by TW Brown
Anyway, there were ten of us on the supply run. We hiked out of the woods and came to a gravel logging road. After a couple of miles we came to an abandoned Ranger Station where an assortment of vehicles are kept: Jeeps, Hummers, pick-up trucks, and five deuce-and-a-halfs! All but one of the deuces have tarp covers. The real prize is a pair of fuel tankers. Derrick has it rigged so that, upon return, any vehicle that needs it can be gassed. Having been told about the RVs, he said a team could have them brought here tomorrow. Tim has already signed up.
So, we pair up and I team with Trent Blake. He was a bank manager in Coeur d’Alene. Never married, but had a seven-year-old son who he says lives—he won’t use past tense—in Seattle with his mother. Trent, at age twenty-nine, has pretty severe male pattern baldness with just a faint wreath of blonde hair. He seems a bit too optimistic which, from all I’ve seen, can only end badly if and when reality sets in.
We rolled into town and it was clear that they had hit this place before. Trent pointed out buildings with big, white spray painted “Xs” on them. Those were places already hit. So as we roll in, the zombies of course start coming from everywhere. The town population was posted at 2107 and it looked like more than half remained to greet our intrusion.
Each of the deuces had reinforced bars in front so the convoy just plowed through, sending bodies in all directions. I was driving ours and I glanced over once at Trent who had grown silent the moment we hit town. He had his hands covering his eyes. I can’t say I enjoy smashing into what had once been a five or six-year-old, but I can’t think of them that way. They are the husks of humanity and will try to take a bite out of me any chance they get.
So…the targets given Trent and I were a bakery and a pair of houses. Each location was marked with a circle on our map. We rumble up to the bakery first, and I intentionally overshot it to take out a cluster of five zombies coming right at us. No sense in going hand-to-hand if I don’t need to. Trent and I jumped out and used our machetes to make sure the downed zombies stayed that way.
Trent drew a pair of .22 pistols and climbed on the top of the cab of our truck while I ducked through the already broken glass door and into the bakery. I got to the counter and found it clear on the other side. Before I climbed over I listened best as I could, but didn’t hear anything. So over I went and to the door to the production area in back. Now, this place was about the size of two mini-marts together, so I knew the rear was gonna be pretty big. I pushed open the door and jumped back, nothing comes. But I could smell it. Eventually what I was looking for tumbled from behind three big Hobart mixers. At first I couldn’t tell if it had been male or female. It was short, about four-feet-eleven and easily over two hundred pounds. One arm had been torn off at the shoulder. The back area had several skylights and plenty of windows mounted up high, all of which were miraculously intact, and allowed for plenty of light. I brought my 9mm up, Grace was kind enough to provide a laser site, and once the red beam reached the center of its forehead, I fired. Nothing else emerged.
Then I went to work grabbing bags of flour, salt, sugar and everything related to baking that lined racks and shelves. Tonight, as I write this, I feel every fifty, twenty, and ten pound bag that I loaded onto a flat pushcart which I found next to one of the big, now defunct ovens. It took most of the morning. A few times I had to stop and help Trent take down a few zombies. Since we—the other trucks and mine—were scattered all over the tiny town, the zombies stayed spread out. That helped a lot.
After the bakery, we hit the private residences. This time Trent went in. I heard a couple of shots before he came out with clothes, linens, any food still useable, kitchenware…you name it. Basically, the house was stripped of anything and everything.
Eventually the radios we carried began calling for us to re-group. It was time to leave. I asked Trent if any survivors were ever found. He said it had been a few weeks since they’d brought any back.
Well…I’m exhausted. But I feel good. Maybe I’m being too optimistic…only time will tell I guess.
Sunday, April 27
Her name is Snoe Banks. Maybe she got teased when she was younger, but around here…she is called “Lady B.” At no taller than five feet (she keeps her hair cropped in a crew cut so she isn’t getting anything extra height-wise in that department) and build like a gymnast—except for being way top heavy—she is final death to any zombie unfortunate to cross her path.
I was in a five person team with her today on a scouting mission of some town called Opportunity, just over the Washington Border. It is one of the largest communities the folk at Irony have considered raiding. Our job was to gauge the density and scout for signs of survival.
I’d seen Snoe…Lady B…around, but she wears these oversized sweats all the time so I really had no idea. She showed up at the vehicle site wearing skin tight leather from neck to mid-calf. She had a studded-collar, gloves with two-inch spikes mounted on a padded knuckle-band, boots with a steel heel that looks like a meat tenderizing mallet-head and angled steel-toes. She had a pair of laser-scoped 9mm pistols on each hip, sword hilts sticking up over each shoulder, and a knife that would make Crocodile Dundee jealous strapped to one thigh.
Nobody even blinked so I figured it was normal…for her. We loaded into an Army Hummer and made our destination just as the sun was coming up at our backs. We found a spot to conceal the vehicle and made our way to the edge of town on foot. We found some ridge lines to follow and with binoculars we were able to spot concentrations of zombies in a handful of locations indicating possible survivors. One was on the very edge of town in a Wal-Mart Superstore.
We’d only been watching for a couple minutes when a young girl no more than twelve walked to the edge of the roof and dumped a bucket over the side onto the moaning, growling pack below. We decided on the fly to see if we could find a way to rescue whoever was inside so Larry Bonn—I haven’t really talked to the guy much, seems like a real prick—fires the flare gun to see what sort of reaction we get.
The girl sees the flare and runs to an open hatch or skylight. We see her waving her arms and pointing. Pretty soon about a dozen people come up. Larry fires another flare. By now, I can hear the moans of approaching zombies. It seemed that quite a few had wandered up into these scrub hills.
That’s when I hear it. The heart-wrenching sound of a baby cry. I freeze, looking in what I am sure is the direction. Somehow, these folks hadn’t heard that sound from the zombies before. Ryan Grimes, one of our few quality mechanics, goes bounding into the brush before I can stop him. Only, a second later he is falling backwards through the bushes with what used to be a teenage girl still wearing the top half of her cheerleading outfit clamped onto his left arm. This next thing would’ve been comical were it not for what was happening to Ryan. A burly zombie wearing a letterman’s jacket…and no pants bursts out next.
Before I can move, Lady B has these razor-sharp blades drawn in each hand. She whirls and the top third of Letterman- Zombie’s head goes flying into the tall grass at its feet. She takes two steps and punches Cheerleader-Zombie in the back of the head with her spiked gauntlet. She rolls the zombie off Ryan. His arm is a gory mess. Blood is bubbling up through his fingers where he is trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow.
I can still see Ryan sitting there. Legs splayed out in front of himself, holding his wounded arm. Lady B stepped around him. He never saw or heard a thing as she drew one of her pistols and shot him point blank in the back of the head.
We all just stood there as she wiped off her things like nothing happened. Finally, we decided to return to the Hummer. Zombies were coming from all over now. After taking some video of the area, we headed back to Irony.
There are folks looking at the tapes now and deciding on the best way to make a run on the town. Another team left shortly after we got back. They used a crossbow to get a message to those folks on the Wal-Mart that we would be back within the week, and if they wanted to come with us to light a fire on the roof or make som
e sort of sign. Otherwise, we would assume they are secure and wish to stay put and we would make no supply runs in their area as a sign of respecting their “territory.”
Monday, April 28
Had they survived, today would be my parent’s anniversary. It would have been their 50th. In the society we lived in just a short time ago…that was becoming a real rarity. Now, relationships are life saving. I do not believe we as a species are meant to survive alone. But, like everything else, we just took love and marriage for granted. Now, we don’t have time to really enjoy each other…we just huddle…waiting for the boogeyman.
Today I grabbed my guitar (and assorted weapons) and took a hike up into the woods. I only had to stop twice for zombies. One was a gal—probably early twenties—with a terrible bite on her left cheek which had taken a nice meaty hunk out of what had probably been a real pretty face. It broke through to the clearing wearing only a push-up bra and the waistband of what had once been a pair of pantyhose. It stood there staring at me as I continued to play. At one point, it actually closed its eyes, as if remembering. Then, as they always do, its arms stretched out and it groaned as its jaws began to work in anticipation of the biting and tearing to come. A long thick, mucous glob rolled down its chin.
I set my guitar down and drew the long, slender, three-foot blade I carried on my back. One quick thrust through the right eye socket, and I was back playing guitar a moment later. I still think that just for a moment, something in that thing’s brain remembered music, remembered its humanity. But, instinct always wins.
Tuesday, April 29
Town meeting today. It seems that after a good look at the video shot, a full-scale run on Opportunity, WA is going to happen. Because of the size of this run, we are going in in teams of four with five deuce-and-a-halfs, the fuel tanker—for possible refilling—and they want to use one of the RVs escorted by a pair of Hummers to try and extract those people. We roll off May 1st.
Wednesday, April 30
Meredith came to see me today. She said she had something she wanted me to see. Never one to refuse a pretty girl, I went.
I didn’t even recognize Joey when I first saw him. He was sitting in a circle with several other children with a notebook scribbling furiously as Tim was writing math problems on the huge dry-erase board. It was hard to believe that this was the same frightened child who would not step a foot outside back at the old complex.
We went back to my place and had lunch, which I must say still feels very surreal knowing what is going on out in the world. We talked about how she doesn’t really feel like she fits in. Other than Grace, who is a leader in political sense but does not leave the compound, and Snoe, who doesn’t talk to anybody and never leaves her place except to go out on missions, most of the women here are—in Meredith’s words—girly. They are care takers and nurturing types that don’t leave the compound other than to go to the garden. Even Samantha had balked at Mission sign-ups. Instead, she is a regular on kitchen detail, (everybody eats dinner together in the meeting hall as a community) and the vehicle maintenance team.
We spent the day talking and eventually shared some of our personal stuff prior to the epidemic. I learned that she had her own fitness studio and had been engaged. Her boyfriend was an EMT, he died early on. She had a sister who was a dancer on Broadway and a brother who was a cameraman for a cable news channel. He was working in the Middle East with some army unit.
I told her about my failed marriage, my daughter, and my band. I told her about being a newspaper delivery guy and living a simple, no-frills life which was enough for me.
We drank a whole bottle of wine and most of a second as we told funny stories. At some point, she kissed me. Now, she is asleep beside me, the moonlight shining on her milky-white skin. Occasionally she stirs when the rumble of distant thunder echoes. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but tonight I am going to sleep, comforted by the warm feel of her body nestled to mine, skin-on-skin. If I wake in the morning and she is gone, so be it. But for tonight...
* * * * *
Chapter 5
Thursday, May 1
For now...Opportunity lost.
We are being deluged by rain that has everybody staying inside. On the positive side...Meredith was still here this morning. I can hear the rain pounding the roof, and the sound of thunder rolls into our little valley, sometimes causing the windows to vibrate.
It is odd, walking around this house...my house...wearing a pair of clean black jeans and a baseball jersey from some city league sponsored by “Hank’s Transmission”, listening to The Planets suite by Holst on a boombox CD player, sipping a cup of hot tea with a dash of honey. Stranger still is seeing this little redhead reclining on the couch reading The Time Traveler’s Wife by Niffenegger, wearing Capri pants and one of my flannel shirts.
It’s almost like the past four months never happened. I know I must enjoy it while I can, things change fast...and usually for the worst.
Friday, May 2
Day two of the torrential rain, thunder, and lightning. Less than half of Irony came to dinner last night. Grace and her son, Derrick, went door-to-door today requesting everybody be at dinner tonight. She feels that isolation might be too much “alone time” for some folks. It seems an elderly man named Boyd Garrett hung himself sometime yesterday.
I thought back to my time alone in Hangman Creek Tavern. How close had I come to giving up? I guess there is a lot of healing to be done. But the question is…when will there be time? Will these things eventually fall down and stay dead when they run out of food? And can we outlast them here in our little bastion of humanity? Will they rot to the point of no longer being mobile? Some of them have lost much of their clothing, while others haven’t. But truthfully, I’ve seen no sign of the bodies wearing down in similar fashion. These things might never go away.
Damn.
Saturday, May 3
Today, a group of us decided that, weather-be-damned, we had to at least try for those folks at that Wal-Mart. If nothing else, we could see if they left any indication that they even wanted our help.
Snoe, Meredith, Larry Bonn, Derrick Arndt, and I climbed into an RV and headed out early this morning. We came in from the south as dawn cut through the dismal gray enough for us to actually see past twenty yards. What we saw…well…none of us would have ever thought mankind could continue to find new ways to degrade itself.
Thousands of zombies have flooded into the area…lured by living humans dangled from five helicopters. I have no idea who could think of such a thing, but having seen what was happening in Spokane, I have no doubt that if Captain Dahl is still in command at the Air Force base, this is his handiwork.
Using the natural topography of the Spokane Valley, he is herding the zombies using the carrot-on-a-stick approach. While this has likely cut back on the dangers in Spokane, every other small outpost is now under siege.
We can see the folks we came to rescue. They do in fact have a huge S.O.S. banner hanging, along with what looks to be a huge canopy set up with “Save us!” painted on it. There are, from our best count, seventeen people, all on the roof. It is obvious that the zombies have gained entrance and chased them from the inside to where they now wait. Unfortunately, the crowd outside is at least twenty deep at the thinnest point.
This undead exodus brings a new concern; if our sanctuary is discovered by the Spokane powers-that-be that are seemingly bent on control for whatever the reason, would they seek to have us overrun? Or, are they simply attempting to clear their territory, the City of Spokane, albeit with no concern for the few survivors who may be clinging to a dwindling strand of hope.
We returned to Irony with the news. Grace has called for a meeting tomorrow of all residents over age fifteen. This should be interesting
Sunday, May 4
I have to hand it to Grace. She does not miss a thing. After hearing our report, it is obvious that she is seeing the possibility of the undead swarming down into our valley. She asked for
volunteers to try and scout out two possible locations for us to fall back to. The first is near a town called Thompson Falls, Montana off of Prospect Creek. Supposedly there is a militia survivalist outpost nearby. North of that, some off-shoot religious sect reportedly set up in a very rugged area near the Noxon Reservoir off of a tributary that feeds into Trout Creek.
I have volunteered for the latter location along with Meredith, Trent Blake, Scott Paulson—a twenty-two-year-old kid who obviously spent a lot of hours pumping iron, Steve Morgan, and Sasha Ivanoff—the nineteen-year-old blond-haired, blue-eyed counterpart to Scott. We’ve been told only to scout and report. If it is occupied, we are not to make contact, but simply return. Both teams were given similar edicts.
Everybody staying behind will be involved in an extended boundary patrol. Lady B is in charge of setting up a defensive perimeter which includes some sheer sided pits about ten feet long, four feet wide, and six feet deep. Also, razor and barbed-wire barricades will be put up. Since it is strictly for zombie control, they will use trees and not bother with fence posts. Also, another set of two teams will work in shifts, keeping a lookout on the Spokane Valley. Their job is to stay alert for the mass movement heading our way, as well as watching to see if the Air Force folks are probing with any personnel in our direction.
