The Coalition: Part 1 The State of Extinction (Zombie Series)

by Mathis Kurtz, Robert

  “Damn!” he said. He almost fell, but he kept his balance and looked down. The figure tearing at his knees had been a small girl, no older than seven or so before the plague had taken her. What hair that remained on her patchy skull was strawberry blond. There was even a ribbon tied in one strand of the stringy muck.

  The other, heavier zombie had probably been her big brother; ten or eleven years old, and maybe a hundred pounds. He was a big, strapping boy, who had probably been on his way to being a high school football star. They groaned, snarled, and snapped at him, trying to bite. In fact, they weren’t trying to bite, but actually were biting. It was only the tough layers of fabric that he wore that had saved him from being wounded. Still, if he didn’t stop them, one or the other was going to find a chink in his armor and put end to his story of survival.

  Whenever Cutter found himself hand to hand with these bastards, he rarely spoke to them. Human voices only seemed to make them even more savage. So all he did was suck in a breath of air, lift the crowbar high and brought it down with as much force as his position would allow.

  The boy crumpled to the ground, his brains oozing out of a huge gap in the dark brown hair that had covered his blue, oxygen-starved scalp.

  With the single-minded ferocity that marked them all, the smaller of the two attackers just kept at him, holding on and gnawing at his thigh, trying to eat its way through the thicknesses. Cutter placed the gloved heel of his left hand to her forehead, and although a section of her scalp peeled away under the pressure, he succeeded in moving her back a bit. Without hesitating, he drew back his right leg and kicked up, as if the thing were a football and his steel-toed boot met her chin with a wet snapping sound. The thing went down, but almost immediately brought itself back up to a standing position. However, by then the crowbar was in the downswing of a killing arc, and soon she was lying there as dead as the form that had been her brother.

  “Shit,” Cutter said, accusing himself. “That was stupid. That was rookie shit,” he whispered. Scanning the yard, he saw that the activity had brought nothing to the spot, but he wasn’t going to waste any time. He stepped back over to the shed and looked inside.

  The little building had been outfitted in a hurry to serve as a refuge for the two kids. There was a table, some cans of food, two small wooden chairs, a mattress, and empty water bottles. It was obvious to Cutter that someone had locked them inside to keep them safe. However, that someone had never come back for them. A breeze blew the door slightly, sending it toward him, and Cutter could see how the kids had scratched and hammered at the barrier toward the end, trying to get out. They had probably both died of thirst in there. Or maybe one died of thirst and the other…he didn’t want to think about it.

  However, he had opened the damn door for a reason and he needed to take a closer look. They had obviously used a bucket as a toilet. The stench rising out of where it stood was stale, but still offensive. Probably all just a bust, he was thinking as he turned and saw the canister sitting solidly and white there in the corner under a small shelf. Cutter went to it and reached down, knowing that it was probably empty. He lifted it. It was heavy with gas. It was only a twenty-pound tank, but it would do.

  In seconds, he had his pack on his back; his rifle shouldered, and was dodging back through the streets, on his way home. Preferably, he would rather have lashed the canister to his pack, but for now, he would just carry it over his shoulder. Worst case he would use it to bash in the head of anything that might attack him. Of course, he wasn’t going to make it back in one uninterrupted run. The thing was just too heavy and he would have to stop somewhere and rest.

  Trotting down the streets, he weaved through the remains of abandoned cars and trucks, some of them burned out wrecks. He was reminded that he should visit his stashed trucks to make sure that they were still in running condition. He had a pair of four-wheel drive pickups locked up in separate garages. Once every couple of weeks, he would stop and check on them, start them up, let the engines run for a brief time, and make sure that they were in good shape. He hoped that someday, the time would come when he and the others could start clearing the streets. If such a time arrived, they would need some vehicles that had been kept in running condition. Or maybe he might be able to open up enough of a route through the city to see if he could drive one of the trucks out beyond the horizon. Maybe there were some passable highways still waiting out there. Who knew?

  Cutter had moved out of the upscale townhomes and executive houses and was once more in the concrete canyons of what had once been a great banking center. There had been a time, before the big financial crunch of 2008 when three of the biggest banks on earth had called the area home. But by the time the dead had started rising the three had been cut down to size, two of them gobbled up by competitors, in a kind of zombie tableau written in different terms. Many of the office buildings now haunted by the undead had been, all but abandoned toward the end.

  He stopped at a familiar corner in the shade at the entrance of a high-end women’s clothing store. He put the canister down; it made a slight clink as it met the gritty concrete. Slowly, he peeled his cap back, undid a few buttons at his collar, and used the kerchief around his neck to mop at the sweat that was streaming. When he got back, he would strip down and take a shower. It would be good.

  Something slapped the window where he had been all but leaning. It was thick, and virtually shatterproof, but the sudden movement surprised him and caused him to flinch back.

  Inside the shop, a zombie put its blue, infected fingers to the glass and raked at the smooth surface. It had been a young woman in its time. The blonde hair that hung in clumps from the reeking scalp seemed to hint at the beauty that had once been its own. Inside, unable to reach Cutter, the thing grimaced and gnashed its teeth. He could hear her moaning in frustration, even through the thick glass that held her at bay. The thing slapped at the glass and then staggered back, as if to take a better look at Cutter. She was wearing what had been a nice evening dress and would probably have been comely before life had fled. Cutter could see what had done her in: a series of nasty bites on her upper arms and two on her thigh, which showed soft and rotting through the torn bits of the dress.

  “No soup for you,” he whispered to the dead thing, his breath fogging the glass.

  Despite everything, despite the horror of her presence, she reminded him of the fact that he hadn’t been with a woman—he hadn’t had sex—in almost a year. The last time had been with a survivor named Adele Sorkin. At least, that’s what she’d told him her name was. They had shared a fortified apartment about a mile from the center of downtown. They had been together there for less than two weeks. Just long enough for loneliness and frustration to have them end up making love. It was, he supposed, just something to do.

  He couldn’t even remember exactly what Adele had looked like. He had caressed her, seen her naked, kissed and held her. However, all he could really remember was that she had been short—no more than five feet four inches tall—and that her hair was very red. A real red, and not dyed that way.

  However, she hadn’t been cut out for this situation. He had known that when they had been thrown together through chance. One day she unlocked the doors to the apartment and she had fled. Just like that. He hadn’t seen her since, although he’d tried to find her a few times. If she was still alive, she didn’t want to be found, and staying lost was not hard these days.

  “Screw this,” he told himself. He looked to see that the frustrated zombie had wandered back into the clothes racks, leaving him alone. So he hefted the tank again and started moving back down the street, walking now instead of trotting. It was really hot and humid and he just did not want to push himself unless forced into it. He could always ditch the propane and come back for it later. It wasn’t as if a zombie had any use for it. There were a hundred cars where he could stash it for later retrieval, but he wanted to get it done in one trip if he could.

  He hadn’t taken a dozen steps wh
en he saw movement ahead. Cutter halted and took another look. It was someone moving deliberately, so he picked it out for a living person and not one of the shamblers. Standing tall, the figure came toward him, stopped when it saw him, and then came his way again. Behind it were three others. A woman and two children were tagging along.

  “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “It’s the Lunds.” He lifted a hand in greeting to the man and began to trot toward him. Generally, he was cautious around other survivors, but he had spoken to Mr. Lund before and he liked the man. He was the only fellow, Cutter had met in the past year and a half, who had been able to keep his family together. Certainly, Cutter had failed at that, even preceding the zombie apocalypse.

  Setting the cylinder down, Cutter moved toward Lund who motioned to his family to hold back. Cutter thought that was strange, but who was he to second-guess the decisions of a man who had kept himself and four others alive for so many…

  Then Cutter stopped. He counted two kids, but the Lunds had three children. Two boys and a girl. The oldest boy…Cutter looked and realized that the oldest son was not there. He was about twelve years old, Cutter recalled. Maybe eleven. Tentatively, the two men approached one another; with Lund constantly looking back, to make sure his family was safe.

  “Cutter.” Lund spoke first. The fellow came to within six feet of Cutter and turned so that he could easily watch his wife and children and at the same time glance aside to address Cutter.

  “Lund,” he replied. “I was actually hoping to run into you guys.”

  “What?” There was suspicion in the other’s pale blond features. Again, Cutter noticed that some things had changed. Lund had always been very clean when he had appeared. Most of the time, his hair had even been cut and combed, and his face was always shaven close. Now his hair was long, disheveled, and he wore at least three or four days’ growth of beard.

  Cutter hesitated a moment and tried to decide if he should go on. Now Lund was staring at him, and Cutter could almost feel the man’s suspicion. Quickly, he glanced at Lund’s family who were standing at attention nearby, just out of earshot. Something was different, but Cutter couldn’t figure out what it was.

  “I asked you what you wanted,” Lund said, an edge to his comment.

  “I…I wanted to ask you about that boy. Oliver. You know him, right?”

  At that, the look in Lund’s face went from suspicion to something as near to rage as Cutter was likely to see.

  “What? You want us to take him in? Is that it? You fucking want to see if he can replace Daniel, right? You think that, because Danny is dead now, we’re just aching to bring another boy into our family? That what you’re thinking?” With that, Lund’s free hand shot out like an arrow from a bow and his iron fingers latched onto Cutter’s biceps. The power in that grip was impressive, the fingers digging into his flesh even through the layers of cloth. At the same instant, Lund turned his body slightly so that he was all but hiding Cutter’s torso and face from his family.

  “Lund. No.” He winced, feeling the pain as Lund’s hand gripped even tighter. “I didn’t know your son was…had…I didn’t know.”

  Lund drew in close. “You keep your fucking voice down. Don’t you fucking upset my family. I swear to fucking God, if you ask my wife to take in that boy, then I will fucking rip your head off and shit down your fucking throat. Do you understand me?”

  Only when Cutter nodded did Lund release the pressure on his arm. Lund was not a man he had ever seen in such a state. In every meeting he had ever had with him, Lund had always seemed the picture of moderation. He was going to bring his entire family through this apocalypse and out the other side in one piece. He was cool, he was calm, and he was calculating, but that was the old Lund. This was something else; this was a man, who had been torn up, chewed up, and then spat out.

  “I understand you,” Cutter told him. “I didn’t know you’d lost Daniel,” he swore. “I wouldn’t have bothered you if I’d known.”

  Finally, Lund completely released Cutter’s arm. It seemed to be a relief as much for one man as the other. “Just leave us alone,” he hissed. “I’ve got my own family to preserve, and that’s all I can stand. I’m here to watch for me and mine, and that’s it.

  “You feel so strongly for that kid, you fucking take him in. You fucking do it!” With that, Lund turned sharply on his heel, and all but trotted back to his wife and children.

  Cutter walked back across the street to where he had placed the canister and picked it up, hoisting it once more to his shoulder. By the time he turned to look back toward the Lunds, they had vanished like a passing beam of sunlight through a break in a fast-moving cloud.

  **

  By the time he got back to the building where his safe house was located, the sun was fading in the sky, but the temperatures were not falling. It had to be well over ninety, but he had no way of knowing until he got back to the rooftop to check his little weather station. He drew out the key to the outer door of the stairwell and unlocked it. It slid open easily, and he carefully pulled the door open, revealing the staircase rising up steeply. Looking up, he made sure that nothing was there, hiding in wait. When he was certain that nobody, or no thing, had crept in, he stepped inside and pulled the door after him, locking the door. He paused, putting the heavy canister on the concrete, and once again untied the bandana from his neck. Drawing the cloth across his face, he wiped the sweat from his skin, mopping his brow, his eyes, and his chin. He was certainly due for a shower.

  With the heavy metal burden once more raised, he began the long march up the stairs. Every few steps, he paused to listen. The undead never breathed, of course, so you never heard that. Nevertheless, sometimes, if they were standing or even lying in wait, they would shift. Some of them would stand just so in the darkness, waiting for one of the living to pass within striking distance. Then they would move out deceptively quickly and make their move. He had seen them do it a hundred times. They would be rooted in one spot, waiting like statues. He was sure that some of them knew that’s what they were doing—waiting like some kind of ambush predator. You just never knew, and all you could do was never to let your guard down.

  The only bad thing about his favorite safe house was the climb. Twelve floors up this isolated stair well. At least part of the way he could also go up the fire escape, but he preferred staying out of the line of sight of either the shamblers or of some of his living fellows. Not everyone was just going along to get along. There were some real bastards out there. Most of them had been killed off over the course of the past two years, but not all of them. Even now, there were people within a mile of his hideout, who would just as soon cut his throat as talk to him.

  At each floor, Cutter stopped to check the locks of the doors leading into the main building, ensuring that they were solidly barred. A few of them, he had welded shut, never wishing them to be opened, no matter the situation. At a few of them, he sometimes heard shuffling sounds from the other side, knowing that at least from one day to the next the odd zombie had found its way into the building, and up the unobstructed stairways that he’d never bothered to block. At this point, he doubted if he would ever block them. It seemed too risky for the benefit that he would get from it. Anyway, sometimes a few zombies around was almost like a little extra security. They kept out the casual busybodies, and if some nosy snooper did encounter one, he would likely hear whatever struggle might ensue.

  Finally, he was at the top of the stairwell. This door was the only one he could lock from both sides. It was an optioned that he had added. His little hideout was a kind of blockhouse sitting in the center of the roof, and he had to stroll across the gravel to the front door. Again, it was just a minor thing that he had weighed and felt worth the risk.

  Cutter unlocked the door and opened it. The only thing that met him was fresh air rolling in, beyond him, and down the deep stairs. It was almost heaven. Bringing the gas canister out, he set it on the rooftop and then, once more locked a door behin
d him. He looked around. There were buildings that were higher than this one, but they were blocks away, and he doubted anyone would ever take the effort to shoot at him from any of them. Nevertheless, if they did, they had better shoot straight. Once again, it was just a risk he had to take. You couldn’t rule out every bad thing that might happen. Especially when it came to other people.

  He now just gripped the propane tank by the handle and walked it across the roof to what amounted to his front door. However, before he went in, he set it down, strolled over to the edge of the roof, and looked out over the city. He liked doing this whenever he could. Around him, the streets were growing more crowded with new growth. Grass, shrubs, and even trees had sprouted up in sidewalks and in the asphalt everywhere, you looked. The wind brought all manner of things in from every direction. There really was no way anyone could drive the streets of downtown Charlotte anymore. It was that damned crowded with runaway vegetation by that point.

  Cutter stretched his tired muscles, crept to the south-facing side of the building, and stared down. He leaned against the strong concrete abutment and looked over its edge. Directly in front of him was the burned over acreage that marked the boundaries of the latest fire. Those were worrying him. He’d had a little safe house in that sector. More like a panic room than a house, but he had hated to lose it. There had been a couple of good guns in there, some ammo and canned food. Looking ten degrees to the east of that burned patch was another immolated piece of real estate. Another one was a few degrees east of there. There was almost something planned in the way the fires had been burning. If he could think of a good reason for it, he might suspect someone of doing it intentionally, but it just didn’t make a lot of sense.

  Below, he could see some movement. Most of it was zombies, but there were some furtive shadows that told him that, they were made by the living. People were rushing about down there, hunting for what they needed to survive. Cutter closed his eyes on that and turned his back. He couldn’t worry about others right now. He had to clean himself up and get some rest.