“Was there really a guy with his pants around his ankles coming out of the bathroom at you?” she asked, nearly crying with laughter, watching Lars act like a zombie tripping over his pants, and Scratch pretending to be Gunny, falling over backward, trying not to get zombie poo all over him.
Gunny was chuckling. “You don’t believe anything those guys say do you?”
“Not everything. But he usually only elaborates on the truth.” Sara wiped at her eyes, still smiling broadly. “I don’t even know if he realizes it, but his silly stories does a world of good for everyone. He makes us all think we’re heroes. That we’re all going to be okay in the end.”
Bastille’s former starlet girlfriend joined them as the boys were finishing up their story. The brown roots of her natural hair color were already showing. Gunny almost didn’t recognize her without her mane of blonde. She had picked up a barber set and hit up the hunting section at the Wal-Mart. Her hair was cut in an unflattering pageboy and she was wearing camo.
At their surprised looks, she just smiled grimly. “I never want to feel like I did back at that diner.” she said, running her hand through her hair a little self-consciously. She had a pistol on her hip and a long knife strapped to her leg. “I never want to be so helpless again. By the way, my real name is Bridget, not Cassandra. I think the days of making a living off of the way you look are over. I think now it’s what you know, not who you blow.”
Gunny raised an eyebrow at that but Sara just stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the real world.” she said.
Wire Bender came over. “Got something you oughta hear.” he said motioning for Gunny to follow him back to the truck that he and Hot Rod were riding in. The interior was a mess of radios hastily mounted and velcroed in place, wires running everywhere and external speakers of four or five different units quietly hissing. On the trucks stereo, there was music playing. It was an old country western song.
“Whatcha got?” Gunny asked.
Wire Bender smiled and pointed a thumb at the radio. “That ain’t a CD. It’s live.”
They listened to George Jones sing about a girl who was as smooth as Tennessee Whiskey and sweet as Strawberry Wine.
“Know where they’re broadcasting from?” Gunny asked
“Hasn’t said yet. But they only came on about 10 minutes ago. I keep it on scan all the time. This is the first time it’s picked anything up.”
“Makes sense.” Gunny said, looking at the LED display on Hot Rod’s radio. It was on the AM band, low on the dial. “Gotta be local. If they’re trying to reach people, night time is the best.”
“Yep.” Wire Bender said. “I’d bet it’s a farm station from one of these towns nearby. Maybe even high school radio. They’re usually only five thousand watts, maybe ten max, so it’s probably within a hundred miles.”
They listened and another song came on, no DJ chatter between them.
“That’s the problem with these new digital radios.” Wire Bender groused. “On an old tube radio, you could go through the dial real slow like, get bits and pieces of stations for hundreds of miles. These new ones don’t pick up anything unless it’s a strong signal.”
“Wonder if it’s a playlist on repeat?” Gunny mused. “And how they’re powering in. Could be running on a natural gas generator. I think you can run a line right off the wellhead. I’ll have to ask Jellybean about that, he used to work the oilfields. He oughta know.”
“Plenty of natural gas out here, it could be.” said Wire Bender. “I know they do field processing right at the wells before they even move it to the plants. Wouldn’t be hard to plumb a line off it. Especially if it’s on somebody’s back forty.”
Gunny was waiting for a song about drinking and cheating to end before he gave up. He hoped it was still live, not just an automated playlist and he was rewarded with the sound of an older man who came on after Loretta Lynn finished.
“It seems like we play this one too much.” he said “But we lost three more of Crow City’s finest to the scourge today.” The man sounded weary and sad.
An old Carter Family song came on. “Will the Circle be Unbroken”. A lament about death and dying.
“Their defenses must not be very good.” Wire Bender said “If they keep losing people.”
“Maybe they had to go out for food or water.” Jack supposed. “It’s gotta be a pretty desperate situation.”
“Keep a listen on him.” Gunny said. “I’m going to get with Cobb, see if we can swing by there. Let me know if he says anything that’s newsworthy. I’ve got an idea.”
Chapter 5
Jessie
Day 7
The Lake House
Jessie walked out onto the deck and looked over the edge. The pain in his torn cheek had awoken him instantly and completely when he rolled over. The sun was up over the horizon and the air was clear and sharp, just a little bit nippy in the early September morning. There was a slight breeze blowing the smell of the undead away from them. Maybe fifteen or twenty of them were milling around the broken stairs, stumbling over the piles of lumber and the trampled bodies they had cut down yesterday. The zombies knew they were there, but like when they were trapped in the trees, they just kind of bumbled around. They were waiting for them to come out and play or until something more interesting and edible caught their attention. Sheila joined him a few minutes later with cups of juice. She was wearing one of Lacy’s colorful jackets, her blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. She handed him one and he thanked her, taking it gingerly. His hands were still scabbed over and painful when he flexed them. They drank in silence, enjoying the simple pleasure of watching a sunrise and being alive.
Eight hundred miles over their heads a mid-orbit satellite snapped their picture in startling clarity, capturing the fortified house and the collapsed stairs. It showed them calmly drinking and enjoying the view as a small crowd of undead milled around below them.
The General will be pleased, Sergeant Evans thought. He’ll have good news to tell Meadows. Looks like his family made it home safely.
Chapter 6
Lacy
10th Floor
Day 7
There was a quiet desperation among them now. They had lost two people just trying to get down to the parking garage. Every avenue was cut off. The stairs had claimed Eric. Robert had died in the elevator shaft. The sidewalks were still packed with them stumbling around and bumping into things. They couldn’t smash a pane of glass, rappel down or lower the window washing platform manually. They were trapped and no one knew what to do. They were out of ideas. Despair settled over them. They sat glumly at the table and Alex poured them glasses of Scotch. It was too early to drink but the burn felt good in a bad way.
They got drunk.
It hadn’t been the plan but as they sat and stared out at the dead city, it had happened. None of them were in the habit of drinking during the working day but one drink became two as they tried to bury the feelings of hopelessness. Two became three as they toasted the memory of everyone they had lost. Three became four and by early afternoon, they were either giggling at everything or weeping in the corner. They kept drinking. Hard liquor on empty stomachs.
Cognac, Whiskey and Gin.
Brandy, Rum and Tequila.
Tomorrow, they told themselves…tomorrow we’ll sober up and figure something out.
They drank like college kids on a frat party binge. Too much, too quickly and with no concern about making fools out of themselves. They threw up and slugged down another shot to wash the taste out of their mouth.
Tonight we drink, for tomorrow we may die.
Mr. Sato told them of his loneliness being assigned to this office in the States. His wife of thirty-seven years was back in Tokyo with his children and grandchildren. They lived in a city of thirteen million people. He had no hope of ever seeing them again.
Alex told of his failed marriage and his children that he was a rotten father too. His wife had left him and moved back to New Jersey last
year. He had no hope of ever seeing them again.
Carla told of one broken relationship after another, the cycle of abuse and of cheating boyfriends. She lived alone in an apartment and had lots of acquaintances, but not any close friends. Her family were immigrants from Cuba and were all still down in Miami. She had no hope of ever seeing them again.
Phil was the only person, other than her, that had family in town. It was large and extended with cousins and aunties and step brothers and sisters all over South Atlanta. Down in an older part of the city. Small, blighted houses occupied by the working class poor who never seemed to have the money for food and mortgage payments, let alone any extra for home maintenance.
Lacy cried over Jessie, trapped in a room for over a week with other students. They were teenagers. She knew they wouldn’t have stayed and starved to death so was guessing that he was now one of the walking dead things.
They toasted family members who were surely departed from this mortal coil.
They clinked glasses, spilling whiskey and wiping tears.
They smashed computers and laughed. Screamed in anger and cried without shame. Had rolling chair races through an obstacle course of desks and bookcases. Mourned for the families they knew were gone.
They drank in a frenzy, trying to forget the reasons they were drinking.
They scattered case files in the air, covering the floor.
They belted out Elvis tunes at the top of their lungs, dancing on desktops.
They read divorce papers aloud and decided who got screwed and who did the screwing.
They lined up hundreds of law books to topple them like a row of dominoes then built houses with them like they were decks of cards.
They did everything they could think of and anything they wanted to take their minds off of their troubles.
They were in a blind haze by the time the sun was setting over the western horizon.
They forgot to remember, and one by one, they dropped off into a deep and dreamless sleep, passed out on couches or the floor.
It was mid-morning when Lacy awoke, her eyes crusted closed, head pounding, stomach roiling and with a thick, nasty tasting, fur covered tongue. At least that’s what it felt like. She moaned then made her way into one of the bathrooms, barely in time to prevent another vomitous mess on the floor. After the purge she made her way to the kitchen, filled the biggest saucepan she could find from the water cooler then went back to the one of the Williams and Williams executive bathrooms. She stripped off and lay down on the cool tile of the shower. The porcelain felt good against her throbbing head. She gave herself a sponge bath and washed her clothes then rummaged around in the medicine cabinet for a toothbrush and aspirin. There wasn’t anything that actually fit her in the closet but a pair of shorts that had a drawstring and an oversized Oxford. It would do. She felt somewhat better and walked around to the others who were starting to rouse themselves, passing out cups of water and a handful of aspirin.
They sat around the table in the conference room again, morosely sipping at soup or coffee, snacking on crackers or chips, none of them feeling well enough to try to eat anything too heavy. Not that there was much of a choice left in the cabinets. At least no one had died of alcohol poisoning. The offices were still a mess with scattered papers, piles of vomit in the planters, and smashed computers.
“I can’t live like a rock star anymore.” Phil said, massaging his temple. “I’m too old.”
That got a few Amens’ then talk turned back to the elephant in the room they had managed to forget for a few hours. Ideas from hazy brains on how to escape.
Tumbling the stairwell with copiers and printers, crushing them?
How would we get out then?
Go back down the shaft and try to kill them one by one as they came in the elevator like we did leaving the office?
There would soon be a substantial pile too high in the elevator to for us to get past them.
What if that one zombie was all there was in the garage?
What if it wasn’t?
Burn them all in the stairwell?
Anybody got a can of gas handy? Still have the problem of immovable piles of bodies stacked up against the door we need.
Lure them into the hallway, into the elevator shaft and let them fall in.
How do you make them do that?
Use bait.
What bait?
They all knew the answer and let that one slide as they kicked around other ideas.
Throw a grappling hook over to another building and climb over?
Yeah, right.
They spent the entire waning afternoon going back and forth with different ideas, some ludicrous, some well-reasoned and in the end, they circled back to luring them down the elevator shaft. It was feasible. They had the materials to make it happen and the two banks of elevators were separated by a concrete support wall. If they filled one up, there was still the other to use as a backup plan if the stairwell couldn’t be utilized for some reason. They still had an escape route if this turned out to be a total bust.
It was settled. They would do it in the morning when they were well rested. Tomorrow, they were getting out of here.
Chapter 7
762 Miles to Go
Day 8
The next morning as they were getting ready to leave the oilfield, Griz was having trouble with the brakes on his Lowboy. They were locked up.
“C’mon Griz,” Scratch taunted him “What’s wrong with that old junk? You don’t know how to take care of it?”
Griz was getting frustrated, the whole convoy waiting on him as he crawled around under the wagon tapping on the brakes with a hammer.
“I don’t know what the Fu…uh, heck is wrong.” He complained squirming out from under it, adjusting his language after eyeballing Kim who was with the rest of the people gathered around. Scratch kept looking at an imaginary watch and tsk-tsking, talking loudly about inept truck drivers who didn’t maintain their equipment. Griz was getting red in the face, his clothes were getting all dirty from crawling around under the trailer.
“You’re not helping.” He said. “It was fine yesterday when I parked it!” His annoyance and embarrassment were building at the constant badgering from Scratch and the sniggers from the some of the others.
“What do you think, Detective? Is this an arrestable offense? Willfully detaining the President and his entourage?” Scratch asked Collins as Griz brushed bits of dried grass from his hair.
Tommy walked up to see if he could help and noticed right away that the air lines had been switched. The release line had been traded out with the braking line. Somebody had swapped the glad-hands around causing the brakes to be locked all the time.
“Think I found your problem.” He said and switched them, putting them back in their proper order.
Griz was thunderstruck. He just stared with his mouth open in disbelief then started scanning the crowd, his eyes going immediately to Scratch. His embarrassment and frustration had a new target.
“I should have known…” he growled, brandishing the hammer.
“What?” Scratch protested “I didn’t do anything.” But he couldn’t control the laughter bubbling up out of him and the big goofy grins on the other two’s faces made it obvious they were in on it too.
“RUN!” Lars yelled and they all took off for Scratch’s truck, cackling like loons the whole way with Griz hurtling black curses at them, prophesying their imminent and painful futures if he caught them.
“You better run, you gleeful little bastards!” He yelled after them, giving up after only a short sprint.
“Language, Mr. Griz!” Scratch shouted back from a safe distance. “I’ll tell Kim on you!”
They found a small station that sold diesel later that morning and went through the routine of scouting, perimeter defense and refueling. Most of the trucks could have driven another 500 miles before they needed diesel but it was best to keep them full. They were saving the fuel in the tanker truck fo
r emergencies. When Gunny finished topping off, he pulled around to stage for their departure. He was getting anxious, eager to get going, half tempted to try to hurry things up by bringing in ZZ’s truck and having two PTO’s filling the rigs. It had been a week since the texts from Jessie and Lacy. He checked his phone a few times a day still but he no longer had any hope of receiving more messages. He wished he could just drive nonstop until he got there and forced himself to remember he had to get this crew to Oklahoma first. He couldn’t just hammer down to Atlanta and then be promptly buried in an avalanche of undead. He needed a good team, a good plan, a good place to take his family and any other survivors he was sure to find.
The phone messages that General Carson’s team had been able to pull before everything went down were promising. Lacy’s bunch had run into a little trouble and didn’t make it to the roof. She hadn’t mentioned what kind of trouble, but how hard could it be to ride the elevator up to the top? They realized no Army helicopters were coming to get them and they were working on something else. The eventual goal was to get to the house, wait for him there. They’d played the “what if” games around the dinner table over the years. The “what if there was a terrorist attack” and “What if there was an earthquake.” The answer to everything had always been the same in the end. Get to the house. It was in an old subdivision with big lots and many of the original owners had bought two or three adjoining parcels to “give themselves some breathing room” as they called it. They lived on a lake and although he wouldn’t actually call themselves preppers, they’d learned a few things from his military career. They were probably much better suited than most of the rest of the families. There was plenty of food and the house was easily defended with only one entrance door at ground level. If she took a chainsaw or an ax to the rear deck legs and knocked it down, there would be no access from the back of the house. Too bad the house was all electric. If they had a propane gas hot water heater and stove, they wouldn’t even be inconvenienced by the end of the world. They were on city water so in theory, it could stay running for years. However long it took them to empty out the water tower. It was gravity fed to all the houses and it was supposed to hold enough to supply the community for a few days. Gunny had no idea how many gallons it held. A hundred thousand? Two hundred? But what were the chances of every water tap in the whole area being turned off? If there were a fire somewhere and pipes got broken or somebody crashed into a hydrant, the water would just gush out until the tower was empty. They had the lake for fish and water as long as the house wasn’t surrounded and they had plenty of guns and ammo in the big safe. Gunny was a bit concerned about that, though. If Lacy got in the safe, she would find all the receipts for the guns he’d bought over the years. Maybe she wouldn’t. He hoped not. He had some guns he’d paid $1500 for in there. The same ones he’d told her he’d just done a little horse trading for. But he had to laugh at himself. Even in a Zombie Apocalypse he was wary of her wrath.
Zombie Road (Book 2): Bloodbath on the Blacktop Page 6
