Zompoc Survivor: Exodus

by Ben S Reeder

  “Doesn’t surprise me. We had a cop and a sheriff’s deputy at Prov-Am.”

  “I think ours were Springfield police. Their uniforms were the right color, but they had those vests on, and they cleared out when the first resident coded. I never did get close enough to get a good look at them.” My brain went back to the man in the black uniform I’d seen back at Prov-Am. My guess at the time had been Springfield PD as well, but something wasn’t adding up for me. My brain wasn’t producing any immediate answers, so I let the question slide back to the back of my mind while I focused on the more here and now problems.

  “Well, by this time tomorrow, it’s going to be a moot point. We’ll be half way to Wyoming by tomorrow night,” I said with more confidence than I had any right to have.

  “God I hope so. What happened to your leg?” I looked down at the shortened pant leg that had given me away, then back up at her with a weak smile.

  “I almost got bit. If they’d had teeth, we wouldn’t be having this reunion right now. I cut the pant leg away to get rid of the zombie spit.”

  “We’d better disinfect your leg, too,” she said as she started pulling me toward the hallway.

  “Why not use the first aid kit in your bag?” I asked as she pulled me into the bathroom and pointed at the toilet seat. I sat while she raided Karl’s medicine cabinet. I’d learned a long time ago to trust Maya, and one place I always followed her lead in was anything medical. She’d been a certified nurse’s assistant, a surgical technician and most recently, she’d gone back to working rehab as a certified med-tech. While she wasn’t anywhere close to a doctor, she knew her way around the human body a lot better than I did.

  “Use what’s around you before you start digging in to your own supplies,” she said with a smile as she sat on the edge of the tub facing me. She already had a pair of latex gloves on and was looking my ankle over with a critical eye. “You taught me that, baby. Besides, I’ve been paying that bastard child support for six years, it’s about time I got a little back.” She ripped open a sterile gauze pad, grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the counter beside me and pressed the white square to the opening before she upended the brown bottle. She gently wiped the area around the bruise and then the bruise itself while I winced. Fortunately, I didn’t feel the sting of an open wound as a thin white foam built up under the pad, which made me feel better on two levels when she grabbed the bottle of rubbing alcohol. One, I knew for sure that I wasn’t infected, and two, it wasn’t going to smart when she wiped the area down with the alcohol. The gauze pad felt cool against my skin, and I noticed tiny gray flakes in the foam on the first pad she’d used.

  “Will I ever play football again, doc?” I asked.

  “It’s going to leave one hell of a bruise,” she said flatly, then she turned the full force of her most concerned look on me. “You have no idea how lucky you were. Even without teeth, they could have damaged your Achilles tendon. Damn it Dave, be careful!”

  “It’s the freaking zombie apocalypse. One of the few things I didn’t plan for seriously.” I stood up and pulled her to me, for a moment feeling the stress of the past few hours catching up to me. “I’m doing the best I know how, but I can’t tell you how far behind the curve I am on this, babe. And I hate it.” I gave her a quick kiss and stepped back.

  “You’re doing great,” she told me. “We’re still alive, so I guess we’re doing better than a lot of other people, right?” I nodded and smiled in spite of myself.

  “Okay, let’s break up this little pity party and get back to the business of surviving. Go ahead and raid his medicine cabinet, I’ll hit his pantry and help him get ready to bug out after I get my ride to come inside.”

  “Your ride?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I didn’t walk all this way this fast. One of my coworkers gave me a ride. Her name’s Porsche and she saved my ass at least once tonight.”

  “Porsche? Like the porn star?” she said dubiously.

  “I was thinking like the car company, but I guess the spelling’s the same. And how do you know that?”

  “I’m not a nun, honey. You’d never believe some of the stuff that used to come up when I worked overnights. Why did you make her wait outside?”

  “Because I didn’t want to bring her into a war zone by way of introduction to you and Karl,” I answered. That got me a glare that I ignored with a promise to be right back.

  Amy was waiting by the door with her bug-out bag and another duffel bag ready. Her go-bag was the same unadorned black backpack as Maya’s, with a flashlight and a water bottle in the outside mesh pockets. Her duffle bag was a blue Nike set up with a long shoulder strap. The two shorter handle straps were buttoned together over a much-loved teddy bear. Even at fourteen, there was still just a touch of the little girl who’d first won my heart four years before. I gave her shoulder a squeeze before I opened the door and went out to Porsche’s truck.

  “All clear so far,” she said as I came up beside the truck. “How are things on the domestic front lines?”

  “We’ve declared a ceasefire, but I’m not sure how long it’ll hold. Grab your duffle and come on inside. We’re going to get you a little better stocked before we head out.”

  “Dave, you’ve already done plenty for me,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m calling bullshit on that, and playing the ‘I insist’ card. That trumps all protests. Now come on. I need your help inside.” She rolled her eyes at me but she followed me in.

  Maya had a plastic container on the table that she was busy sorting through, and I could hear someone going through the cabinets in the kitchen. She looked up as I came in, and her eyes fell on Porsche. I watched as they did the mutual scan. Maya’s eyes went to clothes first, while Porsche’s went to Maya’s face. I could imagine what was going through their respective minds. Maya was evaluating Porsche for the skank factor, I figured. The professional clothes that didn’t bare half of her tits for public consumption probably earned points in Porsche’s favor, while the tight stretch pants were being moderately offset by the low-heeled ankle boots. Porsche, on the other hand, was probably looking for the flare up of the jealous girlfriend syndrome and not understanding why it wasn’t happening.

  “Porsche, this is my girlfriend Maya. Maya, this is Porsche. Both of you play nice.” That earned me a dark look from both of them, and I smiled. At least they agreed on something.

  “Hi,” Porsche said as she stepped forward. “Dave and I sit across the aisle from each other at work. He talks about you all the time.” Maya offered her a disbelieving smile and nodded.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said stiffly. Just then, Amy wandered out of the kitchen with a blue plastic tub in her hands. She set it on the table with a clank and started rooting around in the bottom without looking up.

  “Mom, do you still have that regular can opener at your place? I think Dad threw ours out.” The tense moment evaporated as she looked up in total innocence and noticed Porsche. “Did I interrupt a grown up thing or something?” she asked.

  “No, your mom was just telling Porsche she was pleased to meet the girl who rescued me earlier tonight. When I found myself in the middle of a group of zombies.”

  “Right, Plan B. When you screamed like a little girl?” Porsche asked.

  “Oh, God!” Maya said. “Did he give you that bit about plan A never works?” They laughed as they found a little common ground at my expense. I left them to talk for a few moments and went over to Amy.

  “The kitchen’s pretty much cleared out,” she said. “It’s pretty much soup, veggies and Ramen noodles.” The plastic tub she’d brought in was half full of cans and plastic packages. The kitchen cabinets were standing open, and were largely bare.

  “What about staples? Flour, sugar and salt?” I asked. It didn’t make sense that Amy would miss that.

  “We had a little bit of sugar and salt, but no flour. If it isn’t delivered or come ready to cook in the microwave, Da
d doesn’t buy it. Most of the time we just eat out anyway.” I shook my head.

  “It’s a wonder you’re as healthy as you are. So, do you have any camping gear or outdoorsy stuff?”

  “Do we ever,” she said. “Mom, Dave and I are going out to the garage,” she called out. Maya gave an affirmative, and Amy led me out the back door. The bulk of Karl’s back yard was concrete driveway, though the right rear corner had a grassy little rise on it with an old oak growing in the corner. A cute miniature house sat under it, and I remembered Amy calling it her playhouse. The rest of the back side of the yard was dominated by a two level, three car garage. Amy led us in through a side door and flipped on the lights. The sight before me instantly gave me a bad case of auto envy. Karl’s green Range Rover sat at the far end, dwarfing the red Jaguar that took up the middle spot. The Jag was completely useless for anything right now, but I still drooled a little as Amy led me up the wooden staircase at the rear of the garage. I took note of the three bicycles that were hanging upside down from the ceiling beside the staircase, and gave one of the wheels a squeeze. It was still firm under pressure. Whatever his other failings, Karl knew how to take care of his stuff.

  The upper level was a tribute to Karl’s premature mid-life syndrome. He had too many things going on to just call it a crisis, and the cast-offs of his abandoned attempts at recapturing his youth had been exiled to the upper level of the garage. The back wall had been turned into one long work bench that he’d stocked with a complete set of automotive and woodworking tools. The far end was home to four freestanding shelving units that were stacked with boxes, most of them stamped with Bass Pro and Coleman logos.

  “Remember when Dad spent those two summers taking me and Sabrina camping?” she said as she crossed the floor. “Turns out, his idea of roughing it included electrical hookups and outdoor showers.” I took stock of the boxes, mentally tossing more than half of the stuff. Air mattresses, pumps for the air mattresses, a huge cook stove and chuck-box, cots and some sort of bug repelling device all went into the mental trash. So did the monstrously over-sized McMansion of a tent. A smaller Coleman camp stove and a compact set of cookware caught my eye; I pulled them off the shelf and handed them to Amy. She set them on the workbench and made it back in time to catch the oversized sleeping bag I tossed her way. The camp stools and other amenities were unnecessary weight for what I had in mind, so they were left on the shelves. Besides, sacrificing them made more room for the camping first aid kit, the Dutch oven and its tripod. The rest of the camping gear duplicated things I already had better versions of, so I left them on the shelves as well.

  “Okay, not the most productive trip, but nothing lost for it…except a little of your Dad’s pride.”

  “He’s got ego to spare,” Amy said as we carted our spoils down the steps. “Let me get my camping gear, and I’ll be ready to go.”

  “Ooookay,” I said with a thumb pointed over my shoulder “Whose gear did we just go through?”

  “That was Dad and Sabrina’s crap. Dad let me get my own stuff. Probably saved someone’s life.”

  “Yours or his?” I asked.

  “Sabrina’s. I couldn’t stand that whiny bitch, but don’t tell Mom I said that.”

  “I’m a vault.” She nodded and headed toward the little playhouse. Less than a minute later, she came back with a big backpack slung over one shoulder. She grabbed her share of the gear again and started for the back door. We stepped into the dining room to see Karl shaking his head as Maya was giving him one of her rare approving looks over a plastic tub full of first aid supplies.

  “No, I don’t recognize it. I just bought the big camping first aid kit from Bass Pro,” he said. Her approving look faded back to the usual slightly bemused look that was the best she usually got around him. I slid the first aid kit across the table to Maya.

  “I made it, Mom,” Amy said as we dumped the rest of the gear on the table. Karl winced when the Dutch oven clattered across the cherry wood table’s smooth finish.

  “Good job,” Maya said with a smile. “I thought it looked like something I’d made.”

  “I read about it on Dave’s website, and I thought it would be a good idea. Especially when Dad sliced his finger open on a can lid last Thanksgiving.”

  “I put his website on the parental control list on my firewall. How did you go to it?” Karl demanded.

  “Oh, please, Daddy,” Amy said. “I figured out how to get around that months ago.”

  “We’re going to have a serious talk about…Maya, what are you doing?” His face was turning red as he reached for the contents of the camping first aid kit that Maya had dumped on the table. She slapped his hands away and started sorting through the stuff.

  “Getting rid of the useless crap,” she said as she tossed the first aid booklet and a couple of packets of decongestant pills aside. “Decongestants, antacids, sting relief, those are for comfort, not treating serious injuries. Band-Aids, they’re good for covering a cut or a scrape but they’re shit for something bigger than that. And sunscreen? Please, Karl, that isn’t first aid, that’s Bass Pro trying to come up with crap to pad their kit with.” He stood back and fumed as she tore the kit apart. I knew if I let him stand around with nothing to do, his mouth was likely to go off.

  “Karl, show me what you packed,” I said as I came around the table to him.

  “Why? So you can tell me what I did wrong?” he sulked.

  “No, so I know what you’re bringing. The more familiar we are with each other’s gear, the better equipped we are to make decisions.” I matched his gaze with a calm look, and he set his duffel bag on the table. I nodded approvingly, and he unzipped it. He had the essentials. Underwear, socks, hygiene stuff. A few changes of clothes, nothing formal. In the bottom of the bag, though, were the real treasures. A bottle of scotch, Glenlivet to be exact, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label and a bottle of Crown Royal lay side by side underneath his clothes, padded by socks. A box of .45 caliber rounds was packed neatly beside three boxes of Remington .223 rounds.

  “Well?” he said as I shuffled through his stuff.

  “Good choices for the booze,” I said as I looked up at him. “And I see you went with that Mini-14 and the Colt instead of the Python. Both pistols would be good choices, but I’m partial to the 1911 myself.” I ran my hand along the bottom of the bag, and saw him tense up a split second before my hand felt something lying flat on the bottom. I pulled it out to find a thick sheaf of bearer bonds and three plastic coin sheets full of round one ounce silver and gold bullion. I tossed the bearer bonds but gave him an approving nod as I held up the bullion before putting it back in the bag. I gestured for him to follow me, and headed for where I knew his office was.

  “I figured the .45 carried more bullets,” he said as we went down the hallway.

  “It does, and it’s just as reliable as the Python. Do you still have that .22 rifle you got Amy?”

  “Of course! I spent almost five hundred dollars on the damn thing. And Amy wouldn’t let me sell it anyway.”

  “Let’s get it, and all the ammo you have for it,” I said as we stepped through the door to his office. He had his big desk facing the side wall, with his gun safe on the opposite side of the room, next to a shelf that displayed copies of certificates and awards that were useless now.

  “It’s just a little .22,” he said dismissively while he opened the safe and drew out a Ruger 10/22 with a pink stock and foregrip. It sported a scope that looked like a little four power job, and a sling in pink leather. “And…it’s pink.” He handed it to me and turned to collect the boxes of ammunition as I dropped the magazine and pulled the bolt back to check the chamber. When I looked up, he was frowning at me.

  “You’re as bad as Maya,” he grumbled. “I know how to take care of a gun, god damn it.”

  “Karl, I do this with every gun I pick up. It’s a habit, not a judgment. Rule Fifteen: Assume every gun is loaded if you’re not in a fight, and never point a gun at
anything you want to keep. I assumed you did it with your own guns.” He raised an eyebrow at that.

  “How many rules do you have?” he asked as he put the boxes of ammunition on the desk and pulled out a canvas gun case.

  “Twenty two for survival. I never bothered to count the personal rules.” I reached for one of the boxes. The Ruger 10/22 had a ten round rotary magazine, and I started thumbing rounds into it.

  “Which one helps you survive Maya?” he asked.