Dead Wrangler

by Coke, Justin

  Looking back my life was pretty wonderful. Maybe not the best, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse. I could have made it better if I had tried, but I was paralyzed. But the flat truth is that I came a lot closer to killing myself then than I ever have since. Even in the darkest days, ending my life never even occurred to me. I came closer to killing myself after a bad Black Wing Lair raid than I ever did when I was fighting real monsters. If I had a time machine I'd go back and tell myself to cancel my Warcraft account, pack up my shit and move to St. Louis, consequences be damned. You'll adjust to the traffic and the people.

  But then if I had done that I'd most likely be dead. Each of our survivals was so dependent on sheer luck that any change to the past would most likely end in your death. It's hard to have real regrets when following your dreams ends with you getting your intestines ripped out by a pack of monsters.

  If I could go back and stop the zombie plague, I would. Of course I would. But I think a part of me would regret losing the man I became. I would never say this to anyone, but in a lot of ways, this is the best thing that could have ever happened to me. If this hadn't happened I'd have spent the rest of my life a closeted homosexual. Too scared of coming out to have a real boyfriend. Pissing away my years behind a cash register and filling the void with silly little video games. I told myself I would do something when mom died, but it was already too late by the time the plague happened. My life would have been pathetic. I would have been one of those sad, broken little gay men. I would have lived off my tiny social security check, wishing I had dared to eat the peach. Now, even if I die tomorrow, I've done things. I've seen things. I've had adventures and close calls. I know what it's like to be hungry and so I know what it's like to be full. I've thought up ideas and then done them. I've saved lives and ended them. Whatever you might think of this world, it's a world where my life matters. Happiness is not a never ending slow drip of dopamine. Happiness is purpose. And no purpose is more elemental than survival.

  Anyways. So I was in the back of this truck on the way to Columbia with Rich and Janet Franke. Rich had been a dentist. Janet was his hygienist. Rick was fifty and had some serious golfers tan. Janet was an attractive older lady. I think in the old days she had been a bit of a label whore. Their truck was the nicest car I'd ever been in. Neither one wanted to talk. Like I said, they had just lost two of their kids and they were worried sick about the third. Making conversation did not even exist in the universe of things they might want to do. It was a quiet trip.

  I keep going back to the supernova image, but it resonates with me. The zombies weren't the only ones who did it; we did it too. The debris of bodies and wrecked cars and walkers, it grew and grew. Then it fell off. We even saw a truck driving north at the Fulton exit, but whoever was driving was not interested in talking to us. He looked right at me and kept going. And even God himself would not have been able to talk the Frankes out of their beeline to Columbia. They were going, come hell or high water. Before long we had gone too far for me to turn back. I was picky about the cars we saw; many had been abandoned, which indicated to me that something was wrong. Most had their gas caps pulled by people looking for a quick fill up. I never had the option to leave. Before I knew it, I was reading the Highway Sign: Exit 128, HWY 63 S. The Wal-Mart in question was only a mile or two away. Rich got on his CB radio and started calling.

  "This is Rich Franke. We have a party of three. I am talking to the rescue station at the Wal-Mart. Please acknowledge."

  Silence.

  "Walmart, please come in."

  Silence. Rich started switching stations, repeating the call again and again. The look on his face... I doubt I'll ever see that look again. I hope I don't. The longer it went the clearer it was to me that if Rich didn't get a response and soon, he'd be taking the quick way out. I expected Janet would see things the same way.

  Rich and the Wal-Mart started talking over each other for a second. Rich and Janet smiled, despair occulted by hope.

  "Wal-mart–Wal-mart, please shut the fuck up. You have someone, Michelle Franke. She's supposed to be at the station. Is she alive? Please tell us."

  "Travelers, who are you?"

  "Rich and Janet Franke. We're her parents."

  "We had her. She won the helicopter lottery. She left two weeks ago."

  They started crying. A little bit of disappointment, sure. But mostly relief.

  "Where is she now?"

  "Somewhere safe. I can't say more than that."

  "Can we come in?"

  "Negative, negative. This is a very, very hot area. You've got about sixty thousand zed between you and this place. Policy is you go find somewhere to hide. We'll let you know when we're done pacifying the area."

  "You need to tell us where she is then!"

  "Negative. Can't do that. Honestly, I don't even know. And I certainly can't tell you on the air."

  "Well, who the fuck do you think is listening? You think the zombies have CB radios?"

  "Sir, I understand what you want, but I cannot transmit classified secrets over unsecured radio. I also cannot explain why I cannot transmit classified secrets over the radio. Your daughter is alive. Take that for the gigantic fucking win that it is, and find somewhere safe to sit out the next few months. That's your best bet for seeing her again."

  "No! You have to let us in! Send that helicopter!"

  "Not possible. The area outside Columbia is somewhat pacified. Go find a farm somewhere and sit tight. That is your best bet."

  Rich threw down the mic and snapped the radio off. He looked at Janet. They nodded. They looked back at me.

  "We're getting into that Wal-Mart, come hell or high fucking water," Janet said.

  "Want to help?" Rich asked.

  "Well sure," I said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Desolation

  Janet spent the night thinking about it, and she decided the only thing to do was to get out of Peoria now. She saw others doing it, and the longer she thought about it the more it became clear that Calvin was right. Who knew who would be banging on her door tomorrow? Or when she would be trapped like Calvin? He only worked ten miles away.

  She never thought about trying to rescue him. Not once. She didn't felt guilty about not thinking about it.

  When she swallowed those pills, her world shrank to the people she could still protect. She understood on an elemental level that this was not only the best choice, it was the only choice. Not if she was going to get a couple of preteens through the apocalypse.

  The TV said she had about another day before she turned. If she wasn't immune. The thought of turning didn't fill her with any particular fear, and she didn't think she would. But then, most of the people who turned thought that their specialness would save them too. So she couldn't ignore the possibility.

  Then there was the possibility that one or both of them would turn too. It was a sick form of a Mexican standoff. Any one of them, or all of them, might already be doomed. And if she wasn't careful, one of them might doom the rest.

  For the night she put them in separate rooms, each with a gun, then locked the door. She did the same for herself. Each had a stew pot that had been converted to a chamber pot, and a water bottle. Sleep didn't come. She listened to them cry for a long time, then drift into sleep. She listened to the silence, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the normal household noises.

  So much to listen for. Zombies trying to break in. Her own children turning against them because of this curse from God. Her own heartbeat. Wondering what alien disease was coursing through her veins, turning her body into a Trojan horse.

  It seemed like she was awake forever, endless scenarios running through her mind. They became so surreal and repetitive that even asleep she realized that she was dreaming.

  In her dreams Calvin came back. Sometimes he was a zombie, which was bad. But sometimes he came back and he was fine, just dirty and scared. And in a way that was worse, because she felt the weight of him
sink into her, another load she would have to carry.

  Calvin, who could tell his wife and children to just kill themselves because that was the easiest way. Calvin, who got upset all day if they were out of Wheaties. Calvin loved routine so much that he would rather go to work than protect his family. Yesterday she had loved him, but it wasn't a love built on admiration of his character. At least not for any traits that would be useful now.

  Everything was changing, and if there was anything Calvin hated more than change, she hadn't the faintest idea of what it was. If there was a more useless helpmeet for the burden she was going to have to carry, she couldn't think of who that would be. A heroin junkie, maybe. Someone with Alzheimer's.

  Perhaps she was being harsh, but it was what it was. You could count on Calvin to support his family. You could count on him to mow the lawn or do the laundry, but getting him to change in even the smallest degree was a tortuous process. It took three years to convince him to switch from cable to a dish even though the dish had all the channels he claimed to want. Dragging him along with what had to be done... well he was gone. No use raging against the man. She knew what he was like before she married him, and she didn't complain when he brought home a good paycheck for fifteen years. But no use dwelling on it either. He was gone. Barring some kind of miracle he was gone.

  She couldn't stay here, so where should she go? Her family lived thirty miles away in a small town. It was the obvious first choice. They would have guns and food. She could assess the situation from there. They had been begging her to come all week. They would be ecstatic... well, they would be until they saw the bite on her arm. But at worst they would just stick her in the basement for a few days as a quarantine. She gnawed at the problem, solving some problems and worrying about others. Light finally dawned through the blinds.

  She got up and opened the door, shotgun in hand. She knocked on each door. Both children answered, groggy. She knew they hadn't gotten much sleep either, but they didn't have time to waste. She patrolled the house, peeking out of the blinds. The back of the house was fine, but when she peeked out the front, she saw a whole pack of them around the Peterson's house. The Petersons were a nice couple, their kids were pretty good friends with hers. She picked up the phone and dialed their number. She held it up to her head. It was ringing. She was amazed. The things that kept working. The phone was answered mid-ring.

  "Thank God you returned my call, there's a bunch of maniacs banging on my door! My whole family is in here, when are you coming to help?" Patricia shrieked.

  "It's Janet, Patricia. Not the police."

  "Oh," Janet had never heard such crushing disappointment.

  "You can see them?"

  "Yep. Do you know who else is still around?"

  "I saw Ms. Wilson a couple of days ago... The Lawsons left last night... the MacGregors might still be in their house."

  "Ms. Wilson isn't a concern."

  "Oh, where did she go?"

  "She's in... heaven."

  "Oh... we saw that you had an injury on your arm... was that her? Did she bite you?"

  "Yes, it was. I feel fine, but the wound hurts bad."

  "Oh, well, that's good. The news is saying that certain people are immune, even to the bite. If it still hurts that is supposed to be a really good sign."

  "Yeah, well, in any case my kids aren't bitten, and it looks like it's time to get the hell out of Peoria. I thought maybe you'd like a ride or something."

  "Oh, that's..." She put her hand over the phone, but Janet could still make out what was being said.

  "She says she got bitten. Well... yeah, but she still has the kids and they are ok... she wants us to go with her... she didn't say. You don't know that! And where are we supposed to go? You said we'd be swarmed the instant we opened the garage door!"

  "Dave thinks it would be better to wait here for the police," she said after she uncovered the phone.

  "You know the police aren't coming, right? Downtown is overrun. My husband is stuck in his office. If the police still exist, they aren't worried about our suburb."

  "Well, Dave thinks it's better to wait. Thank you very much for the offer, but, well... you're bitten. And we have our children to worry about."

  "Ok, Patricia. I'm going to be leaving here in half an hour, but if you change your mind give me a call. I have four wheel drive so I could drive up to your back door or something."

  "Thanks for the offer," Patricia hung up.

  Janet was a bit flabbergasted. She knew she'd get some flak for being bitten, but this? Twenty zombies are trying to break down your door, and I, who might become a zombie at a later time, am not worthy to rescue you? She shook her head. Free country.

  She dialed the MacGregors. It went to voicemail.

  "It's Janet. If you want out, call me in the next half hour. The Petersons are still at their house, and I think you can see this but ..." as she was talking Kyle MacGregor shambled by the kitchen window. He could see the Petersons were still at home, but he was on the wrong team. He was drenched in blood. Gristle and long locks of hair were stuck in his teeth. She ducked and hung up the phone.

  Why in the hell had she sat around for so long? Amazing.

  She crouched down and crawled back to the kids. "Darlings, we need to be very, very quiet. We need to make sure nobody can hear or see us, ok? There are a lot of those things outside, but they are distracted, they don't know we are here. Now, quietly pack up your clothes. One bag each. When you are done, wait in the hallway for me. And be quiet, ok?"

  They nodded. They were calm. In a way they almost seemed relieved. Maybe, she thought, they've been waiting for one of the grownups to grow up and make contact with reality. She shook her head. What total assholes she and Calvin were. What colossal fucking assholes. Even children were better equipped to deal with reality than they were. She shook her head and slinked back to the safe. She stuffed every single bit of ammo into a luggage case. Then she dragged it and a motley collection of antique hunting rifles down to the garage door. She went back to the kitchen with a duffle bag and stuffed everything canned or non-perishable in the bag. Some fruit too. She filled every possible container with water.

  She ran these to the garage door like a soldier running ammo under fire. Say what you will about the Petersons’ risk assessments, but they made damn fine decoys. She wanted to capitalize on that as much as possible. God, she wished she had someone to drive the car, but a fourteen year old girl would have to ride shotgun.

  She had a Ford Escape. It had four wheel drive and a nearly full tank. What she didn't have was enough space to open the back. She yanked out the headrest and lowered the seat. She was getting nervous. The more she hid the more she felt like they were looking right at her. She felt like they were ready for the slightest sigh or dropped can to descend on the house like a swarm of locusts. Which was more or less true. She finished loading the gear. Ammo in the back seat with most of the guns lying on the floor. Food and water and clothes in the back. She did a hunchback ninja sprint to the hallway. The children were there, with luggage and an extra backpack.

  "What's the backpack?"

  "Books and stuff."

  While not on the list of Necessary Survival Items, she didn't see how it could hurt. She nodded.

  "Good thinking."

  She grabbed one piece of luggage per arm and was off. The children followed with their backpacks. She stuffed the youngest in the back. She put the oldest in the front with one of the smaller shotguns. She had her grandfather's 1911 stuffed into her sweatpants. It was ready to go.

  She closed the doors with gentle firmness, then got into the driver's seat.

  "Buckle up," she said, as she slid the keys in. She turned the key and hit the garage door button at the same moment. If she was going to make noise, she might as well make noise. Her rearview cam revealed a silhouette of two legs as the door rose.

  She tensed up and put the car in reverse and focused in on those legs. She didn't want to risk getting jamm
ed up by the garage door. It seemed like millennia were passing as it rose, and she was picturing herself getting jammed by the garage door if she went too soon. The figure outside turned around and was under the door in shocking speed. Ms. MacGregor. Janet hit the locks for the fourth or fifth time. Ms. MacGregor slid along the side of the car, smearing the windows with blood. She stared Janet right in the eyes. The eyes were dead, pupils dilated, but they saw her. And they wanted her in the worst possible way. Her three fingered hand slapped against the window. My God, Janet thought, she must have fought like a tiger for Mr. MacGregor to have done all that. She looked at her until the door was done, then she floored it. That was a stupid, stupid thing. Ms. MacGregor was an annoyance, but the tire squeal diverted the horde from the Petersons. Here was prey, and prey that was about to make its escape. They rushed her. They were on her right, so she swung the wheel left and got the car pointed away from them. Drive, baby, drive. With another ferocious tire squeal she was away, driving in what was more or less the wrong direction. But even the undead couldn't keep up with a car, and soon they broke off the pursuit. They had easier prey to get to. She was on the road, and it wasn't a great road. She could see clumps of zombies around the houses that were still occupied. She avoided the clumps. She drove around the single zombies shambling along the road. They kept her from achieving the sort of speeds one would desire when in a zombie infested neighborhood. She learned a lot about the characteristics of her car at speed. She learned to keep a decent clip, and she kept heading to the highway. She hoped the highway would be in better condition. She was right and wrong. There were a shocking number of abandoned vehicles. Some had zombies still in them, hammering against the windows, still restrained by their seat belts.