I eagerly grabbed the belt and removed the keys. The spare vehicle key stuck out from most of the rest. Jumping out of the front seat, I kicked a corpse to the side for better access. My hands shook with exhausted excitement. It took a few tries, but soon I had the key turned and the door open. I climbed into the cage compartment to tear through my prize.
The first and most precious item I came across was an unopened bottle of spring water. I quickly guzzled every drop. The bag was stuffed with personal items and clothing. Every shirt looked too small. Their former owner was probably in much better shape than I, but at the bottom of the bag was the most wondrous find of all… a gun. It was silver with black grips and centered in the grip was the spherical logo of Taurus. The five inch barrel had “PT 1911” etched into the seamlessly smooth finish and when I ejected the magazine and found it stocked fully with nine nine millimeter rounds… well what a glorious find this was! My Kukri had become an extension of my own body, but it was limited. Having a weapon of last resort like this may be my ticket home.
I went through the second bag a bit slower. Inside I found two more bottles of water. I opened my survival pack and replaced the empty bottles with these. Under another layer of pants was a six pack of peanut butter sandwich crackers. I devoured one of the packs without a second thought. The rest went into my bag. Then I found the hidden treasure. Beneath everything were three spare magazines for the Taurus. Each had been packed to the limit with nine rounds. First the airplane and now a gun, maybe I would get home. The resurgence of my confidence level filled me with hope so strong I could almost feel the embrace of Sarah and the kids.
Before long I emerged with my find and went back to the front seat. I sat with the utility belt and pondered what I should take. It would have been nice to just wear the damn thing, but its former owner was seriously thinner than me. The holster was the kind that could clip snuggly over the belt line. With gentle caution I placed the Taurus 1911 in the perfectly molded cradle. Both the handcuffs and the gloves would come with me too. Having gloves made sense; I’d be able to use them for minor warmth or to deal with the infected, and although I had no plans for cuffing anyone I could not rule out all possibilities for their use. The flashlight was missing from its holster and pepper spray wouldn’t do a thing to zombies. Feeling pretty satisfied with my prizes I left the shelter of the car.
I stood inside the cover of the door jamb. All three extra magazines and the handcuff case were nestled securely, yet accessibly in the front pocket of my pack. I split the pair of latex gloves to have one in each pocket. This seemed smarter in the event one of my arms was indisposed. That left me with the keys. I fiddled through them, taking a moment to examine each. Holding the vehicle key, I dreamt of how nice it would be to drive home. In a car I could be home in twenty minutes. Then logic voiced over my exhaustion again. “What if there are more road blocks?” I grumbled aloud to myself. Every undead around would hear me in a car.
I rubbed the base of the car key with my thumb. I was so, so tired, yet I knew I’d have to walk. That was the only way they wouldn’t hear me coming. If only I had a bike… My eyes went wide and excitement flooded over my despair. On the key ring I saw a smaller golden key forged with the words “MASTERLOCK”. My sight shot over to the adjacent shed. Hanging from the rusted latch was a padlock. Now I turned optimistic. Jesus Christ almighty I hope this dude had a bike too.
Out of habit I went to slam the door closed. When it was inches from shutting and broadcasting my presence to the area I shot out a hand and caught it. The painful pinch served as a reminder to not get too comfortable or excited. I shifted the keys to my left hand so that I could flex my throbbing fingertips. When I swapped their place some shifted on the loop. Then something else captured my interest. It was a tiny key, only an inch long and shaped like the letter “L”, it had been hidden by the other full sized keys.
I rose an eyebrow rose curiously, but disturbing my permanent scowl sent a pinch out from the duct tape bandage. The revelation of my treasure trove’s worth nearly caused me to scream with joy. I set the holstered pistol on top of the cruiser and hopped over a corpse. Standing at the trunk, my hands shook anxiously. I fumbled getting the door key into the trunk’s lock. It opened and I smiled down at the long plastic ballistic lockbox.
“How could I have forgotten about the shotgun?” I scolded myself giddily. A second later I had used the little key and threw open the box. The black brush-finished twelve-gauge Remington was as glorious a sight as Excalibur itself. I carefully removed the short-barrel pistol-gripped shotgun from the safety of its foam padded case. The loading port revealed a full complement of shells behind the pump action fore-end. Ensuring the safety was on, I nestled it alongside the crowbar of comparable length in my pack. Lastly was the nylon Velcro pouch with some extra ammo that secured nicely to one of the shoulder straps. If this had been a full length twelve-gauge like the one I have at home, then the arrangement wouldn’t have worked.
When I went back to the side of the cruiser to retrieve the Taurus I caught a glimpse of my reflection. The figure that looked back at me looked everything but confident. He was filthy, looked like he hadn’t slept in a year and was treated with field dressings worthy of a second-hand costume. Most absurdly was how the frazzled reflection looked like Rambo after being called back to combat after thirty years on a desk job. I chuckled at myself. If you can’t laugh at yourself after the end of days then you’re probably already undead.
The lottery of goods provided a direly needed replenishment of confidence, but no level of self-confidence or weaponry could change the several hours of walking left. The Crown Victoria was the epitome of temptation. It would allow me theoretically quick passage through the county’s worth of undead between there and home. My brain played devil’s advocate with the possibilities.
Recognition of this caused me to laugh. Funny how the real devil, in a walk through hell, was my damn brain. The rambling of a mad man aside, I know that the car could create more problems than solutions.
I’d become so caught up in excitement that I forgot to check the area. I instinctively pulled out the Kukri and swung around anticipating an attack. Nothing was around me, but there was movement nearby. Through the thicket of trees I could see silhouettes shambling on the train tracks. The overpass hopping group had caught up to where I’d stopped. Thankfully most were still following the rails. I had enough concealment that I doubted they could see me. Guns have an odd way of making a person forget that safety is fleeting.
I returned my attention to the more pressing issue of the padlocked shed. Using all necessary caution I stepped over the two bodies between me and the other structure. I’d become so accustomed to seeing infected corpses that the action of tiptoeing over them hardly affected me. However, the sight of the gore trail leading away from the cruiser did bother me. It bothered me, because I know it belonged to a man who was a police officer. This man also made his dying act – that of preparation – the action that saves my ass.
The shed door looked weathered with age. Solid double planks of wood composed the barn-styled doors. By design there should have been two decorative planks crisscrossing each side. One of the planks was missing entirely, leaving a clear void where the paint was protected from the elements. The other was still in place, but shoddily secured with mismatched screws. Regardless of the dilapidated appearance I still found hope in the shiny new latch sporting the padlock. If there wasn’t anything of value inside, why would this man have put a new locking mechanism on it?
For the third time in the last half hour I was put in the “kid on Christmas” position. Eagerness nearly overcame caution to throw open the door, but that little logical voice in the back of my maddened head kept me level headed. Using the key I retrieved from the utility belt I opened the padlock but didn’t remove it from the latch. I found the trusty LED flashlight and already had the Kukri out. Right before throwing open the door I imagined there being a dozen undead inside at the ready.
I could see them, each with widened black eyes lunging from the darkness at the new meal standing in an illuminated daylight frame. The imaginative rants my mind kept indulging in had become frustrating. However, imagination could be a nuisance during the zombie apocalypse as much as it could serve to breed caution.
I used my elbow to nudge the door a few times. Age prevented the opening from perfect closure long ago. The entryway rattled from my prodding. I jumped back, expecting the pounding of fists from the other side. My heart raced thinking I’d just awakened a sleeping gang of evil. I froze and listened for anything coming from inside. In the distance I heard more sporadic gunfire. Honestly, I couldn’t tell if it was a new development or not. I’d been so focused on what was directly in front of me that background noises had been mostly ignored. At least there were still people out there. Or the reapers had figured out how to use guns.
Carefully I pulled the padlock off its loop and dropped it to the grass. I gradually opened the door. The loud creaking of rusty hinges unsettled any localized silence. I swept the small space with the flashlight and confirmed it wasn’t occupied. The divine intervention I’d sought quickly showed itself in the form of two twenty-six inch wheels, a metal frame, padded seat and rubber gripped handlebars.
Seeing the mountain bike filled me with so much joy I could have cried. The black Cannondale bicycle was identical to one many of our officers’ use when on bike duty. It’s a solid ride with a wire rack over the back tire for equipment. Aside from some signs of use in the form of mud on the frame, the bike was perfect. I’d be able to store my pack and save my aching vertebrae further stress. This was an absolute godsend.
I stopped my drooling to check out what else was in here. There was a little lantern on the shelf behind a lawn mower. After checking to see if it worked, I clicked off my LED light and enjoyed the free arm. There was work to be done before I could hit the road. I pulled the door shut using a rusty nail on the back of it. It wasn’t safe there, but at least I was hidden and it should give me enough of a chance to prep for the uncertainty ahead.
The shelter of the shed was warmer than the outside air. Aside from the second I sat in the Crown Victoria I’d been exposed to the elements for over a day now. I enjoyed not being outside for once. My new finds had left me feeling confident. Not just confident – but wonderful. Being closer to home while having both weapons and wheels could make any lone traveler battle ready. I was willing to push aside the unending agony I’d been experiencing. I smiled, knowing in a few hours I should be with my reasons for still living.
* * *
1440 hours:
I took my time getting things ready, which was in part due to both anxiety and caution. The road ahead was largely unfamiliar and although I’d come through the area in a car many times before I’d never made the journey on bike. Today I had been lucky to encounter the undead as little as I had. Granted, any contact with a zombie was unlucky, but the land I’d crossed had been mostly sheltered thanks to the already secure railroad tracks. I felt better facing whatever was next atop two wheels.
There were five bungee cords in the shed. Two of them were frayed and unusable, so I used the other three to tightly secure my pack to the bike’s wire storage shelf. I felt a hundred pounds lighter once it was off. The Remington had to be included in the straps but there just wasn’t any way I’d be able to make it accessible. Hopefully the weapons I could have at arms’ reach would be enough to defend me.
I’m strongly right handed, so whatever my primary weapon was would obviously be in my right hand. That caused an internal debate about where I’d place my weapons for travel. Having the Taurus was dangerously tempting. It would be so easy to ride along, guns blazing. Realistically speaking though, I probably wouldn’t hit a damn thing and I’d be ringing the dinner bell for every infected person around. The Kukri had earned my loving respect. I’d keep that as my primary weapon.
I foresaw a problem removing it from the scabbard while on the bike. To combat this, I removed my jacket for the first time since Franklin Street. It was so incredibly dirty. Bloodstains, both black and red, spotted it throughout. I shuddered knowing that the blood donors could only be me, Phil and my undead victims. There was a larger stain near the patch above my heart. That blood probably belonged to Phil. It was darker, but still quite human in origin. I guessed it got there hours after I stabbed him. I had tucked the blade under my left armpit while gathering my things. I’d bear a stain on my chest in honor of the man whose life I was forced to take.
After some duct taping and slapdash rigging I found my accessibility solution. I used what remained of the duct tape to secure the Kukri, scabbard and all, directly to my back. Once I slipped the jacket back on I was successfully able to reach over my shoulder and grab the blade’s handle. Every tendon and muscle in my arm resisted the movement. All discomfort aside, the rigging allowed for better movement on the bike. I couldn’t even fathom what I must have looked like to others right then. Considering my appearance made me laugh. I probably looked like some kind of duct tape ninja or deranged and gun-toting homeless man. Lucky for me the zombies just saw me as a meal. I clipped the pistol to my belt line. My left arm should be able to grab it with a painful stretch. In the event I needed to use it I doubted I’d be worried about the uncomfortable reaching.
The shed also yielded another fortunate find. Beneath a corded circular saw was an old pair of cotton work gloves. Ever since fleeing Headquarters I’d had my hands exposed. The only times they were covered was when I put them in my pockets so that they could regain feeling. With all that I had done since then I was lucky I hadn’t contracted the R33PR virus through some secondary contact.
Everything was set and I felt eager to go. I took a second to stretch my legs. The journey had crippled me with the dexterity of an old man, and although the bending exercises hurt, I knew that they were necessary. I snacked on some of the salvaged peanut butter crackers and sipped water. If my suspicions were correct about the areas I’d be going through then I wouldn’t have a chance to take a break. In fact, after I disembarked, the next time I rested would be either in my bed or in my death. Frankly, my body loathed existence so strongly right then that I physically preferred the latter option.
I poked my head out of the shed to check the area. There was one lone figure shuffling along by the end of the cul-de-sac. It faced away from me, moving in an aimless stumble. I kept my eye on it as I pulled out the bike. Out of respect for the former owner of the property I closed the padlock and secured the shed. After stealing the guy’s toys it just didn’t seem right to leave his storage area wide open.
Before I knew it I was on the move again. Passing the house belonging to the bike’s owner, I imagined what goodies could be inside. It probably would have been smart to look for more supplies, but I was growing antsy from staying in the same place. I rode past and mentally acknowledged the house belonging to the man that saved my life. If safety ever returned to the world I’d go back there and pay him some proper respect.
Chapter 24
Chariot
1505 hours:
The street sign on the corner indicated I was on Arizona Court and by taking a left on Arizona Drive I would hopefully end up on Hull Street, past the connection with the railroad tracks. The shambling sentry at the end of the cul-de-sac hovered near the street’s center, so I watched the distance between us lessen and knew it would be best to give him as wide of a berth as possible.
I was probably a car length from him when the tread ran over a flattened aluminum can. This thing had been run over so many times by God knows how many cars that it contoured to the road perfectly. My attention was split between the burning of my body rejecting this exercise and of course to the zombie standing in my way.
When the can crinkled loudly I cringed. The sentry heard it too and swung his stance around to face the sound. My eyes went wide and I started to reach for the Kukri. He swiveled so eagerly that momentum carried him completely off an already
unsteady balance. Pavement met his rotting visage, launching the knit hat he wore across my path. The dive towards me broadcasted a wet crackling sound.
I almost fell off the bike just to avoid making contact. An undead arm flopped in front of me like a speed bump. There wasn’t any time to swerve so I charged over it. The arm’s owner made no sounds to indicate he even noticed an injury. I looked down and saw three fingers on the hand wiggle excitedly while my tire crushed his attached arm. The thumb and pointer finger were missing entirely.
I pedaled intensely to get away. Panic had again become my motivator. Sweat ran down my brow. I hadn’t exerted myself much yet, but nerves were getting the best of me. Somehow I thought the sentry zombie might be in pursuit, but when I turned on the seat just enough to look back, I noticed that he was right where I’d left him with his head looking up from the pavement, tar drooling out of his shattered nose. The pool of infected muck already reached as far as the tire-shredded strip on his outstretched arm.
I’d be long gone by the time he got up. I turned to focus on the street ahead and spotted another sign I’d missed. Posted cattycorner to the Arizona Court/Drive street sign was a diamond shaped cautionary “DEAD END” warning.
Irony sucks ass.
Trees bordered the street to the left of me. I tried to see what was on the other side of the trees, but couldn’t. They probably filled the area between the tracks and Hull Street. To the right were more quaint ranch houses. One yard had a hollowed out corpse strewn across a painted backdrop of burgundy. Another had all its windows broken and front door splintered open. The next house down was completely immaculate. Four yellow bagged copies of the Sunday Richmond Times Dispatch sat undisturbed at the driveway’s end.
The Reaper Virus Page 24
