by Mark Tufo
Turning, I conduct my own search of nearby vehicles, looking for water, food, and ammo. I come across a couple of water bottles and a few snack items, but no ammo. I still have some remaining, but the close calls over the past couple of days have depleted the little I had to start with. I’m most likely good for one firefight, but after that, I’ll be down to making spears. Of course, there’s always Trip’s slingshot of magic.
Trip opens the wrapper and his expression betrays his ecstasy as he bites into the cream-filled cake. Chewing, and with half a Spongie in his hand, he looks to me. I can tell he’s hesitant to offer me any as he wants to enjoy it himself, yet he doesn’t want to be rude.
“I’m good. It’s all yours,” I say, forestalling his having to make a decision.
He smiles and crams the rest of the goody into his mouth. Seeing the area clear, I think about holing up in one of the vehicles to get some rest. There’s no way we’ll be able to keep going without it. My concern is that we’ll become surrounded should any of the zombies or speeders show up. I’m out of grenades which could clear a path, but we’ll also be no use in our current condition if we should run into any up the road.
Spying another motor home a short distance away, this one upright, I guide Trip to it, telling him we need to rest and for us to trade off keeping watch. I’m not overly confident with his ability to stay focused and not forget what he’s supposed to be doing, but fuck, I’m just flat worn out. I don’t see any alternative.
The side door is unlocked and swings open. Stepping into the interior, wrappers, food containers, and dishes are scattered everywhere. Whoever left did so in a hurry. There’s a slight odor of decayed food but it’s otherwise clear of anyone – dead or alive. I tell Trip that we’ll hold up for a few hours and get some rest, further stating that I’ll take the first watch.
“Good. I’m kind of burnt out, man,” he says.
Lying on a couch against one wall, he’s instantly asleep; his soft snores filling the interior. After locking the doors, I settle into the driver’s seat, leaning my M-4 against the dash. I prop my feet on the console and survey the area, using the rearview mirrors to keep an eye behind. The elevated position of the motor home gives a decent view over the surroundings. At the first sight of movement, we’re out of here.
The sun slowly climbs higher into a sky devoid of clouds. I feel my eyes begin closing on their own and have to move several times to stay awake. Two hours pass and I wake Trip, telling him it’s his turn. He rises slowly and stumbles to my former seat. Lying down, I catch a whiff of a joint being enjoyed. I would rise and say something, but I fade into dreams before another thought comes.
Two hours later, the alarm on my watch chimes. I jerk out of a deep sleep, the sudden waking causing my heart to jump start. Momentarily confused, I’m not sure what I’ve woken into, nor where I am. Slowly, consciousness clears and I hear snores emanating from the front of our hideaway. A measure of panic takes hold envisioning zombies surrounding us while Trip slumbered. I don’t hear any of the groans that usually accompany a horde but, in my tired state, my mind doesn’t take that into account.
Rising, I peel back the curtains a touch. It’s the same as when we began our rest; cars stretching to the sides, front, and back, for as far as I can see but no movement. Feeling a little better about our situation, I head to the front to wake Trip. I knew deep down that he would sleep, but I was exhausted and had reached my limit. Trip jumps into wakefulness at my touch.
“Dude, why did you have to wake me? I was with my wife on a peaceful motorcycle ride.”
“It’s time we get going,” I state.
“Where are we going? I kinda like it here,” he replies.
“Mike is still out there somewhere, and I assume that he’ll make for the highway. Regardless, though, we have to keep moving. It’s only a matter of time before zombies show and we need to find a more secure location before nightfall,” I answer.
“If you say so. I still like it here better.”
Without another word, we make our way outside. The sun is almost directly overhead and the tangle of cars stretches beyond our line of sight. I cram a few food items that hadn’t spoiled into my pack. As Trip chews down some of his food, I notice that he found another shirt from somewhere. I don’t bother asking. After downing a water bottle between us, we set out.
Maneuvering through the vehicles is more difficult as they are parked every which way without clear lanes between them. We clamber over and around the stalled cars, slowly making our way along the highway. I keep an eye out for anything that might serve as a safe haven for us, but there’s nothing more than a lengthy line of traffic with trees marching along the sides. The couple of hours rest we gathered wears off, and it’s with a numb mind and body that we traipse forward. I would like to find someplace soon that would allow us to get some true rest before the sun sinks below the horizon.
I only notice a few bodies scattered here and there, some in the vehicles, with others on the little pavement that shows. They all show signs of being mauled and are in a state of decay. Not like the zombies or speeders, but they have obviously dead for some time. As we progress, the remains become more numerous.
Trudging is the best way to describe our progress. With our lack of sleep, I’m surprised we haven’t collapsed, but there’s always one more car to climb. Scaling one vehicle, I notice a starred windshield under a covering of grime. Wiping some of the dirt away, it looks suspiciously like a strike from a bullet. It could have been from anything, even a thrown rock or maybe it occurred before the car’s arrival, but a bullet is what immediately comes to mind.
More alert, I scramble over the next vehicle and there are more starred windshields and a few broken out windows. I tell Trip, who has been mostly silent during our trek, and hasn’t lit up another of his seemingly endless supply of joints, to stay put. He sits on the hood of one car and collapses against the windshield. Climbing to the roof of the car, I look in the direction we’ve been traveling. I’m not feeling great about exposing myself like this but, with what appears to have been gunplay, I need to get a better picture of what we’re venturing into.
From my higher vantage point, I see several military-style vehicles ahead that are surrounded by the mass of cars. Pulling out my binoculars, I scope out the scene. In the magnified view, I note that the vehicles closer to the military unit in the middle are riddled with bullet holes. Bodies are draped over and lying around the vehicles. Many of the cars are missing windshields along with their side and rear windows. Past the concentration of military vehicles that look a lot like Humvees, with subtle differences, the log jam continues.
It looks very much like whatever served as the military here attempted a blockade to stem the flow of cars out of the city miles behind. The panicked people attempted to run through the blockade and the soldiers opened up. From the sight of the vehicles stretching past the barricade, it is apparent that the flow of people was too much for the soldiers to contain. They people managed to overrun them, but not before suffering more than a few casualties.
I continue to scan the area, but there’s nothing moving. Gathering Trip, we move through the wreckage. Bullet-ridden cars line the area in front of the military ones with bodies lying everywhere. The forms have been dead long enough that there’s only a faint, lingering smell of death. Some are decayed, but many have been torn apart and eaten – a sure sign that night runners are around. All of them have indications of injuries from bullets – bones shattered from the forceful impacts and more than a few with shattered craniums.
The thing I notice as we maneuver through the wreckage of vehicles and bodies is that none of the figures lying in cars, across hoods, or on the ground, have uniforms on. Perhaps the soldiers withdrew when they found they couldn’t stem the tide and saw the futility of their actions. Although, why they didn’t drive away is anyone’s guess. At first, Trip stares at the bodies, shaking his head. He then purposely looks away, maintaining silence as we continue
past the blockade. It may be that he, like me, is too tired for conversation.
I keep expecting to run into Mike as we make our way along the highway and wonder what happened to him. He seemed, or seems, like a good man, and I hope that nothing bad happened to him…that he was able to make good his escape from the tower.
A short time later, we are confronted by the burnt out remains of vehicles. The traffic jam turns into burnt hulks as if a line was drawn. Inside of the cars, bones lie scattered. And then, the wreckage of cars just ends. That’s it – a snarled mess of cars, then burnt ones, and then it ends. A hundred yards away from where the traffic jam terminates, there’s another barricade of military vehicles. These are different from the other ones we passed in that they are a combination of the Humvee-style vehicles and armored ones.
Scanning the blockade, I don’t see any signs of the soldiers that once manned the position. The windshields are covered in the same grime as the miles of cars we’ve passed. It becomes apparent that this line stemmed the tide of people pouring out of the city.
But then what? Did they abandon their positions afterward? Where did they go?
The trees that have lined the road since the beginning begin to widen out, and then, they too, end. Beyond the barricade, the highway remains clear and begins a descent to a plain with fields of tall grass stretching to either side. In the far distance, across the wide plain, there is a barely visible, purplish line of mountains.
Trip and I carefully walk past the last of the cars to the military vehicles. At the first one we come to, Trip steps up and opens the door. Reaching under the seat, he pulls out yet another wrapped Spongie.
“I thought I smelled another one,” he says, opening the wrapper.
Shaking my head, I walk around and through the blockade, checking the vehicles for any signs of life…or death, whichever. There is no indication of what happened to the soldiers. Just behind the barricade, I see a helmet stuck in the pavement. Looking closer, I find no indication that it was hammered into it or forced into the road. It really looks like it just grew out of the asphalt.
Turning to see what trouble Trip might be stirring up, or really, more interested to see what he’ll come up with next, I notice a boot sticking out of the tread of one of the vehicles. Shaking my head to clear my mind, I look again. Sure enough, there is the bottom part of a boot growing out of the tire.
What in the serious fuck!? I think, giving the boot a tug. It remains firmly embedded.
Unsure of what is going on, as if this place couldn’t get more weird, I cautiously make my way to the far side of the blockade. A blue road sign, partially covered in soot, sits beside one of the last vehicles. On it reads:
Atlantis 25 miles
Of course there would be a town with that name.
Looking off to one side, along the tree line where they halt abruptly and give way to plains below, I see a thin, dark ribbon that may indicate another highway emerging from the forest. I haven’t found any sign of Mike and, given that he fled the water tower ahead of us, I should have. Assuming he lived through the night, that is. The road isn’t that far away, perhaps a little over a mile away.
“Hey, Trip,” I call out, finally locating him.
He turns, his cheeks full from yet another Spongie that he found. White cream is smeared across his upper lip and yellow cake crumbles fall from his lips as he chews.
“Whas uh?” he mumbles, more cake falling out.
“There’s another road off to the side we should check out.”
“Wha? I’s lie ih her,” he states, well, I think he does.
His mouth is so crammed full that I can’t tell what he’s saying. It’s not like I can really understand him any other time, though. So, we’re kind of about even with our communication.
“There might be more Twinkies hidden over there,” I reply.
Without another word, he starts marching in the direction I indicated. I pause only a moment to write a quick note and leave it weighted, but plainly visible should Mike happen down our path.
Jack Walker – Food Baby
We trudge through the tall grass. The sun is out and I catch a faint whiff of the smoke that’s been following me ever since I arrived in this hellish nightmare. The stalks covering the fields bend in waves as breezes pass, creating ripples across the plains like incoming waves on a beach. Although it’s a nice day, or as nice as one can get here, it’s still a little on the chilly side.
Approaching the far highway, I see another road block similar to the one we just left. I caution Trip behind me. How long he’ll stay there is anyone’s guess. When he gets something in mind, no force of nature will stop him. I halt a distance away from a line of several Humvee-style and armored vehicles. Only the swish of the wind brushing across the tops of the grass and the nearby trees can be heard. I don’t see any movement except for a few birds flittering across the fields, the first I’ve seen since arriving.
Cautiously, I make my way closer. I catch a flash of movement just inside the tree line near the blockade. It isn’t much, more of a hint of movement. I stop, tense and alert, holding my hand behind me to keep Trip where he is. I don’t turn, hoping he understands my signal for what it is and doesn’t think I mean ‘please rush forward and shout something.’ The darkness within the folds of the forest is complete, even for my ability to see in the dark. Looking from the bright light of the sun into shadows makes everything within nearly invisible.
I go to my knees and peer into the area where I saw the movement. My experience has taught me that, if I saw something move, there is something there. A lot of people will look for a few moments, see nothing else, and think that it’s their imagination. I have learned that lesson the hard way. There, another hint, almost like a darker shadow moving with the gloom of the forest. Movement, or a sixth sense, is usually the first indication that others are near.
The shadow resolves itself. Moving out of the shadows, someone, or something, steps into the small amount of light penetrating the forest’s edge. They halt just inside the first growth of trees. From what I can see of their body position, they are looking in my direction. Turning quickly to see what mischief Trip is up to, I see him standing just behind me, stuffing something he found into his mouth.
“Get down,” I sharply whisper.
“Why? I thought we were going to the road to find Ponch,” Trip says, bits of food falling from his mouth.
“There’s someone in the trees,” I state. “Now, get down.”
He leans forward and squints his eyes, peering into the forest.
“Oh, so there is. Is that Ponch?”
“Not unless he switched out his poncho for a dress. No, please, get down,” I say, whispering.
“Why would he do that? That was one sharp poncho.”
“He wouldn’t. Now fucking get down,” I say, reaching back to grab his shirt and pull him to his knees.
He gives me a look of disgust but doesn’t fight me. Focusing back on the trees ahead, I see that the person has moved out from within the forest and is standing at the very edge. I was correct with my first assessment, the one standing is wearing a dress, but it’s tattered and deeply stained. The grayish skin is in contrast to the dark stains that cover her apparel. I don’t have the benefit of long distance vision, but my eyesight is fairly keen, and it’s easy to tell that the person staring at us is no longer one of the living.
I can’t figure out why she isn’t coming at me like the other zombies I’ve run across. Her steady stance tells that she isn’t a shambler, and she isn’t sprinting like Jesse Owens. Both of those types seemed to be as relentless as the night runners and would immediately pursue anything living. I notice more movement within the trees as more join her. They stop behind, still partially hidden in the shadows. I can’t tell their exact number, but it seems there are close to five of them; at least, those that I can see.
Oh well, a zombie is a zombie, I think, raising my carbine.
The woman quickly,
and I mean quickly, turns and vanishes into the trees.
What the fuck?!
“Hmmm…smart ones,” Trip says from behind.
I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. As far as I know from what Mike told me, there are the slow ones and what he called, version 2.0 ones. Those, I thought, are the speeders. Although they can run and are more agile, they still seem to pursue relentlessly. Yet, here is one that is reacting with a degree of intelligence.
Is that part of his world as well? Or, are we dealing with something completely different, and something that is only part of this world?
Whatever it is, I don’t like it. The implications are too drastic to think about. The woman reappears at the edge of the trees. I don’t see any of the moving shadows behind and immediately worry about where they are.
“Well, one less can’t hurt things,” I mumble, sighting in on her.
When my barrel centers on her, she steps behind a nearby tree.
Fuck!
I’m not feeling very comfortable sitting in the open like we are, but I’m less so with the idea of venturing into the trees. Glancing around, there isn’t any concealment except for tall grass growing farther out in the fields. The woman ahead, well…zombie – call it like it is – is peeking around the edge of the tree. This doesn’t give me warm fuzzies. There’s too much intelligence at work.
I rise and shuffle farther away from the tree line. I don’t know where those that were with her are but, with the intelligence being shown, I can make an educated guess. I think about just leaving them here and forgoing the road block to make my way through the fields. However, the tall grass, which is growing taller than I am in places, will limit my field of vision, and that’s not a good thing.
The drafts of wind are blowing from the forest into the fields. On the slight breeze wafting through the area, I suddenly pick up the faint smell of decay.
“Oh no you don’t. I know that trick,” I mutter, orienting myself toward the trees but keeping the woman behind the tree in sight.
