was out of danger there was no need to rush. I could take my time getting home. A case of heat exhaustion out here on my own could be fatal. No reason to take unnecessary risks when a leisurely pace would suffice. I began pedaling southward slowly, looking to conserve energy.

  As I rode along I kept my head down, letting the Foreign Legion hat take the worst of the heat beating down on my neck. Even with sunglasses on and eyes shaded, the brilliant glare of midday was painful.

  I watched sand and rocks roll by under narrow tires until I passed a dirty, faded road sign announcing I-10 a short distance ahead. Not much farther to go. I raised my head to look for the on-ramp.

  And promptly put on the brakes.

  At the interstate, a cloud of dust swirled nearly fifty feet high, rising in billowing arcs above the bleached, pitted blacktop. The cloud extended for hundreds of yards, widening and stretching on the blanketing breeze. Along with the breeze came the indistinct echo of voices.

  Lots of them.

  And here I was, exposed, with nowhere to hide.

  So I did the only thing I could think of: I grabbed the rifle and bandolier of spare magazines, ran toward the mountains, found a thick patch of sagebrush, and hit my stomach. If I stayed still the brush would hide me from whoever was kicking up dust on the highway.

  Breathe. Stay calm. If it comes to a fight, shoot to kill.

  I pulled back a little on the rifle’s charging handle and checked the chamber. There was a round inside, ready to go. A tug on the magazine revealed it was well seated. I put the bandolier next to my left arm and opened the flaps. The cartridges inside, according to the boxes they came in, were Speer Gold Dot 75-grain soft points—law enforcement ammo. Powerful enough to drop javelina and antelope dead on the spot. I just hoped they had the same effect on two-legged game.

  That said, if it was all the same, I decided I would rather not have to find out. The problem with shooting at people, as my father once explained to me, is they have a tendency to shoot back.

  I watched the highway nervously, heart pounding, and a sudden thought occurred to me: Where are those people going? There’s nothing east of here but Phoenix.

  If that was their destination, I would not have to worry about fighting them.

  They were about to commit suicide.

  SIX

  I stayed where I was and watched the highway through the scope mounted on my rifle’s picatinny rail. It only went up to six power, but it was enough to give me a good view of the procession on Interstate 10.

  There were hundreds of people, most of them on foot, with at least a hundred carts following behind. Some were drawn by oxen, some by cows, some by horses, and even a dozen or so by human beings strapped into traces. Several carts were covered, but as they passed my position, I could see there were people inside them wearing splints, slings, and bandages. The fact they were too injured to walk was obvious. But what had injured them?

  At the front of the procession a short haired man in a straw hat walked next to another, much larger man in a military-style ball cap. Both wore sunglasses and long-sleeved white shirts to protect them from the sun.

  Scanning up and down the line of people and wagons, I decided these folks were probably not military. They were, however, heavily armed. Some carried gns of varying shapes and sizes, while near the front, a cadre of perhaps fifty people bore carbines that looked like military M-4s. And all of them, it seemed, had some kind of melee weapon. Axes were popular, as well as large hammers and quite a number of implements that, from the look of them, were hand-forged. Everyone I could see was dressed for the desert climate, but there was not a military uniform in sight.

  I laid the rifle on its side, being careful to make sure the ejection port faced upward to prevent sand from getting in, and wondered again who these people were. In the years since coming here I had not seen a single person cross the desert to my littl
e corner of the world. I liked it that way. I had the whole place to myself, and, for all this time, no one aside from the occasional wayward ghoul had bothered me.

  Until now.

  I crossed my arms, rested my cheek on them, and closed my eyes. With the warm sun on my back, I pondered what I should do. It had been so long since I had spoken with another person the prospect of doing so made me anxious. But then again, maybe these people could help me somehow. I had all that military gear sitting in the cabins back at my home campsite. Maybe they would be willing to trade for it.

  Or maybe they would simply kill me and take it.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  I heard a rhythmic thumping and grating sound and looked up. Through the scope I saw that one of the wagons had broken off and was headed along the road in my direction.

  Shit. Saw my bike.

  I waited, gun in hand, and scooted around the sage patch to stay hidden. There was enough foliage between me and the road I doubted anyone could spot me from the direction of I-10.

  The wagon progressed slowly, the pair of oxen pulling it obviously not enjoying the heat. Their heads hung low, a sickly white froth ringing their mouths.

  Better get those beasts some water. Soon.

  The wagon stopped when it reached my bike. The man at the reins stared at it for a long moment, then looked around carefully. For a second there I could have sworn he was looking right at me. I went rigid, finger tight on the trigger. But then he looked elsewhere, and I relaxed.

  The oxen sniffed disconsolately at the ground while the man up front turned and spoke to someone riding behind him. The wagon was covered, so I could not see who it was or understand what was being discussed. After a few seconds, two women with round, pregnant bellies got out of the wagon and began looking over the bike and attached trailer.

  Goddammit. What now?

  The three of them began emptying the trailer and carrying my hard-won goods to the wagon. I cursed silently and tapped my finger against the trigger.

  Okay. If they wanted the food and ammo, they could have it. Nothing there I couldn’t replace. But I needed that bike, damn it, and I needed the trailer. Without them I would be facing a hell of a grim situation.

  Just leave me those two things. That’s all I ask. You’ve got horses and wagons. You don’t need my bike.

  And of course, as luck would have it, after everything was loaded into the wagon one of the women squatted down and began uncoupling the trailer.

  Goddammit.

  I aimed at a creosote bush next to her and fired a single shot. The echo was enormously loud in the desert silence. A puff of dust kicked up close enough to startle her into falling backward. As she scuttled away on her butt, the man who had been driving the wagon drew a pistol, dropped prone, and began scanning for my position.

  I opened my mouth to yell, but what came out was a strangled, high-pitched croak. It was then I realized I did not remember the last time I had spoken aloud. I licked my lips, cleared my throat as quietly as I could, and shouted, “Take the gear if you want, but leave the bike and trailer. I need them. I’m only gonna ask once.”

  The man lying prone ruminated a few seconds, then put down his gun and stood up, hands in the air. He said something to the two pregnant women and they did the same.

  “My name is Lloyd Phillips,” the man said. “I’m with the Third Colorado Volunteer Militia. We’re not here to steal anything or hurt anyone.”

  “Could have fooled me,” I called back.

  He dropped his eyes a few seconds, smiled sheepishly, and looked back up. “Well, we didn’t know you were out there, mister. Figured this thing was abandoned.”

  “Bullshit. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out that rig’s been tended to. A glance at the tires should tell you that much.”

  The man turned his head and did exactly that. The smile disappeared. After a scratch at his forehead, he looked in my direction again. His face was not completely clear through the scope, but if I had to put a name to his expression, I would say he looked embarrassed.

  “Yeah, uh…I guess you’re right. Probably should have checked that.”

  The pistol was still where he had left it. I realized he could drop in a second and start squeezing off shots at my patch of sage.

  He’s keeping me talking. Trying to get a fix on me.

  “Last chance,” I called. “Leave it, or I start shooting.”

  “You gonna shoot two pregnant women?”

  The women in question looked at each other worriedly. I took a long breath and put my forehead against my arm. In truth, the answer was no. I would not shoot them. But the man was fair game. I figured if I dropped him, perhaps the women would get the picture and move along.

  Please don’t make me do this. Just go, you idiots.

  “It’s survival of the fittest, buddy. I’ll do what I have to.”

  The man pointed an arm at the highway. I turned my head and saw the procession had halted.

  “What do you think is going to happen if you shoot us, huh? You got enough ammo to put down damn near eight hundred people? That’d be a neat trick, partner. Especially with them folks shootin’ back.”

  “If you take that bike, I’m dead anyway. You don’t need it. Just take the supplies and go.”

  Even I could hear the desperation in my voice. The man dropped his hands and walked a few feet in front of where he had dropped his pistol.

  “Like I told you, we’re not here to hurt anybody. We’re salvagers, not raiders. If you really wanted to kill us, you could have done it by now. Come on out and let’s talk face-to-face like civilized human beings. What do you say?”

  I looked again at the highway. I thought about the hundreds of melee weapons, the fifty men with M-4s, the way they carried them with the casual confidence born of knowing one’s business, and just how badly I would be outnumbered if things got fiery. I thought about the babies in the two women’s bellies and what kind of people they would grow up to be. I thought about the mish-mash of firearms carried by hundreds of people in what was, apparently, a volunteer militia—whatever the hell that was. I thought about dying right here, right now, on this parched, barren piece of dirt in the middle of a desert wasteland. I thought about how tragic it would be if, after mourning the deaths of everyone I had ever known and loved, I allowed my own frightened paranoia to be the end of me.

  I thought about all the work I had done since arriving here, all the hardships endured for the simple sake of staying alive for one more day. I thought of all the times I had put the barrel of my rifle under my chin and struggled for a reason not to just end it. No more heat, or cold, or hunger, or suffering, or loneliness, or longing for things that would never be again. Just a twitch of the finger and then … nothing.

  A man can only hide from the world for so long.

  I made a decision.

  SEVEN

  The AR-15 had a two-point adjustable tactical sling. I stood up, slung it over my shoulders, and pulled the nylon adjustment strap, extending it long enough so I could bring the weapon up and shoot if I had to. The man and two women stayed where they were, hands down but held where I could see them. As I approached, no one moved.

  I stopped about twenty feet away and stared silently, hands steady on my rifle. If they wanted to talk, they could go first.

  “You caught my name, right?” the man asked.

  “Lloyd Phillips.”

  “That’s right. The girl in the drover hat there is Alice Willis. The other one is Kate Abernathy. You got a name?”

  “Alex.”

  “Got a last name, Alex?”

  “Just Alex for now.”

  The man raised his palms. “Fair enough. Sorry we gave you a fright, Alex. Like I said, we didn’t know you were out there.”

  “Now that you know, can I have my stuff back?”

  Lloyd Phillips turned and nodded to Alice and Kate. They climbed into the wagon, and, to my surprise, began loading my supplies back into the bike trailer.


  The pounding of hooves reached my ears again, and I turned to see the man who had been leading the procession riding a brown horse toward me.

  “I’m not going to shoot, okay Lloyd? I’m just going to look at this guy through my scope.”

  “Fair enough,” Lloyd said, still not moving.

  I raised the rifle and watched the rider approach. He was dark skinned with short black hair and a scruffy black beard. Around his neck was a leather string with a wooden crucifix dangling from it.

  Lowering my rifle I said, “Who’s that?”

  “Father Esteban Cortez,” Lloyd replied. “Our field commander.”

  “Father?”

  “Yep.”

  “He a priest or something?”

  A nod and a smile. “That’s the rumor.”

  “You guys aren’t some kind of cult, are you?”

  A laugh came from Lloyd Phillips, loud and full of humor. The smile that reached his eyes somehow made me feel at ease and caused a tightening in my throat. Gritting my teeth, I let nothing show on my face.

  “No, we ain’t nothing like that, although we’ve encountered a few. Maybe you’ll get to hear about it.”

  I wondered what he meant by that as Cortez rode closer and brought his mount to a halt.

  “Hello there, sir,” he said in a heavily accented voice, still seated on his horse, reins in hand. The voice was European Spanish, not Latin American or Mexican.

  “I am Father Esteban Cortez, commander of the Third Colorado Volunteer Militia. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Name’s Alex.”

  A bow of the head followed, along with a practiced flourish of the hand that seemed very old world in nature. “I am pleased to meet you, Mister Alex.” He turned his attention to Lloyd. “It seems there may be some kind of misunderstanding here, yes?”

  “That’s what I was just trying to explain to this gentleman, sir,” Lloyd Phillips said.

  The priest dismounted and, ignoring my weapon, stepped close to me and held out a hand. He was several inches shorter than me, and slight of build. Even in my current reduced state, I probably outweighed him by at least forty pounds. I looked him over for weapons, saw none, and after another few seconds of hesitation, shook the proffered hand.