by Dirk Patton
I unlaced my boots and placed them and my socks in the waterproof bag, sealing it tight. There were two sturdy nylon ropes attached to the bag and since I was leaving my backpack on the boat I slipped my arms through the ropes and wore the bag like a backpack. I slipped the flippers on my feet and wasn’t thrilled with the too tight fit, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Swinging my legs over the stern of the boat I put my finned feet onto the small swim platform and leaned down to dunk the goggles in the water to wet the inside of the lens and prevent them from fogging up on the swim to shore.
I debated using the buoy for flotation, but decided it would be more of a hassle than it was worth. I was as lightly loaded as possible for the situation I was headed into. I had on a pair of black quick drying compression shorts with matching sleeveless shirt, my vest with all my spare mags and ammo, combat knife, pistol and rifle. I slipped the goggles over my head and adjusted them. I have a big head and they were too small, but again when you’re a beggar…
It was almost fully dark when I was ready to go. To the west the sky was a deep shade of purple that would fade to black very quickly, but there was enough light for me to see the heavy bank of clouds that looked to be heading our way. All the better. Easier to operate under the cover of a storm.
I turned to Rachel who stood on the deck watching my preparations. She had a look of worry that reminded me so much of my wife that for a moment my heart ached that I wasn’t in Arizona to take care of her.
“Leave the emotion behind, soldier. Emotion distracts us. Emotion gets us killed.” The voice of my favorite instructor from the land warfare school at Fort Bragg was so loud in my head I almost looked to see if he was standing behind Rachel.
Suppressing the feelings that were running through me I gave Rachel my best, brave smile. “I’ll be back. With Dog. But, if I’m not back in 24 hours you need to move on without me. Understand?”
Rachel nodded, stepped forward and leaned over the rail to kiss me on the cheek. “Come back. I’ll be waiting.”
I squeezed her hand, turned and slipped into the dark water of the lake.
22
The dock was still swarming with infected. Either side of the dock the shoreline was heavily forested except for occasional breaks where large homes had been built and lush green lawns ran all the way to the water’s edge. In my survey with the binoculars before the sun went down I had noted that all of the lawns close to the dock had also been swarming with infected, but there were less and less bodies milling on the grass of the houses along the shoreline to the west of the dock. This was also the right direction to come ashore as close to the truck as possible.
I had chosen a particularly large mansion that also sported its own dock and boat house for my landing site. I had a good third of a mile swim ahead of me, but the lake was calm and the water warm. I started kicking, careful to keep my feet below the surface at all times so as not to make any splashing sounds that would alert the infected to my approach.
One third of a mile doesn’t sound like much, but when you’re not accustomed to swimming that far with over forty pounds of weapons and ammo on your body it takes a bit of time. Forty five minutes later I made it to the boat house without incident. I stood in chest deep water, silently surveying the area for any sound or movement. I gave it ten minutes before moving into shallower water.
Moving carefully to maintain noise discipline I approached the boat house from the lake side. The boat house was large, basically a floating building anchored to the shore and open underneath so all I had to do was duck under the wall and surface inside the house next to a speed boat.
Again I stood perfectly still, only this time in waist deep water, and listened for any threat as it was pitch black in the boat house. After a few minutes of silence I carefully moved between the speed boat and its access ramp, slowly pulling myself and my gear out of the water and onto the ramp. I immediately went to one knee and raised my rifle to scan for threats.
When nothing materialized I removed the swim fins and swapped them in the waterproof bag for my socks and boots. The goggles joined the fins in the bag and a couple of minutes later, feet dry, I was ready to go.
Silently stepping to a small window that faced a lawn and massive home with white clapboard siding I paused to survey the area and again saw no sign of infected. I moved to the door and froze as it emitted a loud squeal as it swung open. It sucks getting old. Twenty years ago I would have anticipated this and been prepared. Leaving the door a few inches ajar I searched a small work bench in the boathouse, finally finding a rusting can of WD40. A few squirts on each hinge and I went back to the window to watch while the chemical lubricants had time to do their job.
Five minutes later I was able to swing the door open with only the faintest of sounds, closed it gently behind me and headed up the lawn. I moved at a fast walk, rifle to my shoulder at the ready, and angled across the hundred yards of green grass towards the right side of the house.
Approaching the house I quickly changed direction and put my back against the wall when I heard the sound of a shoe scraping against the ground from around the corner. I had my rifle at the ready then thought better of firing off a shot unless I had no other choice and risk alerting every infected around the lake that I was available for dinner. Lowering the rifle and letting it hang from its sling I silently drew a Ka-Bar fighting knife with a wicked eight inch blade and moved to the corner of the house.
Peeking around I saw an infected male stumbling around a large patio area. He was dressed in what I suspected were once natty boating clothes but were now a muddy and bloody mess. I took my time to scan the area for any more infected, and when I felt it was clear I stepped around the corner and moved quickly behind the male and drove the Ka-Bar into the soft spot at the base of the skull where the spine meets the head.
He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, my knife pulling out of his skull with a wet, sucking sound. I bent and wiped the blade clean on his clothing before re-sheathing then brought my rifle back to the ready and moved across the patio and into the woods that had been neatly cut back from the lawn.
It was dark in the woods. Back in the day I would have had night vision to help, but unfortunately the gun shop I had raided either hadn’t had any or they had already been taken. I had to move slowly to maintain noise discipline as well as not stumble upon an infected that just happened to be standing there. I didn’t really expect to meet any in the woods, but at the same time I wasn’t going to take any chances.
It took me an hour to navigate the woods at my slow and cautious pace. My face and arms were scratched from vines and small branches I couldn’t see in the dark and it felt like a family of mosquitoes had taken up residence on every inch of exposed skin. Ignoring the discomfort I stopped when the woods ended at the road where we had abandoned the truck. To my left the road rose up and disappeared over a rise, and if my navigation was good that would be where I would find the truck.
I waited, hidden in the brush, watching and listening. Even though I knew the world had changed it really didn’t hit me completely until that moment. I was on the edge of a major city with probably the busiest airport in the world, and the night was primeval quiet. There was the sound of crickets, owls and other nocturnal animals, but there wasn’t a single modern human noise to be heard. No big diesel truck slowing on the freeway, no rap music blasting way too loud from a car that probably cost less than the stereo system in it, no sounds of airplanes, nothing. Just the quiet that had been here hundreds of years ago.
Refocusing on the road I took my time scanning the pavement and the opposite tree line. I didn’t see anything and the only sounds were small nocturnal animals moving in the underbrush. After a full fifteen minutes of watching I decided to move. Drawing my knife I stepped out of the woods and started walking along a narrow strip of mown grass that separated the tree line from the edge of the asphalt. My steps were nearly silent to my own ears so I knew the sound wasn’t ca
rrying more than a few feet. My rifle was slung tight under my left arm, ready for use, as I approached the top of the rise. Slowing my pace I eventually dropped to first my knees then my belly to crawl the last few feet to the crest so that I didn’t create a silhouette on top of the rise. I had to worry about more than just the infected.
A couple of hundred yards down the road the truck sat sideways on the pavement, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. I was relieved to note that the doors were closed, so at least the infected hadn’t had easy access to make a meal out of Dog. Unfortunately there were close to fifty infected, both males and females, surrounding the truck and in the open bed.
Different plans swirled through my head and were quickly discarded. I couldn’t take on this many infected single handed. If they had all been males, perhaps, but even then I would have to use the rifle and the sound would draw every infected within a half mile radius. I needed to find a way to draw them all away from the truck so I could make a mad dash and rescue Dog.
I was concentrating so hard that I almost failed to note the sounds of shuffling foot steps behind me. Spinning around I saw a large male only a few feet away. Damn it! Either I was slipping in my old age or he was one stealthy son of a bitch. I launched off the ground, leading with the Ka-Bar as he lurched towards me, mouth open as he started to let out a gurgling snarl.
Coming off the ground I drove upwards with my legs, the blade held straight out in my right hand like a spear. The tip met the soft tissue under his chin and I kept shoving until it punched through his mouth and up into his brain. It was like turning off a light switch. A strong, animated opponent suddenly went as limp as a sack of rice and collapsed. Unfortunately he collapsed on top of me and pushed me to the ground, covering me with blood.
Cursing silently I shoved the corpse off of me and pulled the knife out of his head with a slightly nauseating sucking noise. I wiped the blade on his clothes, but couldn’t do anything about the sticky blood that coated my hand, arm and chest. It would have to wait until I got back to the lake and swam back out to the boat.
Crouching, I scanned the area and it appeared clear. It had seemed clear earlier but this big fucker had surprised me and almost ruined my evening. Making a mental note to keep scanning my immediate surroundings very frequently, I turned my attention back to the truck. It didn’t look like any of the infected had noted the brief scuffle. Good. Now, how to distract them long enough to silently run two hundred yards, get Dog out of the truck then disappear into the woods without unwanted company.
An idea took shape, I tried and found about a dozen holes in the plan, but couldn’t come up with anything better. I began digging through the other waterproof bag, while scanning my surroundings. Inside were three reactive targets that I had grabbed when I looted the sporting goods store.
Reactive targets, also called exploding targets, are a binary explosive. They are plastic containers about the size of a squat pickle jar that contain ammonium nitrate and powdered aluminum in separate packets. When the two substances are mixed and the container is struck with a high velocity rifle slug they react very violently and create a very loud blast and lots of smoke. They don’t burn, so no worries about setting the forest on fire. My problem was how to shoot them with my rifle to get them to detonate without giving away my location to the infected.
Remembering something I’d been taught in the military I started scouting along the roadside. It took nearly half an hour but I finally found what I was looking for. I had collected two 2 liter plastic bottles, Pepsi and Mountain Dew if it matters, and one large Arrowhead plastic water bottle.
An instructor I’d known at Fort Bragg had called these Hillbilly Silencers. Put the muzzle of your weapon into the mouth of the bottle, tape it on good and tight, and you had a one use poor man’s sound suppressor that would reduce the report of the rifle firing by almost 80%. The down side was that each bottle only worked for one shot as it would get pretty well torn up by the bullet and the gasses expanding out of the muzzle of the weapon. If you needed a second or third quiet shot you had to take the time to remove the remains of the current bottle and tape a new one on in its place.
My hope was that the bottle would reduce the report of my rifle enough for the sound not to carry the 200 yards to the infected, or at least not to carry well enough for them to identify my position. Pulling the plastic tabs on each of the containers that kept the two ingredients separated during shipping and storage I shook them to get them ready, then placed each one back in the waterproof bag. Shouldering the bag I crept back into the woods.
My plan was to work my way past the infected and place the targets on the side of the road about 100 yards beyond the truck. I would then return to my current position and put a round into the targets, hoping the resulting explosion and smoke would draw all the infected away from the truck. There were several holes in that plan.
First; I had to make my way silently through 300 yards of forest, place the targets, and then retrace my path without alerting the infected.
Second; assuming I successfully placed the targets and made it back I then had three tries to make a 300 yard shot in the dark. Granted, the target containers were fluorescent orange, but they weren’t significantly larger than my fist in profile. I would have three opportunities at best before I ran out of Hillbilly Silencers.
Third; I was counting on the plastic bottles to muffle the report of my rifle enough to not draw infected to my position, and…
Fourth; the infected had to be attracted to the explosion in sufficient numbers to allow me relatively free access to the truck.
Fifth; I had to get to the truck, get Dog out, and disappear without being spotted. I was confident I could easily outdistance the males, but if several females got on my trail they would run me to ground very quickly. And they were damn STRONG.
There were probably about a dozen more problems with my plan that ran through my head as I worked through the brush, but I put them aside so I could concentrate on noise discipline and scanning for any infected that might be loitering in the trees.
Twenty minutes later I had covered the 200 yards and was parallel with the truck. In the faint moonlight I counted 50 infected around and on the truck, then quit counting and guessed the number was close to 70. About fifteen of them were females. More than enough to form a hunting pack, run me down and rip me to shreds. I was glad to note that the wire mesh I had covered all the truck’s glass with was still intact. Other than scared, hungry and dehydrated, Dog should be OK.
Moving slower because of my proximity to the infected I kept on, taking another twenty minutes to go the final hundred yards. Stopping on a small hump in the terrain I belly crawled to the shoulder of the road and placed the targets on the edge of the asphalt. Every movement was slow and deliberate, bringing sweat out as I concentrated on not making any noise. The mosquitoes that had found me in the forest had stayed with me and the only positive news was that malaria and yellow fever didn’t exist in Georgia. Regardless I’d look like a pin cushion for a few days.
Targets in place I retreated to the trees and paused to check them out. Each container was fluorescent orange and nearly glowed in the weak moonlight. I had placed them one on top of another, making a short tower, trying to give myself a larger target. I also hoped the impact from one target detonating would cause a sympathetic detonation in the other two for a really spectacular BOOM, but I had no idea if that would work.
Over an hour later I was back on the rise where I had started, staring down the road. Clouds were scudding across the moon and there was almost no light and I couldn’t spot the targets. The sky looked like it would clear off soon, so I sat back, drank some water, waited and watched.
Sometime later a raccoon ambled out of the trees a few yards away. He stopped, looked at me, stood on his hind legs to sniff the air then quickly vanished back into the forest. I’m sure he could smell the infected, but didn’t know if the smell of them or my infected blood soaked shirt was what had sent him
scurrying off. I didn’t waste too much time thinking about it as the clouds finally moved on and the moon came back out with what seemed like more intensity than before.
I had already prepped the rifle with the Pepsi bottle, and had the Mountain Dew and Arrowhead bottles sitting there ready to go. The Pepsi bottle was held in place with a couple of wraps of duct tape, yes it’s indispensable even in the apocalypse, and I had already wrapped a length of tape around the mouths of the two spare bottles to get them ready to be used.
Rolling onto my belly I laid the rifle over the top of the rise and scanned with its low power combat scope for the targets. I was getting concerned when I couldn’t find them, but then spotted the bright orange plastic. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out through my nose. This would be one hell of a shot. 300 yards on a target less than eleven inches tall and five inches wide. Easy shot with a rifle set up with a bi-pod and high power scope, but I didn’t have either. I was relying on years of shooting that started with targeting coyotes in the West Texas desert when I was only twelve years old.
I spared a glance at the truck, but there was nothing new there. Same swarm of infected paying attention only to the meal inside the cab that they couldn’t get to. Looking around I checked the area behind me and found it clear of threats. Back to the rifle I pulled the stock in tight to my shoulder, pressed my cheek into place and acquired the target. I held high, knowing that the 5.56 mm round would drop about an inch of vertical distance for every hundred yards of horizontal distance traveled. At 300 yards that made for a 3 inch drop, so I aimed at the top target. It was a calm night with no wind, so I had no excuses to not get a hit.
Another deep breath, exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger as my exhale stopped. The rifle made a strange popping noise that sounded like a combination of a bongo drum and snare drum, but not much louder than if I had clapped my hands together. The bottom and most of the sides of the Pepsi bottle blew out. The targets didn’t detonate. Shit.
