by T. W. Brown
“But—” the woman had started to argue. Now it was Jason’s turn to cut her off.
“I will be leading this run, and if it smells bad, I will simply return home and we will kick you and your little group out on your asses. But if this is a trap and we bite it, then we are dead and you are just out all of your supplies.”
This was the standard operating procedure anytime they brought in a group that “knew” about some treasure trove of supplies and wanted somebody else to do the dirty work to obtain it. Twice, the people had simply shouldered their packs and left. Once, they had been taken up on the deal. It had led to an unassuming trailer beside the Clackamas River that a group of seven men had turned into a small outpost. The thing was, they would pretend to trade with passers-by, and then allegedly sneak out after whoever they did business with (provided that they were a small enough group) and then kill everybody and reclaim not only their own goods, but any supplies their target might possess.
That had been right around the end of summer and actually accounted for a very nice haul. It had taken three weeks to get everything brought back, and in the process, they discovered that it was not exactly worth the hard work. Between the supplies consumed on the run (you could not skimp if you were going to be out in the Wastelands) and the two people they lost—both in the attack and resulting firefight, neither to zombies—they figured that the net gain was only just a bit more than they had spent in field supply load outs.
Even if you could count on some degree of foraging, which, the rule of thumb was that you could not count on any at all these days, the haul had to be very well worth it. The thing that tipped the scale was that this place reportedly had a pair of old UPS vans that still worked. They had treated gasoline that was still useable, and at a bare minimum, they could expect to be able to make three trips there and back with both vehicles. The woman insisted that three trips would almost empty out the warehouse in question.
“Maybe we put this run on hold,” Jason finally suggested as he and Erin reached the sentry tower where the night’s activity had been reported.
“If we do, people will start going hungry.” Erin started up the ladder to where the person on watch waited, staring down at them while rubbing his gloved hands together and blowing.
“People are already going hungry,” Jason blurted, not realizing until he opened his mouth that he had fallen into Erin’s trap.
“Exactly!” she called over her shoulder as she hauled herself over the rail and onto the platform.
“I really hate when she does that,” Jason grumbled.
At last, the three people stood cramped in and close on the covered watch tower’s platform. The man repeated his account, obviously having it down to the pertinent facts by now after what was likely his fourth or fifth re-telling.
“But none of them came close or tried to tests the perimeter?”
Erin had heard the same story Jason had heard. They had stayed about twenty or so yards away, often ducking in and out of the woods that bordered the property on this side. He saw his own annoyance mirrored on the man’s face as he answered to the negative.
“I say we double the magazine load out for all tower watch sentries and also put five rovers on the track instead of the usual two.” The “track” being referred to was a five foot wide raised path that ran along the interior of the fence line, allowing whoever was walking on it to see out over the berms. Fires were lit every night in specific locations outside the fence in the cleared area to allow sentries to have a better chance of seeing approaching humans or zombies. “Have them double back at their discretion to keep it random and keep prying eyes from finding a pattern. Hold a meeting today to make the changes and post the new watch bill by lunch time.” Jason glanced at Erin who nodded her agreement.
With that, the pair headed back to the main grounds and Jason accepted his field pack for the trip. He really did not want to do this. He credited it to all the books and movies, but he had a bad feeling, and that always meant disaster.
Ken and Juanita were among those there to see him and his team off. Ken was bundled up worse than the Randy character from A Christmas Story. Juanita and Cherry had taken it upon themselves to act as the man’s nurses. His condition was worsening as the cold really set in and took hold of things. The newest problem seemed to be what was likely a bout with pneumonia. Still, Ken had insisted on seeing this group off.
“Hey, convict,” the man coughed, summoning Jason over and making a point of brushing off both women so that he could speak with Jason at least semi-privately.
Jason walked over and stopped. Despite all that had happened, and even the fact that he had saved the man’s life those weeks back, their relationship had never warmed up. His calling Jason “convict” was no term of endearment. It was Ken’s way of reminding the man of how they supposedly differed. There had been no long talks where they got to know each other and discover they had more in common than they realized. That worked great in fiction, but the truth was that neither man really liked the other. Period.
“Look, I hate to ask you, but I know your type have a code against tellin’ so you are really my only hope.” Jason gave the man his best bored stare. Inside, he wanted to just punch the man in the face. “If you find a bottle of whiskey…a small one even, and could bring it back to me?”
Jason waited; this was normally the part where they would say something about how they would “owe ya one” or some other sentiment. Instead, Ken leaned back and eyed the man with pursed lips.
“Sure. Whatever.”
Jason turned and walked away. He passed Gabriel sitting on the hood of a defunct car on his way out. The kid had a bright red ball in his hand and both Imp and Stupid were staring up at him with rapt attention, waiting for the next throw. The kid waved. Jason nodded and pulled his knit cap down over his ears. His feet were already starting to feel numb.
Yep, he thought, this run is gonna suck.
***
Jason slipped up beside the building and held his breath. The voices were louder now. Whoever this was, they obviously did not care about making noise. He could understand that out in the boondocks where they lived, but here, close to the city on what had once been 82nd Avenue, a main strip lined with business of every type back when Portland was alive, the living and the undead had a presence. They had seen more than their fair share of both since arriving in the area.
He pointed to the two bundled figures across from him that were crouched low behind a snow covered hedge and a sign that had all the actual signage busted out and indicated for them to hold and cover his back. They nodded and he imagined they were probably more than happy to oblige.
They had come over what used to be Interstate 205 and been greeted by a half dozen bodies hanging from nooses at each end. It had not been lost on Jason that they were all men, and that they’d all been stripped from the waist down and their manhood rather unceremoniously removed.
Jason ducked low and used the hedge that ran parallel to the walkway as his cover. He was really glad, and not for the first time, that he lived in Oregon where plant life was abundant and a regular part of most business landscaping. Reaching the end, he could now hear the discussion taking place.
“…Larry said they are just a drag on resources and we have to let them go,” a young woman’s voice said. It was clear from her tone that this conversation was over and done in her mind.
Apparently the younger sounding woman with her was either ignoring the verbal cue or simply not ready to concede the point. “But they had that whole car full of supplies. They certainly brought enough that they can’t be called freeloaders.”
“And how do you think we continue to stay ahead of the game?” the other woman asked. “We do it by bringing in more than we use. It is called running at a surplus.”
“Yeah, well if Larry keeps killing all the newcomers—”
“Just the men,” the other woman corrected.
“Fine, if he keeps killing all the men,
we are gonna be a tribe with a ratio of ten women to every man. That makes the pickings, rather thin. Have you seen some of those guys? Seriously.”
“And if you would pay attention, you would realize that we need more women for the genetic pools,” the second woman stated, seeming to basically ignore what the first one said.
Jason almost barked a laugh out loud. Apparently this mysterious “Larry” was not choosing his females based on their brains. Glancing over the hedge, he could see the two women.
Sure enough, one of them was more of a plastic surgeon’s construct than an actual woman. Her parka was unzipped to reveal more than ample breasts shoved up and together in some sort of bright pink Lycra top that was also partially unzipped. If he had to guess, Jason would peg her as having been a stripper in one of Portland’s many strip clubs. Her blond hair could be seen around the fringes of her knit stocking cap and even in cold weather gear, it was obvious that she was skinny. Not that all strippers were vapid wastes of human flesh, but he’d met enough to know that the smart ones were as rare as a vegan Republican from Texas.
The other woman was short. Unlike her friend who seemed to be more concerned about how she looked versus staying warm, this one was bundled from head to toe. She even had a scarf around her that she kept wrapped around the lower half of her face. He was surprised that it did not do much to muffle her voice as he had been able to hear both sides of their conversation quite clearly. Her dark hair stuck out from one of those caps that was in the shape of some cartoon character that he did not recognize. It was bright yellow and the flaps hung down in a way that Jason saw as being dangerous since they would allow for something (or someone) to grab them and jerk her head down or back.
The two women actually appeared to be standing watch. They were posted next to an old green car of some sort that was mostly covered with snow except for the area that had been brushed clean, presumably by them, and used to rest a pair of beverage containers that had steam trickling from them. The whole scene did not seem right to Jason, but he had to assume there was a method to such madness.
He turned to Erin. “Okay, I guess I will try to approach them?” He hadn’t really meant it as a question, but it had certainly come out that way.
“You do realize that they are probably bait,” Erin stated.
“I can feel that something is off, but I sure can’t figure out what.” With that, he shouldered out of his pack and handed over his rifle. He checked the pistol tucked into his belt and patted the handle of his machete as if seeking some sort of reassurance. He gave a hand sign to one of the other pairs and indicated where he wanted them to move towards. Once he was confident that everybody was in place, he stood up.
Once on his feet, Jason started walking towards the women. His first surprise came in just how fast they drew their weapons. He had not even seen the two assault rifles leaning against the car they were standing next to as they spoke. He certainly saw them now.
“You can stop right there, mister,” the dark haired one snapped.
Jason froze, but he also made a few more observations now that he was a bit closer. For one, the woman had brought the rifle to her hip, not her shoulder. While that sort of thing looked cool on screen, it made for lousy aim. If she was holding a shotgun, it wouldn’t much matter, but this was an assault rifle. Yes, she might hit him, but held to the shoulder at this range, a shot aimed center mass would almost certainly strike home. Second, she had amazingly beautiful eyes that were a striking blue that was in drastic contrast to her dark hair.
As for the one he currently called “Blondie”, she was holding her weapon, but it was thrust out in front of her like she might be more inclined to try and jab him with it instead of shoot him. Also, he could see a visible tremor. The gun was almost vibrating.
“I don’t want any trouble.” Jason put his hands up and came to a halt. “I just heard voices and…well…it’s been so long since I heard a human voice, ya know. I just—”
“Save it,” the dark haired one snapped. “You need to just turn around and find someplace else to crash. We ain’t got nothin’ here for you. And we don’t take in freeloaders.”
“I’m not a freeloader!” Jason insisted. He pointed to his pack. “I got food and stuff. I was just looking for someplace to stay until this damn snow clears out. I’m on my way to Salem. That’s where my family is…or, at least that is where they were. But I gotta go myself and see, know what I mean?”
“Listen, mister,” the dark haired one stepped forward, making it sort of clear to Jason who was running things at this location, “you don’t want to stop here, you—”
“You’re kinda cute…in a biker sort of way,” Blondie cooed, stepping up beside her companion, her gun still being held in a haphazard manner.
“Can it, Mercy,” the dark haired one hissed. “Trust me when I tell you, you don’t wanna stop here.” The woman looked Jason in the eyes and made her attempted warning as clear as she could.
“That wouldn’t have anything to do with them bodies hangin’ back at the overpass would it?” Jason asked casually.
The reaction that he received was very interesting. The dark haired woman’s lips tightened, as did her grip on her rifle which was now inching its way up to her shoulder. The blonde’s mouth had popped open to a surprised ‘O’ that indicated she might not be entirely clued in on how things were running in her camp.
“That is none of your concern, now please, do as I advised and just move on.”
By this time, the woman with the dark hair had her rifle to her shoulder. She meant business, and that was really the part that would haunt Jason. The woman was trying to save him. She knew that he would be “welcomed” in and then stripped of anything valuable and probably hung like the others.
She never heard the figure move up behind her, and only had a brief instant to register that she had been duped as a hand covered her mouth and the knife made its way across her throat. Blondie was taken down in much the same manner, however, for whatever reason, Jason forgot her almost as soon as he stepped over the body that was bleeding out in a crimson spray that made a mess of the almost pure white snow.
“Everybody move fast,” Erin hissed as she caught up and started towards the long building at the bottom of the gently sloped drive, making a point to stay down low and not actually cross or enter where she might be seen by anybody on top of the warehouse.
The lead group had already made their way around the back side of the small complex and cleared the roof of any possible lookouts. This was proved by the gray piece of cloth that fluttered from the cell tower situated on a lot that bordered the rear of this place. Jason and Erin waited until they spied a figure stand up on the roof of the building and wave a green flag. Actually, it was a green tee shirt tied to a golf club, but this was a time where you simply made what you needed out of what you had on hand.
The pair moved down the driveway and to the gate with four others. As soon as they reached it, Jason stood watch as Erin produced heavy cutters and snipped an opening into the fence.
“This is a terrible location,” Jason observed as they made their way through the hole. “The back side is all brambles, trees, and high brush that blocks your field of vision. You are at the bottom of a hill. I am surprised they lasted this long, and I can bet that, if it wasn’t us doing this now, somebody else would do it later.”
“Tell yourself whatever you need to, but let’s move,” Erin snarled. “I told you, things are gonna change. You have to be ready to adapt or you die.”
They reached the metal door. Jason held his breath as Erin reached down and tried the handle. He was only a little surprised when the thumb latch pressed down and the door opened with an audible click.
If Jason was surprised, then the man standing in the entry hallway between a door that likely opened to the warehouse proper and a window that showed some sort of office, was even more stunned. In the office, a woman sat at a desk with a book in her hand and a large binder of some sor
t open on the desk before her. Both were absolutely shocked into immobility.
The man recovered and was turning for the door just as Jason lunged and tackled the scrawny figure who looked like a cast off from Revenge of the Nerds. They landed on the concrete floor of that entry hall with a nasty thud. Jason quickly went about the task of slitting the man’s throat. Erin had her arm in the open window of the small office and was shoving it back so she could climb through as the woman seated at the desk fell backwards and got tangled in the chair she had just been occupying.
A moment later the six of them had hurried down the long hallway. Obviously these had once been offices of some sort. Now, they were bedrooms. The ones that were occupied had people at card tables in some cases, or asleep in sleeping bags in others. They had slipped into an obvious false sense of security or perhaps even a degree of boredom. Whatever the case, Jason was amazed at how easily they moved from room to room and executed its inhabitants.
He had shut off the emotional part of his brain. That was how he had managed to function during his criminal days where he embarked on more than a few home invasions. Of course, in those instances, he and his gang had a rule. Women and children were not hurt with the exception of what it took to restrain them. (He would learn later how much of a lie that was that he had managed to convince himself of as his victims testified in court and recounted their terror; many demonstrating the effect of an injury that might not be seen, but was very real none the less.) Nobody was ever killed in those days.
As he ended the life of a young man barely into his teens and the two young women who had been asleep in that room as well, he felt things try to slip in and bruise his conscience. His only defense was to picture Gabriel sitting there, waving to him as he and the others left. His mind painted a picture of a boy near starvation with hollow cheeks and an overly gaunt frame.
