by Jim Rudnick
As he watched the ladder slowly arc down, he realized that dog was now standing right at his side watching too. It had come out of its niche and looked like it wanted out too.
He thought about that for a second as he cursed his stupidity for even trying, but he dropped a hand onto the top of its head and scratched.
The dog angled its head to one side to increase the scratching pressure on an itch perhaps, and Javor knew he was a human dog and not a feral one. At least so far. He adjusted the ladder to be less truly vertical.
As he got ready to come up the ladder, he said, “There’s two of us—me and my dog, and we’re coming up backwards.” He reached down to pet the dog once more. He positioned himself with his rear end tucked into the bottom rung of the ladder. He used one more jerky bar to gain the trust he needed as he slowly wrapped both arms around the dog and gently stood up and leaned backward.
Holding the dog gently as the dog chewed, he slowly raised one foot to the bottom rung and pushed up, his body lying on the rungs above. One by one, he slowly mounted the ladder backward.
Why am I taking the damn dog? I haven’t owned a dog in forty years.
This one he somehow knew was different, and living in a pit, eating whatever fell in and died was one thing that Javor could not fathom for anyone—or any dog.
At the top, a woman of about twenty-five stood pointing her old-time rifle at him from across the pit. She knew not to get too close which showed some tactical knowledge.
He rolled onto the street at the edge of the pit, and the dog squirmed out of his arms.
And was gone. Off down the street lickety-split and never even looked back.
Javor grunted and looked over at the woman first and then around himself.
Behind one of the oil drums still burning was a man who must have thought he was hidden, but he was easily seen, Javor thought.
Up on the roof above him and behind his back sat another, one that Javor could not see, but he was reflected in the partial window across the street.
Tactically, these guys need help, he thought, as he stood up tall and let his shotgun lie untouched on his chest.
“Thanks for the help up and outta that pit. I’m sorry to say that I didn’t even see it coming,” he said, and his voice was full of embarrassment.
“Dumb zombie trap. Thing is, they forget about it, and then whatever falls in, dies. Still get eaten, of course, but you’d think if you ran a trap, you’d check every day, right?” the woman said, her aim still centered on his chest.
“And why did you check?” he asked.
“Heard that shotgun blast—not something we hear much anymore. So had to come to investigate. And we found you. Judging from you and your weapons, you’re not from Maxwell, are you?” she said.
He looked over at the man still trying to hide behind the smoking oil drum and said, “If you and your friend up on the roof want to join us, we can all talk—this is a long story,” and that seemed to surprise the woman.
But she nodded and the oil drum man, who looked to be about forty, joined them, and moments later the rooftop sniper did too.
Javor sat down, right there.
He smiled at the woman and spoke to her. While the story was not short, he took almost a half hour to explain who he was, where he was from, about the Boathi attack, the Drake AI finding Ceti4, and then the last few days from the robo-doc sleep through to the opening up of the Drake and his first encounter with zombies.
“At least that’s what I called them—so did you too, right? Zombies?” he queried, trying to learn as much about this enemy as he could.
The woman nodded but the oil drum man spoke up instead.
“Two kinds of zombies. One kind we call dumb zombies—who used this pit for instance to trap unsuspecting folks—even though Maxwell doesn’t have many. Not too strong IQ-wise, pretty much just an eating machine. You can kill them easy and yes, they do stay dead—”
The woman interrupted. “But then there’s the smart zombies—they don’t look the same but again are driven to eat. They do have some kind of IQ though as they can think, plan, and attack too. They too will eat their enemies, but what is more scary is that if you get bitten by one—and saliva is passed into your bloodstream in less than a day—yup, you’re a brand new smart zombie. That and you can’t really kill one of the smart ones. They rise right back up within minutes. Unless you cut off their whole head. Headless bodies can’t be controlled, and the heads die in hours. Remember—a headless zombie is a good zombie. It’s what we teach our kids,” she finished off.
“And yet, from what I’ve gathered, you three aren’t zombies—dumb or smart. So who are you guys?” he said, as he looked at all three of them.
“Ahh, history lesson coming up,” the woman said, and she lowered her rifle until it pointed down at the ground.
“And I’ve just decided that you’re not going to be an enemy of the Regime either. Let’s go, shall we—oh, we’ll take you to our local cadre headquarters. You can meet the chief, and get the history lesson then. Personally, I’ve got that T-shirt, so let’s get going,“ she said.
As she hoisted the rifle onto her shoulders, she looked at the other two and said, “This guy is okay, no need to keep him under guard,” and that seemed to do it as they all shouldered their arms.
Walking farther up that same street, an alley appeared on the left, and the woman took point, readied her rifle, and walked carefully down the center of the fairly narrow alley.
Along one edge sat some unused garbage cans as the garbage lay thick around them. Above them on a rickety looking fire escape, a corpse that was more bones and skeleton sat tucked into a corner of the metal structure.
As they walked a full block, across two more streets, and then veered off on a tangent to the side, Javor noted that everything looked beaten up, unusable and unkempt. The colors on everything from old tattered signs to official notices on buildings or storefronts were long out of their best look. Washed away, tired even, was how he saw things.
Once down a side street, he looked and saw a freshly painted storefront. He was about to ask about it when the sniper guy beside him shook his head and said, “Don’t ask—it’ll come later,” and they continued to move toward what Javor thought would be the center of town.
At a side street branching off to the left sat a few more burning and smoking oil drums, and yes, this time a piece of brown tarpaulin was cozied up right next to them.
The woman pointed and said, “Another sewer pit, dumb zombies too … so avoid it,” and they went on toward their goal, wherever they were aimed.
At the next larger intersection, where there were streetlights that had once worked and a few cars and trucks that were burned hulks from their showroom days, sat that dog.
He looked at them as his head and forelegs tried to dig into the asphalt and his hindquarters stayed erect.
That used to signify let’s play, Javor thought, as he stopped to watch what might happen.
The woman held up her hand and they all stopped.
Javor wanted to know why the dog was there in the middle of the street and seemingly just watching them.
He walked out a bit toward the dog and smiled at him. He smiled just enough to show interest. He reached slowly into his top vest pocket, opened up another jerky bar, ate a small bite noisily, and then tossed the big part toward the dog.
The dog leapt for that treat and chomped it down quickly. Javor saw that it still was hungry as most dogs always were.
He reached into that pocket again, and keeping his hand in the pocket, he walked up slowly to the dog who sat attentively waiting.
Reaching the dog, he pulled out his last bar, and peeling back the plastic packaging, he offered it to the dog who took it nicely and then chowed down on same.
He petted the dog cautiously on the head as it chewed and then noticed something he’d not noticed before—cadaver smell.
He half-turned, said, “Cover me,” and then stepped around th
e dog to look inside the closest car.
All he saw was burned interior. In two more cars, one lying on its roof, he saw the same.
When he reached the delivery truck, also on its side, he had to squat to peer in through the still glassed in window. Inside was a body wearing some kind of a military outfit. Dead though. From what, he couldn’t tell, but suddenly the dog was beside him and whining.
“Sorry, fellow, nothing I can do for him—or her. But you’re still fine, boy,” he said and slowly stood up. The only way into the truck was up the side to the top where the driver’s side door would be. “Probably open,” Javor said to himself, “but still the guy is dead.”
He turned to the oil drum man and said, “If you’re able to get up and get into this truck, there’s a fresh body there in some kind of military camo outfit—and they have a backpack too. I’d say the intel would be worth the effort—but then I’m not in charge of this cadre.”
The woman nodded her assent, and the young oil drum man hoisted himself up and into the truck.
The dog, of course, paid attention but did nothing but sit at Javor’s side at the front of the truck, watching.
Moments later, the oil drum man was out and handed the backpack to the woman.
“Would like to know what’s in that later—but could you tell how the guy died?” Javor asked.
“Yup, he took a slug to the chest. Big slug—single shot probably as he was getting outta the truck. Moved his dog out first, went back for gear, and BAM—dead,” he said.
He’d assumed, as Javor had too, that the dead guy was the dog’s owner.
“And while I’m not in charge of this cadre—is he wearing a type of uniform that you know? I mean, do we know who this guy is?”
That got a simple shake of the head and the woman interrupted.
“And yes, I am in charge of this cadre—so let’s get back to base, shall we? If the dog follows you, that’s okay by us too, mister.” She turned away from the pile of vehicles to move alongside the park that lay at the center of Maxwell and down a side street. Javor read the name of that side street off the tired sign, and it was Bixby Street.
After ten paces, Javor looked back to see the dog casting glances at the truck, then at him, and then back at the truck.
“Always good to have an ally with ten times the smell ability and night vision,” he said to himself, and thanked that explorer class on local fauna from a few years back as he whistled sharply.
Behind him, the dog’s head whipped around, and his feet were quickly trotting toward them as they moved down the street.
One on my side, Javor thought, as he scratched the offered head, and they walked down the street together…
Bixby … the dog would be named Bixby …
#####
At the end of the industrial park, where fallen buildings and railway tracks with burned boxcars stood, one building was not so much in disrepair. Windows still had glass in them, or rather, most of them did. In front where the offices had once been, the overgrown shrubbery and trees draped themselves across the front of the building. The overgrowth didn’t hide it so much as give it the look of being long forgotten.
At the building’s side, a row of loading docks was all empty except for a couple that had old trailers still in the docks, but the trailers were empty, of course. Around the back, the steps from the big employee parking lot were clear all the way up to the rear fire escape too. At the top level of the three-story building sat a guard who was enjoying the afternoon sunshine but still remembering to scan the lot below.
“No strangers,” the guard said to himself for the hundredth time today and reached back into his inner vest pocket for another sweet. Someone had discovered a cache of candy—hundreds of pounds—in a locked truck over at the railway station, and he’d been given a handful. He had idea what kind of candy it was, but it had sweet chocolate and some kind of goo. “Goo was sweet too,” he said to himself, and he looked down below again.
No strangers.
Not five minutes later, the door to the metal walkway opened up and someone came out.
It was Andrew.
Andrew was his replacement on guard duty.
He slowly wedged his foot under him and stood, passing the rifle to Andrew as he did.
“No strangers, Andrew. Not a one,” he said, and Andrew nodded as he slowly sank down to take the still warm seat tucked in the corner of the metal walkway that led to the stairs down to the ground.
“Bye, Ralph,” he said, and then he looked down to the huge parking lot.
Ralph went down the walkway to the door and then went through into the third floor of the building.
Inside, he hung up his windbreaker and then went down the short corridor to the next door and through same to report.
Moving along the wide hallway, he nodded to some others as they looked at him, and he eventually made his way to the big room that held his bosses. He knocked on the door, heard “enter, and did just that.
Inside, there were three people sitting at the large table that papers were spread out on. He went over to speak the woman, who he knew was called Jane.
“No strangers, Jane. Not a one,” he said and waited.
“How many seagulls today?” the man across the table asked. A snicker followed the question.
Jane looked up at Ralph and smiled as she shook her head. “Ignore William, Ralph. Good to see your guard duty went well. We will see you tomorrow at the same time.”
Ralph left the room.
“William, making fun of Ralph—or of all of our somewhat challenged citizens—is a side of you that I don’t like,” she said dryly.
“Then let’s pass a law for us that no one can bite a zombie. When you do that, you get Ralphs or Andrews … not a brain between the two of them. I’ve been saying that now for years,” he said as he shook his head.
While the three of them at the table—Jane, William, and Roger—were the head of this group of smart zombies with now more than a hundred citizens, there were truly few of them that were not challenged.
Roger nodded. “Yes, that does make sense, ‘til you remember that someone has to guard the building, trundle out of town for food from the farmers, go to town to check the traps—items that I’d never do. Nor for that matter, I’d think, any of us would do,” he said, trying to put an end to the argument.
Jane nodded. “There’s what—twenty of us and that’s fine. When we need new citizens, we simply bite a zombie, clean them up, and teach them a few words and a job. Works and has worked since bombing day. Now,” she said, “back to this crashed ship.”
She turned and looked at a couple of photographs they’d had taken on the day after it had landed. One showed the Drake, lying canted on one side, on the ridge above the town to the west.
“We know that there was at least one survivor—because he tossed out all the crew corpses, which our local Maxwell zombies devoured pretty quickly. We also know that the Regime cadre was seen dropping by to watch too. We also know that we cannot gain access—it’s twenty feet up and the front airlock door is solid. If the ship has an AI, it does not respond to a simple open as we’ve tried.”
She looked over at William. “Ideas here? I would think that if this is human—then we want them to join us—not the Regime. If this is Boathi, then we want them dead. Agreed?”
That got two nods from the others and a lull in the conversation too.
“Then until we learn more—like when the survivors come out and look around—then I say we put the ship on hold and proceed with our plan to ambush the cadre. Can we at least continue with that plan?”
Again, there were nods around the table. She pushed the map of Maxwell to lie in front of the three of them and began.
They worked on the rationale behind motivating the cadre to all come at once—to an event they would need to orchestrate well. They had more than enough smarter citizens to be able to over-run any kind of resistance, as long as they could control the location.
They knew that once captured, the cadre would be bitten and infected with the virus that each of them carried, and their citizens would grow in number. Not knowing how many cadre members there were in total was somewhat worrisome—but for the past year, they’d only seen seven different faces. Seven they could handle, so seven was what they planned on.
Roger smiled. “An event big enough for the whole cadre to show up—do we still have that old ordnance from the Maxwell Armory in storage? I mean those big howitzer shells?” he said as he laid out a plan with an opening salvo that could not be ignored.
#####
Where the park ended, the river moved toward the center of town. Downtown it would have once been called, but now it really looked like it was down. Buildings were torn away sometimes with only a shell of I-beams and hanging drywall being seen. Others had tumbled down onto their foundations with bricks and slabs of flooring lying right out into the street. One building, Javor saw, must have been leveled completely as it was now a pile of rubble a hundred feet high with not a single floor remaining up. Still more were just windowless shells, the piles of glass shards deep near the overhang of rubble.
Bixby, Javor noted, walked well around such shards, which spoke of a dog who’d learned from experience. Again, good to know.
They moved again down the street and then along the edge of the river.
“This river—goes where exactly, as it appears we’re heading upstream,” Javor said, noting the eddies along the close shoreline.
The woman answered, “Runs from the mountains about three hundred miles upstream, past Maxwell for another seventy miles to the sea. Southern sea we call it—but it’s a part of the Racine Ocean too.” Her tone said don’t ask for any more info, so Javor nodded and shut up.
As they walked, he noted that the town was quiet. No urban noise at all. Not a car or bus or train or plane made a glimmer of sound, so that’d mean there were none of those available for human use. More check boxes to fill. He couldn’t help being an explorer, but where and when he’d file this report might not ever occur.
