Riders of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Burning Rubber

by Alex Westmore

  On a really positive note, we have Wendell, an engineer, who has created a solar-powered battery for us that gives us a little electrical power a few hours a day. We had a huge celebration night before last when we saw our first light bulb go on.

  It’s the simple things, you know?

  I guess, in the end, that’s one of the bigger lessons we are all learning.

  Butcher has a hospital triage unit all set up, and three of the ZBs help her out whenever needed. Meg is a nurse, so her knowledge has really come in handy. She convinced us to wear the riot gear Gary provided from the guardroom. While it was hotter than hell to wear, it kept us safer. Dallas insisted Luke, Butcher, and any other ZBs going out were to wear the leather jackets and gloves. It was much harder for teeth to get through leather. I thought it was a great idea, but then, I didn’t have to wear it in the sweltering southern heat.

  Earlier this week, four CGIs and myself went out to collect the cows, which had wandered off into the surrounding area. Let’s just say they all got a chance to see where my nickname came from.

  At first, I was worried I was too rusty to actually rope a barely moving cow, but once I hooked my leg around the ladder of the Fuchs, it was ‘ride ‘em cowgirl’ time! Oh yeah! My lasso was better than any Wonder Woman could devise, and before you could say ‘invisible jet,’ we’d corralled seventy of the escapees and herded them all back to the ranch where they were eager to head to the hay and food mixture Elliot had provided.

  Elliot is a ZB who came from Oklahoma. His family had been one of the last farming families in the small burg of Enid, so when Dallas asked for any farmers, his hand shot up. He’s as sweet a guy as I’ve ever met and had the cows fixed up in no time. The prison had all that was needed to get the incredibly skinny cows back in shape.

  He’s a good guy, always eager to lend a hand, and had proven to be an excellent resource. He and his lovely wife, Kim, offered to get the ranch house in shape, so Dallas sent Ferdie with them to stand guard, just in case.

  JIC.

  We all use that acronym now, only we say it like JICK. It was a damned good thing we sent him, too, because right in the middle of trying to start the tractor, a legless zombie dragged itself out of a hay pile and tried to climb up the tractor after Elliot. It was half way up the tractor when Ferdie chopped its head off. Funny thing was, Elliot was unfazed. Said something like,

  “No worse’n snakes in the grass.”

  Snakes in the grass?

  You have to love the guy. He works harder than anyone and never even stops to look around for undead.

  “If the good Lord sees fit to end my days, ain’t nothing I can do but wave goodbye,” he said.

  I could only shake my head at the peace his religion gives him. I had to stifle a comment asking him where his God was now.

  Kim and Elliot also cleaned out the chapel, saying, “Sometimes, Roper, faith is more important than food.”

  I would have argued the logic of that, but why darken someone else’s day with my disbelief? Besides, the first Sunday we were here, eighteen others joined Elliot and Kim for church services. When it was over, all twenty of them seemed so much lighter— happier, even—and it flowed over to the rest of us heathens…so, good on them. Anything that will lighten morale is worth it, I say, as long as they all understand that when the time comes, all that Christian homophobia needs to find its way to the trash.

  With cows in the barn and five acres planted, we are truly on our way toward self- sufficiency. It’s been a miraculous transition, to be sure. Our meals have been supplemented by the remarkable skills of Fletcher and Hunter, who have gone hunting ten days in a row and always returned with meat and stories of how many undead were now truly dead. This, alone, has changed our morale, as our food choices have become more varied. They take three new shooters out with them every time so we are training new hunters every day.

  Three of the teenagers have been put to the task of fishing. The first three days yielded two fish between them. I think they were screwing around more than they were fishing. Once they got the hang of it, they did very well, and we have feasted three days on fresh-caught fish. Of course, Churchill or one of the other CGIs go with them for protection, but they have only had to kill two man eaters thus far.

  Wendell says it’s imperative we find a way to refrigerate, and he’s been tinkering in the repair shop for a week trying to make that happen. Until then, we either have to eat the fresh- caught meat or smoke it in the smoker, and the bayou group is pretty sick of smoked meat. We’re all hoping Wendell can figure out some way to power a refrigeration unit, as that would really change our food options. Having a variety changes the overall mood dramatically, which is important in our situation. Good morale spreads just as quickly as bad, and keeping people’s spirits up is important.

  It was tough keeping people’s spirits up the first time we lost one of our group. It was sad because it didn’t need to happen but served as a warning to everyone about why we have protocols in place.

  We had collected about thirty-five people in the first two weeks. One day, a woman walked up to the gates and asked to come in. She looked and sounded healthy, carrying on casual conversation. Andres opened the gate without checking her over. I guess they stood out there for some time chatting and laughing, and before he knew it, she turned so quickly that when she lunged at him, he didn’t have time to react. She locked onto his neck and didn’t let go. Backup was just around the corner, and they shot both the woman and Andres.

  We had a meeting that night to remind people why protocols are in place. I think his unnecessary death served the greater good, but it was sad nonetheless.

  Oh! One last thing—Einstein found a dog––or the dog found him, I’m not sure which. She’s a German Shepherd named Dixie. It took him a couple of days before Dixie trusted him enough to let him pet her, but once she did, they’ve been inseparable. At least one female in his life returns his affection.

  You can only imagine how weird it must have been for domesticated animals. One day, their owner fawned all over them—the next, the same now undead owner didn’t even know they existed. Some pets followed their masters around until they realized no food or affection was coming and then they eventually wandered off to join up with other dogs. These packs soon became as dangerous to us as the man eaters.

  Watching Einstein with Dixie makes me really miss my horses. They were gorgeous creatures who were gentle and tame. Unless someone killed them, I am certain they are still alive, wandering the golden hills of California, and maybe wondering where that nice woman is who used to give them sugar cubes.

  It’s a dream I have of doing again someday.

  Someday.

  Dallas’s Log

  We’ve been here a little less than a month now, and we are thriving! We have enough food, the base is secure, and Wendell even managed to figure out how to keep electricity flowing to a single refrigerator unit.

  I’ve been too exhausted at night to write, but Roper keeps busting my chops, so here I am to report the good, the bad, and the seriously ugly.

  More good in the last two weeks in terms of food are chickens! Roper and Butcher set traps to catch the chickens around the perimeter of the base. Once we had around two dozen, the others in the area seemed to want back in. We have enough now to be able to include eggs in our diet, which is excellent for a protein source. Now, every other day, a different group of people get to eat eggs. The scheduling of our lives in terms of food, watch, and duties is a Herculean task that Butcher does with ease. Me? Gives me a headache.

  With good food, the kids are sprouting like weeds. Our three fishermen take their jobs very seriously now and have kept fish on the table almost every night. Enough food and fresh water has given us all more strength to get our work done, so we actually have leisure time. Not much, but it’s a start. Leisure time makes people happy, and happy people spread that to each other. In short, Angola has turned out to be an awesome decision for us. We sleep soundly.
People do their assigned jobs, and our overall morale has greatly improved.

  One family left after the first week. Apparently, the wife got claustrophobic in the prison, and so they decided to take their chances with a group moving to the east. We found the group’s corpses about five miles down the road a few days later. By the looks of it, those eaters coming out of the water nailed them.

  We’ve had only minor security breaches, which amounted to no harm done, and one major scare that reminded everyone once more about the importance of protocol.

  Since we first arrived, we’ve taken in nearly one hundred other survivors from around the area. You’ve got to hand it to Southerners—they are a plucky group. Not a soft one in the bunch.

  Anyway, me, Roper, and Churchill had to examine every one of those hundred for bites or scratches. Every one of those hundred went into quarantine cells until any potential scratch was proven to be harmless.

  This one woman came in with a scratch on her calf about a week ago. It was scabbed over and almost healed, so I had Butcher take a look at it. At first, she refused to go into the quarantine cell, so when Roper and Meg began to escort her out of the med unit, the woman balked. She would go in the cell only if her daughter came with her.

  Butcher said no, her daughter was healthy––only the mother was questionable. They went around and around until at last, Meg told the woman she would have to go. When Meg left to get a CGI for removal, the woman jumped off the examination table after her. Just as Butcher tackled the woman, she turned right then and there, her teeth snapping towards Meg, her arms reaching for her ankles, Butcher wrapped her arms around her, preventing her from getting to Meg.

  Butcher put her down with a Buck knife through her right ear. The daughter collapsed after seeing her once healthy mother turn into the undead moments before being killed.

  Protocol saves lives.

  Those became the words on the first poster Cassie printed from our printing press. Once she got the ink reservoirs refilled, I gave her ten minutes of electricity, and she printed out posters that reminded everyone what we need to do to survive. I thought it was a brilliant use of energy. Benjamin’s opinion differed, and he let everyone know it.

  I don’t know how much longer I can keep Roper from choking the life out of him. He is always adversarial at times when he needs to keep his mouth shut. I’ve spoken with him several times, but it’s clear he has some sort of end game. I have ears on the ground in his inner circle, and the moment he steps over the line, he’s done.

  Our security is ‘round-the-clock, and our bow and crossbow training consumes two hours a day, six days a week. Zoe has become so proficient, she now rotates with Fletcher and Hunter in the training so the guys can take time to hunt.

  With our growing numbers, we now have forty-nine CGI soldiers in our garmy, and Luke trains them two hours every day. Many saw the flag we hung off the cell tower on our way here, so that did prove to be a great idea, much to Benjamin’s chagrin. When our numbers reach the point where we can take on a horde, we will do just that over and over, until we clear this area.

  At least, that’s the plan.

  Until then, we work to get stronger and be better able to attack more than defend. To do so, we need an idea of what’s going on around us…not just within a few miles, but a few hundred miles.

  And I think I know how to get that done.

  Wendell and his aviation buddy, Colby, met Dallas at the hangar at the start of week six. Tall and lanky, Wendell wore thick glasses and sported unruly blond hair. He had the wicked sense of humor of a man who was incredibly intelligent and comfortable in his own skin.

  Dallas liked him right off the bat.

  “Okay, boss,” he said, “it took some doing, but Colby and I have managed to get her started. We argued quite a bit and eventually agreed upon the best plan of action, which was mine, by the way, and as you can see, she’s ready for the air.”

  Dallas looked at the older Cessna and saw they had painted the word HOPE on it in big red letters.

  “Nice name,” she said.

  Wendell, who rarely smiled, nodded. “That’s what we’re delivering them, right?” Nodding, Dallas walked around the plane, inspecting it.

  “Four-seater Cessna 172,” Colby explained. He stood a bit shorter than Dallas and sported a thick head of hair and an infectious smile. Everyone liked him. Dallas called him Snake Charmer because he was so charming. “Nearly full tank of gas. Still smells musty inside, though. I did all I could to get the odor out, sorry.”

  Dallas nodded. “As long as you can keep it in the air, I wouldn’t care if it smelled like dog crap.”

  “Well, it’s not that bad, but I can keep her up long enough for us to get an idea of the area in a good two hundred mile radius.”

  “Two hundred? Damn. I was hoping for more.”

  Wendell cleared his throat. “Using groundspeed averages, we will assume that the low end of the scale is ninety miles per hour and the high end of the scale is one hundred and thirty miles per hour. Doing the same math as in the short answer, we can determine that the worst groundspeed and worst fuel consumption will give us a low distance range of one hundred and eighty nine miles. The best groundspeed and best fuel consumption rate will give us a maximum distance of four hundred and ninety four miles. That's quite a wide range, and it helps explain why some pilots run out of fuel. If a pilot assumes that full tanks are plenty for a two hundred and fifty mile trip but doesn't know there is a twenty mph headwind, that pilot stands a good chance of running out of fuel when they are still fifty to sixty miles and thirty to fifty minutes short of the intended airport.”

  Dallas just stared at him.

  Colby laughed at Dallas. “Like I said. Two hundred miles. Never mind Mr. Calculator over there. I think he loves the sound of his own voice.”

  “By car, the route is much longer, but since we’re going as the crow flies, you can make it to NOLA and back as long as you aren’t fighting headwinds.”

  “Safely?” she asked.

  Colby nodded. “I flew Blackhawks in Afghanistan. This baby is probably far safer than those piece of shit choppers. We should be fine.”

  “And the delivery from Cassie?”

  “Packed in the back in those cartons. They came out really great.” Wendell pulled a light blue piece of paper out of his back pocket and handed it to Dallas. “She’s completely run out of ink, though.”

  “How many?”

  “After cutting each sheet into four slips, over a hundred thousand slips.”

  Dallas whistled. “Excellent. I’ll be sure to thank her and see what I can do about getting her more ink.”

  “She’s pretty proud of those,” Colby added. “And rightly so. It’s a great way to communicate to others that we are here.”

  Unfolding the slip, Dallas read it out loud. “We are fighting back from Angola prison in Louisiana. Unity will save us. We have weapons, food, protection. Gays are immune to infection…join us and take back our home. Perfect.” She smiled softly.

  Einstein had come to her one night with the idea. He said he’d been sitting on it for a while. If they could let people know where they were and what was happening at Angola, they could increase their army and survivor population, so she immediately sought out Colby, a pilot, and asked if he could get one of the Cessnas in the air.

  By cannibalizing one for the other, together, he and Wendell managed to get enough power to jump-start the only new battery left in the hangar.

  “Excellent, excellent work, guys.”

  “Our pleasure, Boss. Whenever you’re ready, she’s good to go.”

  Dallas held up a finger. “Give me an hour and then we’ll get her in the air.”

  She made her way back to the Crow’s nest and asked Otis, who had become the main eyes and ears of Angola, to call Roper in if he could see where she was.

  By the second week, they had created a system of bells, whistles, and sounds, much like they had in department stores that corr
esponded with certain people. Those people were then to hightail it to the conference room.

  Roper’s sound, aptly enough, was a cowbell.

  “You see Roper?” she called up to Otis.

  “She’s milking a cow, I think. Either that, or she’s a serious perv. Want me to call her in?”

  “Nah. I’ll go to the barn. Thanks.”

  Dallas found Roper correcting one of the newbies’ cow-milking techniques in the barn.

  Under Roper’s guidance, the barn had been repaired, the stalls reinforced, and the cows, chickens, and goats fattened and healthier. So far, she hadn’t found a horse to rope, but Dallas was certain she had her eyes on a bay mare which had eluded her for three weeks.

  When Roper saw her, she rose from the milking stool and met her at the barn door with a gentle kiss. “Hey there, good lookin’, what brings you to Farmville?”

  “The plane is ready. I didn’t want to leave without letting you know.”

  A big grin spread across Roper’s face. Like everyone else, she had gained back some of her lost weight, and it only made her more handsome in Dallas’s eyes. As attracted as they were to each other, it was much harder to share intimacy in the prison than on the bayou, and they’d only managed to grab a few quickies in the weeks they’d been there.

  “That’s awesome. I saw Cassie’s prints. Great job. We should see an influx in newbies soon enough.” Roper tilted her head and studied Dallas a moment. “What’s the matter?”

  Dallas easily pulled her out of the barn. “We’ve not been apart in six weeks. It feels weird going up there without you.”

  “No worries, love. I threatened Colby and gave him no other option but to bring you home safely or not come home at all. I think he caught my drift.”