by R. J. Spears
“There had to be twenty or more,” Russell said.
Jo looked around at the people heading down the hall. She didn’t like the close proximity of some ears. “Let’s wait until we get outside to continue this conversation.”
They were coming up on the end of the hallway where the front two guards stood waiting for the procession to exit the building, keeping a watchful eye on the group as they passed. The back two guards, by the force of their presence and their weapons, kept the crowd moving toward the exit.
The Manor people hadn’t been outside the complex since the soldiers had arrived and a sense of trepidation rippled through them. Outside had been full of hope when the fields were full of ripening crops. Now, though, there was only anxiety outside the walls because their world had been broken to pieces, first by the Lord of the Dead, then by the soldiers.
The back guards closed in and stopped. The bigger of the two cleared his throat and that was all that was needed to move the crowd forward and outside the doors. They went slowly, like passengers after a long and tiring trip.
Jo made a hard left, diverging her small group away from the others and headed toward a mass of broken down corn plants. Many of the plants had been broken down in the battle, but a few stalwart ones still stood proudly.
They got some distance, stepping between zombie guts and unsalvageable plants. Jo waited to get enough distance between them and the guards and leaned in toward Aaron and kept her voice low. “Have you heard anything from Joel on the sat-phone?”
“No, nothing,” he said. “He hasn’t been gone that long and who knows what he’s up against.”
They all suspected that things were rough out there, but they also guessed that Kilgore hadn’t found them yet. If he had, they were sure that he would have crowed about it.
“Okay, let me know if you do,” she said and then turned her attention back to Russell. “How do we know the zombies can’t get out of the basement?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, “but they seem congregated in that one space.
“I agree with Russell,” Maggie said. “Something has them trapped in there. It’s sort of like a roach motel. Once they check in…”
“...they never check out,” Aaron said, finishing the sentence.
“Yeah,” Maggie replied with a glint in her eyes. “And maybe they should stay there.”
Aaron looked to Russell and said, “Are you thinking the enemy of my enemy is my friend?”
“Yeah,” Russell said.
“We have no weapons or anyway to control them,” Jo interjected.
Russell looked around to see if anyone was listening, then said, “That’s not entirely true.”
“Whoa, mister,” Maggie said, looking stricken. “If you’re talking about my control vest, then you need to get your head examined. Besides, if you don’t remember, the battery died when you and I were pushing those undead bastards out of our way when we came back into this place.”
Before coming to be a part of their group, Maggie had been one of the Lord of the Dead’s foot soldiers. Each one of his crew had special electronic control vests that allowed them to become mini-overlords of the zombies through control modules hotwired directly into the zombie’s brains.
“But it does control zombies,” Russell said.
“Only ones with control modules,” Maggie replied. “And only if the battery works, which it sure as shit don’t.”
“Well, you said you saw some zombies down in the hole,” Russell said.
“Some, but I didn’t take the time to do a headcount, Sherlock,” Maggie responded. “I was too busy trying to stay alive then to save your sorry ass.”
“There are plenty of dead zombies outside with control modules,” Russell said.
Jo put up a hand, stopping Russell and Maggie’s back and forth, “So what. We still don’t have a control vest that works. The battery is dead.”
“We may be able to get Henry to work something up,” Aaron said. “He’s a wizard with electronics.”
“He’s just a kid,” Jo said, shaking her head.
“He might be our only hope,” Russell said.
“Are you people crazy?” Maggie asked. “You’re talking about creating some sort of mini-zombie army. For what?”
Jo looked back at Maggie and said, “Having some sort of plan beats waiting around for these soldiers to kill us.”
“Sergeant Jones, any word from the search teams?” Kilgore asked, while spying out a window on the second floor of the Manor’s south facing building. He watched as the people walked among the dead zombies and broken down crops, looking to find any items that were still edible.
Jones was a few feet away, taking glances at the Colonel and also watching out the window. He held a clipboard in his hands containing written reports from the search teams. None of the news was good.
“The on-the-ground team went to where the choppers found the escapees truck and found nothing but a trail leading into the woods. Between the hard rains and the time between when we saw the truck and their arrival on the scene, there wasn’t a lot to find.”
Kilgore exhaled loudly, “I told you we needed to get people out there ASAP.”
Jones weighed whether to reiterate his argument about the storm being a real danger to the helicopters, but he decided against it. “Yes, sir. I apologize.”
“We need Carter found,” Kilgore said. “I need more men searching those woods to the north.”
Jones again wanted to warn about spreading the men thin, but he thought better of it. Where Kilgore has seemed manic the night before, he now seemed nervous with a slow simmering boil just underneath his skin, ready to erupt.
They both were quiet for a few more seconds as they watched the people gingerly walking about the corpses of the zombies. A couple would stop and root around on the ground and put something into a bag tied to their waist, but most just wandered.
“I can arrange for another party to go out,” Jones said.
“Get it done,” Kilgore said. “We also need to consider upping the pressure on the people here. I’m sure they know something.”
“Sir, I’m not sure they do. The ones that escaped may not have told anyone here anything about their plans.”
“Do you honestly believe that, Sergeant?” Kilgore asked, staring in Jones’ direction.
Jones avoided looking back and remained intent on the actions of the people in the fields. He felt a small anxious tingle in his gut.
“These people were as thick as thieves. One of them knows something and I’ll make them talk. Mark my words, I will make them talk.”
“But sir, these people are survivors, just like us--”
Kilgore cut him off, “They know something!” His nostrils flared and his cheeks suffused with color. “We already know someone around here has a sat-phone and they sure know we are able to track it because they only turn it on for seconds. I’m betting it’s inside this complex.”
“But it could be in the area and not inside with these people,” Jones said.
“You are getting soft, Jones. We need information and these people will be sorry if they don’t open up. I’ll make them talk whether they want to or not.”
Nathaniel Jones had a sinking feeling in his gut that things were starting down an ugly path. And this was after the world had been overrun by zombies. It was that bad.
His, once trusted, commander was acting erratically, and the troops under his direct command were stretched thin, looking for the people who had escaped, guarding the people in the complex, and making sure the whole place wouldn’t get overrun by the undead. It was enough to keep a man up at night with bad dreams, and he could see the stress in the troops.
Some tiny voice inside him asked, “Is it time to cut and run?”
He had never heard that voice before.
Jones was about to leave when Kilgore spoke again.
“Send in Lodwick. I have something I need him to do.”
Jones wanted to ask wh
at that task was, but that same voice from before told him he didn’t want to know. Lodwick had become Kilgore’s hatchet man and muscle. There was a cruel streak in Lodwick that Jones didn’t like, but seemed to fit this new version of Kilgore quite well. Instead of speaking up, Jones said, “Yes, sir.”
When Jones got outside the room, Lodwick was already waiting there, leaning against a black metal desk and wearing his perpetual self-satisfied grin. Jones wanted to punch that expression off Lodwick’s face, but he remained calm and restrained instead.
“The Colonel wants to see you,” Jones said, stopping just outside the door, but not looking directly at Lodwick.
Lodwick pushed off the desk and said, “I know.” He brushed by Jones, opened the door, and went inside, closing the door behind him.
Jones paused there for a couple of seconds, that little voice sounding off again, telling him to get the hell out of there, but this time he ignored it and leaned back towards the door where he heard the Colonel issue a muffled greeting to Lodwick. Lodwick responded, asking what the Colonel needed him for, but it his voice was muted by the door and the wall.
Jones took a step back toward the door and listened as intently as he could.
“Corporal Lodwick, I need you to do something for me,” Kilgore said.
“Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it,” Lodwick responded.
Jones heard footfalls in the room, moving away from the door, but he could swear the last thing he heard the Colonel say before they moved out of earshot was, “Corporal, this is going to be dangerous.”
Jones didn’t like the sound of that. Not at all.
Chapter 12
Hidden Fortress
We stood in front of a dilapidated house that seemed to be the spot on definition of the word, ramshackle. The walls were a combination of well-worn and scarred wood, rusted corrugated metal, and air. They were bowed in places and missing entirely in other spots. It seemed as if it might blow over in a stiff wind, or even just a breeze.
Donovan expressed a pride in their “fortress” as we made our way there and had built up my expectations. I wasn’t expecting a military installation, but this was a far cry from that.
If this was their fortress, then they were either sadly deluded, or they were in for a terrible surprise when something big, bad, and ugly came upon them. The big bad wolf would have a field day with this place, for instance.
“I can see it in your face,” Donovan said. “You’re wondering what the hell I was talking about on the way here. This isn’t any headquarters. This isn’t a place that can host forty or more people safely.” He stopped and let that sink in. “I would have the same worries, too, if I were you.”
I did notice that the tension that had hung between my people and his had dropped down to a lower level, but the suspicions seemed to be creeping back in. At least, for me, and I sensed it from the others in my group. On the other hand, Donovan seemed relaxed, and even somewhat cheerful to have us in their midst.
“Obviously, there is more here than meets the eye,” I said.
“Isn’t life a lot like that?” he asked. “Come on inside,” he said and stepped toward the broken down shack.
Kara grabbed my hand and tried to hold me back while leaning in toward the side of my face. She spoke in a half whisper, “I think these people are crazy.”
“That seems to be going around,” I replied quietly, “but I think we can play along a little while longer. Besides, I’m not sure they’ll let us just run off.”
Donovan turned back to us and said, “I know you have your doubts, but come
on inside.” He motioned with his hand that we should follow.
“Come on,” I said taking a step in his direction and giving Kara’s hand a gentle, but firm tug.
It took a moment, but Kara gave into my momentum and started moving. Jason and Naveen fell in behind her, but Brother Ed stood his ground. The four us stopped and looked back at him. He was a crusty fellow and hard to convince of anything.
Naveen finally said, “Come on Mr. Ed.”
I let out a little chuckle, and Kara elbowed me in the side.
“Naveen, he likes to be called Brother Ed,” Kara said.
“Oh yes. Sorry, Brother Ed, please come with us.” She put out a beckoning hand, and he relented but didn’t take her hand.
The bushman called Lou trailed our small group as he headed into the small shack.
The inside looked no better than the outside and, in fact, looked worse. Broken and moldering furniture lay around the room. Large puddles of stagnant water sat on the wooden floor. There were several sizable holes in the roof and water dripped in through them splashing on the floor and the furniture. The place smelled like an old wet sock.
“This is your headquarters?” I asked, trying not to sound incredulous.
“It’s not much to look at, but it has its charms,” Donovan said, a hidden smile in his eyes.
We were all silent for several seconds and I watched Donovan and his men exchange glances. I was beginning to get very nervous and started looking for a way out of the house. There was a window just off to the right, and if we jumped through it, one or two of us might make it. But which one or two would that be?
Donovan caught me looking for an exit, and he held me in a hard stare for several more seconds, but then I noticed a slight tremor at the corner of his mouth. It quivered for two more seconds, and Donovan and his crew burst into a fit of laughter, filling the room. It was odd to watch two men dressed as bushes laugh.
I finally broke the laugh fest and asked, “Okay, what’s the joke?”
It took them a few more seconds to calm down, but their eyes still leaked tears at the corners. Donovan chuckled a couple more times and said, “Well, our headquarters are here, but not in this room.” He laid down a long pregnant pause. “It’s here,” he added pointing at the floor.
“Lou, you want to show them?” Donovan asked.
Lou put his waist against the corner of an old musty couch and pushed it aside, moving it a few feet. He knelt over, pulled a water-logged, threadbare rug aside, and then pulled at something I couldn’t see. A moment later a set of boards opened up like a door in the floor, and a set of steps leading down into darkness became visible.
A tinge of nervousness remained in my gut, but after their outburst of laughter, it seemed remote and less ominous.
“What’s down there?” Kara asked.
“That is where we hide from the dead,” Donovan said.
“How many of you live down there?” I asked.
“Come on down, and you’ll see,” Lou said, as he started to descend the stairs.
I looked at Donovan and asked, “This isn’t going to be one of those ‘if we tell you, then now we have to kill you’ things?”
“No, you’ll be fine,” he said, shaking his head while still smiling. “Trust me. Just go on down.”
Trust was a hard commodity to buy and sell in the apocalypse, but there was something telling me that we would be okay. I took a step forward, and because we were still holding hands, Kara came with me. I decided we would be first. If things went south, then maybe I could tell the others to run.
Lou led the way and we decided to take the leap of faith and took the first step down.
The steps were made of open metal and reminded me of a catwalk. Our feet made a metallic ponging noise with each step. We had to duck down low to avoid the floor of the old house, and once we made it below the floor, I could see a dimly lit, short corridor ahead of us that made a hard right.
I heard more feet behind me and saw Donovan coming down the steps with Jason and Naveen right behind him. I could tell I would have no choice but to move forward because the tiny corridor wouldn’t hold us all.
We quickly made it to the turn and found ourselves looking into a long thin room, eight feet wide by twenty feet long. The walls were made of heavy corrugated metal and were painted a dull orange color. Words in faded white letters sat on the wall,
saying things like “Do not Exceed Weight Limit” or “Balance Weight Appropriately.” The ceiling had four wide LED lights filling the room with a flat yellow light.
It came to me quickly that this was a shipping container. It was then I knew what we were dealing with. All those lazy days sitting around watching Doomsday Preppers was finally paying off.
A man and a woman stood in the room next to a row of metal, industrial-sized barrels that ran from one side of the room to the other. All sorts of tools hung on the wall above the barrels. These tools ranged from gardening tools to woodworking items and other implements. The woman held a clipboard, and both she and the man looked our way. He was dressed in camouflage, and she was in jeans and a heavy work shirt. The woman’s face was lined with concern, but the man looked neutral. Maybe it was because he had a sidearm.
Donovan moved up behind us and said, “That’s Jessie, she’s Mason’s wife, and he’s Rossi. He engineered all this.”
“Hmmmm,” I said, taking it all in.
“This is a storage room,” Donovan said. “We keep bulk supplies in here and some tools.” There was a real sense of pride in his voice.
The sound of footsteps filled the room behind Donovan and us, and said, “Let’s keep moving.” He pushed by Kara and me and led the way toward the end of the room to a sturdy metal door. He paused for a moment and fished a set of keys from his pocket. He put a heavy metal key into and industrial lock, but then had to enter a set of seven numbers into a keypad on the wall next to the door. There was a loud electric click, and he opened the door.
We entered another shipping container room, long and thin like the other. This one was lined with floor to ceiling metal shelves on each side, leaving a narrow corridor down the middle. The shelves were lined with large bags of rice, beans, and other bulk food stuff. Stacks and stacks of family-sized canned goods sat on the shelves perfectly lined-up on top of each other. Green beans, canned corn, pears, peaches, and other delicious items. My mouth watered thinking of the contents, but I tried not to be obvious.
