Apoc Series (Vol. 2): Silence of the Apoc [Tales From The Zombie Apocalypse]

by Wilsey, Martin (Editor)

  “Who is gone?” Swan was puzzled. “The people in the warehouse?”

  “The zombies we killed in the street. The bodies are gone…”

  ***

  It was late afternoon of the third day when Swan walked into the living room where Briggs was reading The Martian by Andy Weir. She always read when she was trying to distract herself. Swan knew her well.

  “Look what I found.” He handed her a placemat from the restaurant. It had a cartoon depiction of Brunswick. Her eyes went directly to the exaggerated Potomac Street Grill.

  Swan pointed to a different spot on the cartoon map. “Ace Hardware is about ten blocks from here. I need more duct tape. You still want an ax?” he asked.

  “Are we talking about hitting the hardware when we head out to Harper’s Ferry?” she asked. “It’s in the opposite direction from the railroad tracks we plan on following.”

  “Want to hit the hardware running light and come straight back here?” Swan asked. “We’ve done it before. It’s a risk, but if it’s a goldmine at the hardware, we could carry more.” He spread out the street map and compared it to the placemat.

  Briggs’ head came up when she heard it. “The diesel generator.”

  They both grabbed their binoculars and ran upstairs. When they got to the window, the large overhead door was already going up at the roundhouse. When it reached the top, a huge dump truck pulled out, and with a great gout of black smoke from the dual stacks, onto the road. The front had a V-shaped snow plow that was covered with stains.

  The cab had four men inside, and four more clung to the sides, two on each side. All healthy, heavily muscled and well-armed. They all wore blue coveralls.

  “That plow is smart,” Swan said. “Shamblers in the street are no problem. They must be getting fuel from the trains in the rail yard. I have no idea how they are keeping the fuel from going bad.”

  “Why don’t they ride in the back? It’d be way safer,” Briggs said. She knew the macho types that rode on the running boards in towns full of zombies.

  Violent gangs of men who preyed on the living. Especially women. They would lop heads off for sport.

  “Holy shit,” Swan said. “Look in the back.”

  It was bones. There were a couple hundred skulls visible. Complete skeletons were stripped clean of flesh, disassembled and piled in there.

  “What the fuck,” Briggs said. “They can’t be… eating them?”

  ***

  Two hours later they heard the big generator start again. Two minutes after that they saw the truck return. The back was now full of cut and split firewood. Swan’s placemat had a depiction of Wilson’s Firewood. It had cartoon mountains of cut and split firewood.

  The four men that had been riding the running boards on the way out sat on the leading edge of the dump bed with their feet on the roof of the truck. All four were laughing at something, even though they all had AR15s at ready.

  The sun dipped behind the mountain to the west as the overhead door closed.

  The screaming started again.

  They could now tell that the screams, the voice, was coming from PA speakers mounted on the warehouse. The lights came on, and five minutes later the first zombies appeared. They followed the sound up the ramp and into the warehouse. The screaming stopped when the last of them started up the ramp. The lights went out, and just before the door slammed behind the last one, it was silhouetted by firelight from somewhere within.

  “Briggs. You have that look,” Swan said. “What are you thinking?”

  “They seem to be harvesting those shamblers,” Briggs said, as she lowered her binocs. “But why?”

  “Look, I don’t really care. It’s safer to mind our own business. Stay quiet. Survive.” It was a mantra that Swan had said a hundred times before.

  “But what if they aren’t assholes?” Briggs said.

  “Do you remember what happened last time we tried?” Swan was mad now. “You almost got raped, and I… killed a real person. Yes, an asshole that asked for it. But I am talking about risk.”

  “Then we simply recon. We are better at it now.” Briggs knew she would get her way. “We need information. Even if we never contact them.”

  Swan was shaking his head when he looked up into her eyes. “OK. But let’s hit the hardware first.”

  She kissed him.

  ***

  They were geared up at first light. It was a cold morning. It was their light recon armor. This meant denim jackets and jeans that had been reinforced at “bite points” with heavy duct tape. The arms, shoulders and body of the jackets were covered in duct tape that needed patching. They wore leather gloves but regretted not having more duct tape to close the seam between glove and sleeve. They carried guns and blades only. Each wore an empty backpack for any salvage goods to bring back.

  They checked each other to make sure their gear was securely silenced and ready. Quietly, they slipped out the front door and closed it behind them.

  They stepped to the center of the road and proceeded in a direct line toward the hardware. In the predawn light, nothing moved except them. Scanning side to side for anything unusual, Biggs pointed out a building they were passing about halfway to the hardware. It was a micro-brewery, but the entire front of the building was gone. The building had been gutted and any equipment that had been there was gone.

  “Someone was really thirsty…” Swan whispered.

  Briggs just shook her head and kept moving.

  They reached the hardware, and all remained still. The glass was all broken in on the front of the store. It had been professionally looted. No axes, no tools at all remained.

  “Dammit,” Briggs cursed quietly.

  Swan clicked his tongue and pointed with his chin at Klein’s Antiques across the street. All the glass was intact.

  The sun was not up yet. They moved across the street and flanked the door. The door had been kicked in, but someone had secured it closed again to the iron railing with a bungee cord.

  “Why are there no shamblers in this town?” Briggs asked, before they opened it.

  “Quit your complaining. Maybe we got lucky for once.”

  He unhooked and let the door swing in. It bumped into a single zombie standing directly beyond.

  With practiced ease, Briggs stabbed with the bayonet, in and out, like a snake, of the old woman’s eye. The corpse fell back into the room. They slipped inside and quietly closed the door.

  Swan positioned the cadaver to hold the door closed as they activated the tactical lights on their weapons.

  An old man was moving toward them down a long aisle, and Swan advanced as Briggs covered his back. His sword stabbed in and out and the zombie fell with a crash as it knocked over a lamp and a vase.

  They froze as the sound echoed.

  There was nothing after two minutes. They moved without a word.

  The store was small but crowded with antiques. They cleared all three aisles and a small office before they began their search.

  They met back at the counter, where Swan was smiling as the sun peeked in the window.

  Briggs placed a massive meat cleaver on the counter and an old, long, dull bayonet from World War II. “No swords, dammit.”

  “Look in that umbrella stand to your right,” he said.

  It was full of canes, golf clubs, and a single cavalry sword. She lifted it out and slid it from its black leather sheath.

  She smiled wide. “It’s still sharp.”

  “I also found this under the counter.” He placed a very short, sawed-off, double barrel shotgun on the counter and an old box with 23 shells still in it.

  “Oh my, Mrs. Klein.” She looked at the old woman propped up to hold the door closed. “Don’t you know short shotguns are illegal in Maryland?”

  ***

  The return to the house was uneventful. Briggs spent the afternoon making a sash that held the saber securely at her hip. Swan fashioned a similar one for the sawed-off shotgun.

  “W
ith only two shots before reloading that thing isn’t worth much,” Briggs said.

  “I know. But I can save those two for us,” Swan said, looking away. “At least we can be sure.”

  “I hate it when you talk that way,” she said.

  “What if West Virginia is a bust?” Swan said. “The cabin sounded like a great idea when we started. I’m not so sure now. When we left, I thought all we had to do is last longer than they did. They are rotting.”

  “We didn’t know that everyone had it then,” Briggs said quietly.

  “It will never be over,” Swan said.

  “There are no happy endings,” Briggs said. “Because nothing ends.”

  Swan looked up at that. And smiled.

  “I read it somewhere,” she said and kissed him.

  ***

  They moved out before dawn the next day.

  The plan was to climb the structure on the side that was clearly not in use and move across the roof to the high windows. From there they would be able to see inside.

  When they reached the windows, they were so filthy they could not see anything. They didn’t open either, so they moved along until they found a single pane of glass that was missing. Swan looked in.

  It was a giant warehouse-size space that had been designed for performing maintenance on trains. There were only two train cars in there, in a space that could have held forty. There was a propane tanker and a water tanker. He could also see six massive trailers with Costco on the side and a mountain of canned goods. Several years’ worth of food. That explained why the pantry at the house had not been looted.

  Swan also counted twelve Winnebagos and three other Airstream camper trailers. That was just what he could see from this angle.

  A man with wet hair was busying himself in the large area set up as a camp kitchen. He poured kibble into a trough-shaped bin as two German shepherds and a Basset hound lumbered up. The Basset was more interested in a pat on the head and an ear scratch than food.

  Swan strained to follow him as he carried two steaming cups of coffee to an area set up with three large sofas. An elderly man was in a wheelchair talking to a woman in a green bathrobe and her hair in a towel. She kissed the old man on the cheek and then the one that had brought her coffee before going to one of the Airstreams.

  “Have a look,” Swan said to Briggs.

  While she was looking through the window, Swan noticed that the area between the roundhouse and the river had been cleared and secured with tall chain link fences and shipping containers all the way to the river.

  There were goats.

  All the grass looked mowed. He was smiling and shaking his head when he saw them.

  There were twenty or more shamblers in the water, moving slowly through the shallow muddy bottom.

  “Briggs,” he said, louder than he intended, “we have to warn them.”

  Briggs followed his line of sight.

  “Dammit. They’ll get the goats.”

  Then they heard the voice behind them.

  “Freeze, if you want to live.” It was a woman’s voice, calm, confident and serious. They froze.

  “Turn around slowly and keep your hands where we can see ’em,” she said.

  Swan noticed the word “we.”

  They turned slowly to see a woman squatting on her heels with a handgun trained on them. She wore military camo with a tactical vest that was full of magazines, flashlights and even a walkie-talkie—the professional kind. Her hair was dark and cropped super short, inexpertly but practical.

  “Look, we’ll explain later, but there are shamblers coming out of the river. You have to warn them,” Briggs said.

  “And that right there is why you are not dead and in the vats already.” She stood smoothly. Into a radio, she said, “I have the two live ones on the roof. Hold your fire, Mike.”

  Swan looked around, just moving his eyes.

  “We have an overwatch post in the crane cab,” she said, but didn’t lower her gun. “Briggs and Swan. Yes, I know your names. You can call me Laura. So, what’s your story?”

  “You’re not worried about the zombies coming out of the river?” Briggs asked.

  “We have been here a long time. Since the beginning. Jeff is on river watch now. If you look close, the fences will bottleneck them all between those shipping containers. Jeff will spear them from above.” Laura looked out to the water. “We get fewer and fewer each month. We’re down to running one vat.”

  “Vat? Look, we are not here to hurt anyone.” Briggs said.

  “I know.” Laura holstered her gun. “You ain’t got that look on ya.” She lifted her radio. “Mike, relax. I’m taking our guests to see Brain.”

  “Brain?” Swan asked.

  “It’s a joke.” She snickered. “His name is actually Bryan, but we call him Brain, like in that movie Escape from New York. Because he showed us how to make the gas. Diesel, actually. Bio-diesel. Don’t call it gas, for god’s sake, not in front of Brain.”

  With that, Laura turned her back on them and began walking toward the access door.

  “You’re crazy. You know that, right?” Briggs said, “You didn’t disarm us or search us or even know if there are others with us.”

  Without turning around, she said, “We’ve been watching you for days.” She stopped and turned back to Briggs. “You are the crazy ones.” To Swan she said, “You know she falls asleep on watch every night?”

  “I do NOT!” Briggs protested.

  “And you should draw the damn curtains on the second floor when you get frisky. I’m never going to hear the end of it from Mike!” She went down the stairs, knowing Briggs was blushing. “I know the walkers can’t see in from the street on the second level, but damn.”

  The stairs led to a catwalk in the rafters that wound around the entire enormous space of the roundhouse. At the opposite end, they could see three men and a woman, in blue coveralls, tending a fire below a giant vat.

  The vat was full of dark liquid, and in it they could see bodies moving.

  “Sorry about the smell up here,” Laura said absently, as they began to descend to the warehouse floor. “We keep the operation at that end. Excellent ventilation.”

  Briggs looked at Swan and made their private sign for WTF?

  By the time they crossed over to the living spaces, the old man was parked at the end of a large conference table. There were four guards stationed around the area in tactical vests with new-looking SCAR military rifles.

  “Briggs, Swan,” Laura said, “this is Brain. He’s driving this bus.”

  “Oh, stop that.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bryan Mitchell. These kids let me think I’m in charge around here. They do all the work. All I do is read books.”

  “He used to be the librarian for Brunswick. He retired the week before all this started. He’s the one that showed us how to make biodiesel out of them,” Laura said. “Two birds one stone kinda deal.”

  “I was wondering how you had a truck that still ran,” Swan said. “All the fuel went bad last spring.”

  Everyone’s radios clicked. “Help. Me.”

  Over the radio, Mike said urgently, “Jeff fell off the roof of the shipping container. No clear shot from overwatch.”

  Laura ran for the door. “You four stay here and guard the children.”

  Running after Laura, Briggs said, “You have children here?”

  They crashed out the door, out of the warehouse toward the pen made of shipping containers. A seven-foot-tall wall had been erected between shipping containers. There was a ladder leaning there that was tied to another on the other side. Laura was up and over the wall without missing a beat.

  Briggs and Swan were right behind her.

  Jeff was dragging himself towards them as Laura stopped to help him. Briggs and Swan passed them and set upon the hoard of muddy shamblers with practiced ease.

  Katana and saber danced as Briggs laughed out loud. The space was perfect for the two of them to have enough room.
Their blades never stopped moving, creating a swirling area around them. Hands seemed to fall off as if by magic, followed by heads. The battle line advanced as Briggs and Swan ran out of targets and moved seamlessly ahead.

  Briggs chanced a glance back to see Jeff was halfway up the ladder, hands helping from above. Laura stared in awe at their dance. Briggs stopped laughing as the task became less fun and more like work.

  The last two heads flew off in synchronized arcs.

  “Your estimate was low. I counted fifty-five,” Swan said conversationally, only slightly out of breath.

  They both held their hand up to Laura as she approached. “Stop,” Swan and Briggs said in unison. “Gotta clean up.”

  Swan stabbed a severed head that was still snapping its jaw.

  “I really like the new saber, sweetie,” Briggs said, with exaggerated casualness. “Balance is way better than the machete.”

  “Sweetie again, is it?” he said. “Don’t embarrass me in front of the neighbors.”

  They finished off the last of the zombies and helped carry Jeff back to the warehouse.

  Two of the men guarding Brain were named John, and both happened to be EMTs. One of the Winnebagos had been set up as a clinic. Jeff had dislocated his knee and broken three fingers on his right hand. When Swan and Briggs stepped out of the RV, there were about thirty people assembled. They silently parted as Briggs, Swan and the two Johns carried Jeff to the sofa right next to Brain.

  When they returned, fresh coffee was handed all around. There were even six children there now.

  All were silent.

  Solemnly, Brain spoke to them. “You are invited to join us. You must be weary to come so far and to have become so skilled.” Brain had a tone of sadness. “We’ll help you tow an Airstream over from RV World if you decide to stay. But there is one thing you must do first. If you want to join us.”

  They both nodded without even looking at each other.

  “First. The Door,” Brain said flatly.