Battlefield Z Omnibus, Vol. 1 [Books 1-9]

by Lowry, Chris

  I told Brian I thought Bandits were probably former military, because they still had weapons, mostly working vehicles and a structure with a central command.

  Plus, Bandit's tended to take prisoners before deciding what to do with them. Marauders usually killed everybody, raped the women sometimes even before they killed them and stole everything.

  I'm not sure how they found us.

  I bet one of the others was followed back to the house, and we were watched.

  All I know is in the middle of the night, someone broke the window, ripped down the blanket and tear gas was tossed into the room in a smoky pop.

  There was more screaming than I liked, because it would draw a Z crowd and we stumbled from the front door and down the porch.

  Since we made it down the steps, I figured it was Bandits and counted one stroke for luck. Marauders or smart people would have just shot us as we exited the bottleneck.

  Rough hands grabbed us and threw us to the ground.

  "Line 'em up," growled a tough sounding voice. It was low pitched and gravelly.

  We were rolled around and I struggled to sit up.

  The gravelly voiced man looked like a man with a gravel voice should. Lots of bushy hair, very bushy beard and an M16 rifle that looked too small in his oversized hands. He had on grime and gore stained BDU's that covered him from wrist to ankle so at least he was smart. Or good at following orders, if someone told him to do it.

  All of his men were dressed like him, which told me something.

  They were smart.

  There was little exposed skin, which meant if you ran into a Z, that was one more layer of protection between you and their teeth.

  I watched as he looked us up and down. I bet he noticed we were all covered up too.

  "I'm with the US Military," he growled as he paced in front of us. "If you cooperate, you will not be harmed."

  "The military's gone," said Brian. "They abandoned us months ago."

  Brushy Beard stopped in front of Brian.

  "We didn't abandon you Sir, we just fell back to regroup."

  Brian looked like he was about to argue, but Peggy stopped him.

  "Brian," she said.

  That was all it took. Funny how quickly we develop shorthand in relationships. One word or tone that speaks volumes.

  Brushy Beard moved his eyes from Peg over to me. I just watched from under my eyebrows and refused to make eye contact. All he needed to know about me was I was a cowering meek non-threat.

  I wished I could tell everyone else to be the same.

  Luckily, I didn't need to. Brian was the only one itching to make a fuss, and Peg shut that down.

  "We're going to take you to our camp outside of Gainesville," Brushy Beard continued.

  "You'll be processed there and our General will determine if you stay or not."

  He turned to his men.

  "What did we get?"

  The men lined up with our packs and gear, everything we had confiscated from the surrounding homes. It was four or five days’ worth of rations for us nine, plus medical supplies, camping gear and weapons.

  "Not bad," he said and bent over.

  Brushy Beard picked up my pistol and examined it. He slipped it into his waistband along with the two extra mags in the pouch into his pocket.

  "Look at this," said a young one.

  I swear he couldn't have been more than eighteen. A kid in an oversized uniform who got caught up playing soldier. None of their uniforms had insignia on it, but he looked like a buck private, so that's what I called him in my mind.

  He held up the pikes Scott and I had made. A pike was an eight feet long pole with a machete bound to the end with duct tape, paracord and metal wire. The opposite end had a sharp point, and in the hands of a practiced user, could clear a path through Z's like a farmer swinging a scythe.

  We had lots of practice.

  "Damn that's a good idea," said Brushy Beard. He hefted mine and tested it with a couple of good swirls.

  "Pack it all up," he ordered.

  I noticed he kept the pike.

  We were loaded into the back of a transport truck along with our gear. The Private and another hard-looking soldier climbed in with us. They both held their guns on us as we huddled toward the cab.

  The trucks lurched away from Mt Dora and headed toward the camp somewhere outside of Gainesville.

  At least they were going in the right direction.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THEN

  When I woke up the next morning I panicked.

  It took a second for me to remember where I was and why I was sleeping sitting up in a dark closet. I explored the house, but it had been gutted when the tenants moved out and there was nothing there but a couple of dead roaches.

  I sneaked back to my house through the backyard.

  My cabinets had been ransacked, all the food taken.

  I sat in the middle of the floor and felt sorry for myself. My youngest daughter was missing with my ex, I had no way to communicate with my two older children so I didn't know if they were alive.

  I was alone.

  No food.

  No weapons.

  And now, no safe haven. I was surrounded by Z's. That PMA thing probably saved my life.

  I've always been cursed with a positive mental attitude so even though things looked bleak, I knew all I had to do was take action.

  Normally back in the old days I'd grab a notebook and start action planning and write down what I needed to do.

  But with this, I knew it was going to be best to take it one step at a time.

  Food. Water. Weapons. Destination.

  The destination was a no brainer. I was going to Arkansas to find my kids.

  There was a chance my ex went back to her family there, so I'd search as I went too.

  Food. I was hungry now, but there was nothing in my house. I needed to scavenge, but I needed to get out of this neighborhood and away from my armed neighbor.

  Or get armed and come back to reclaim my food.

  I got three sports bottles from the kitchen and filled them with water from the back of the toilet. It made me cringe a little, but I'd try to boil it before I drank it. If I could.

  I pulled a backpack from my closet and shoved in a change of clothes, all longs sleeves and tough pants, then dressed in jeans, two layers of shirt, and hiking boots.

  I put a paperback into the backpack, more out of habit than anything, and a notebook with pen, just in case.

  I sneaked out the back door and heard a moan.

  I froze.

  A damn Z was in the neighbor's yard. There was a six-foot fence between us, but it was rotten and falling down and I didn't have a weapon. It was Mr. Butowski or had been. He was sixty-eight and retired and looked like he was trapped in his own backyard. We had argued over who had a responsibility to replace the fence. He borrowed my hedge clippers and never gave them back. Guess I was gonna have to write them off now.

  I eased back into the house and went into the garage. I grabbed a baseball bat, but that was too short. I didn't want to be that close to a Z, especially since all it took was a bite and you were a goner.

  I grabbed the broom and mop and took them back into the kitchen.

  The butcher block had been knocked around during the ransacking so it took a moment for me to find, but when I did, I sharpened the end of the handles into spear points. Now I had at least a five-foot weapon.

  It wasn't ideal, but it would do.

  I slipped a couple of knives into the backpack, one steak knife into my back pocket and a carving knife into my belt.

  I took the broom and mop handles outside and walked over to the fence. I kept expecting it to fall at any second and a horde of Z's to stampede toward me.

  It didn't happen.

  I reached the fence, tapped it with the broom handle and when the Z shuffled close, I shoved the pointed end through its eye socket and into its brain. It plopped down on the ground.

&n
bsp; I leaned over and threw up.

  It's the first time I'd ever killed a person, or what was once a person. I didn't know why vomiting was an almost universal reaction to killing. Maybe it showed a slice of humanity. If I was able to kill without remorse, even Z's, then what kind of monster would that make me?

  Second round of good luck was I hadn't eaten, so there wasn't much to the vomit, just a sore stomach after a round of dry heaves.

  And a slimy aftertaste of bile. Yuck.

  Armed with a spear in each hand, I took off in search of food. I headed North. I had my direction, I was taking action, and I was a Z-killer.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  CHAPTER NINE

  NOW

  The way station was between Ocala and Gainesville, a stopping point before they soldier carried us to the Camp. We drove west from Mt Dora, stopping every five minutes or so to maneuver around the blocked road. Bridges were the worst.

  In those instances, the Hummer's and big truck would just drop into lower gear and start shoving the cars along. Of course, we couldn't see it from the back of the truck. We could hear the screeching of metal and feel the jolts and jerks as the massive tonnage of the heavyweight vehicles shoved the smaller, lighter auto's out of the way. We could even hear splashes as some car's vaulted over the guardrail to plop in the lake or creek or river.

  It pissed me off a little.

  When people decided to flee, they packed up their cars with belongings.

  And food.

  These idiots were wasting food and supplies.

  If Brushy Beard had been smart he would have stopped at every traffic jam and scavenged supplies. He wasn't.

  I leaned over to Brian.

  "Keep your eyes on me," I whispered.

  "Hey," said the Private. "No whispering."

  "Got any water?" I asked.

  "No water for you," grumbled the other soldier.

  “No soup for you,” muttered Peg.

  At least the woman had a sense of humor.

  "Where are you guys from originally?" I asked.

  "No talking."

  "No talking, no drinking. What are the other rules?"

  "The other rule is to shut the hell up," said the Private.

  "How far until we get there?"

  "That doesn't sound like shutting up."

  "It's an easy question. I have to go to the latrine."

  The Private laughed.

  "Don't try to talk like us," he said. "It's a dead giveaway that you ain't one of us."

  "I dig," I said. "I still have to pee though."

  "Piss your pants," grunted the angry soldier. "Won't make much difference once we get there."

  "Maybe I can hold it."

  The truck hit another car and lurched.

  I scooted closer to the Private.

  "You guys been out here long?"

  He looked over at his partner then back down to me. He looked like he hadn't started shaving yet.

  "Since the beginning," he said.

  "Did you see Tampa or Orlando?"

  "We were in Gator country," said the Private. "Not too far from Camp."

  "Were you a student?"

  "That seems like a long time ago," he said. I could see how wistful his eyes got.

  "Shut up Doyle," said the Grumpy Soldier.

  "Doyle? That a first or last name."

  "It's the only name you're going to get," the Grumpy Soldier lifted up a boot and shoved me back against the wall.

  "Now sit down and shut up."

  Doyle watched me, a sad look on his face. I settled against the wall and waited.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NOW

  I've sat up nights since the fall and wondered about myself. I think I mentioned that before, the introspection I can be prone to doing. After my two divorces, I thought I was flawed. I spent a lot of time thinking about the way I interacted with people, my ex's, my children, my family.

  What I discovered wasn't that great.

  Everybody has a choice in life I think. Choose to be happy or choose to be miserable. If you choose to be happy, you know bad things are still going to happen, but you just roll with it. This too shall pass and all that.

  During one moment of introspection, I tapped into something that scared the bejeezus out of me.

  Rage.

  Pure unadulterated rage.

  Caveman survival of the fittest type anger that boiled and bubbled with no toil or trouble.

  I knew I had anger issues, but damn.

  Maybe my exes were right. Maybe I was just a bad person.

  It fell right into my theme of why I survived when so many other good people were gone.

  Or why I was still surviving.

  Maybe I wasn't smarter than the average bear, maybe I was just one big asshole of a bear.

  I had bottled all of that rage up for years, suppressed it, expunged it through running, exercise and exhaustion. It's tough to be mad when you're sleepy and sore.

  Since the fall it's been easy to tap into that rage.

  Z shows up and I start thinking about my kids.

  I start thinking about my ex just taking my youngest and disappearing. Not a word.

  I dive down into the red and let it wash over me and when I come up for air, the Z is splattered on the ground in front of me.

  The truck came to a stop with a squeal of brakes.

  "Time to move," said Doyle.

  He hopped out of the back of the truck, turned around and held a gun on us while we jumped down beside him.

  Brushy Beard walked back and lined us up again.

  We were in front of a canvas tent set inside a fenced perimeter. There was a twelve-foot hurricane fence surrounding a small storage unit facility, with a rolling gate that squeaked closed behind the truck.

  "Into the tent," he said.

  We shuffled inside. There were several chairs scattered around and he ordered us to sit.

  "What is this place?" Brian asked.

  "It's need to know," said Brushy Beard. "We do processing here."

  Peg let out a small shriek and pointed.

  The ground around the chairs was churned up and bloodstained, with chunks of unidentified matter sprayed across the tent wall.

  I moved away from the group.

  "What kind of processing?" gulped Brian.

  Brushy Beard followed his eyes to the mess on the floor and laughed.

  "Not that kind," he grumbled. "We're not cannibals."

  "Then what's that?" Peg asked.

  "They didn't pass muster," he said in a matter of fact voice.

  "We don't let just anyone into the camp. We're going to access your skills, what you can contribute, and then there's a test."

  "Is that what I need to know?" said Brian.

  Brushy Beard jumped across the floor and shoved Brian up against the

  canvas wall. A knife came out of somewhere and pressed against Brian's eye.

  "I don't like the way you talk to me," Brushy Beard growled.

  Brian flinched away and stammered.

  "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just get like that when I'm nervous."

  I thought about the distance between Brushy Beard and the door, the Soldier at the entrance watching the two men with rabid eyes. I wasn't sure who to take first, or to even try and then the moment passed.

  Brushy Beard let Brian go and motioned to Melissa.

  "Take her," he said.

  The Soldier lunged out and grabbed her. Melissa struggled and screamed as he dragged her from the tent.

  "First part of the test," Brushy Beard said.

  He backed out of the tent with the knife aimed toward us.

  "Aren't we going to do something?" Brian hissed.

  "What do you think we should do?"

  "Help her!"

  "How?"

  He glared from me to the tent flap and Doyle who moved to stand at attention just in front of the door.

  "We can't just let them rape her."

 
Peg collapsed on the floor and sobbed. Brian fell down beside her and wrapped his arms around her shoulder. Scott sheltered Julie and Deb in a corner with the others.

  They all stared at me.

  Like they expected me to do something.

  I'm not a knight in shining armor.

  I don't rescue damsels in distress. I'm just a dad who wanted to get to his kids.

  We all flinched as Melissa screamed.

  So, I reached down into the red and took a bath.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THEN

  Outside of the neighborhood, things were different. The main road was jammed with abandoned cars, some with doors open, some canted at odd angles up on the sidewalk. I took a right off of my street and headed West. I knew the road crossed a highway a couple of miles from the house, and that highway stretched all the way through Florida to Georgia.

  Best of all, it left Orlando and hit small cities on the way up, one of those forgotten thoroughfares that was abandoned with the advent of the Turnpike and Interstate system, but had a resurgence in the past decade as aging boomers wanted four lane "scenic" highways to cruise.

  I hoped it would be less crowded than a freeway, plus maybe the small towns were impacted less.

  I crept over cars that blocked the sidewalk or moved around them when I could. I was playing church mouse rules, don't be seen, don't be heard.

  It didn't work.

  I climbed up on a Buick Roadmaster to hop across the hood and a Z sat up in the seat. It glared at me through the windshield and moaned.

  "Damn it," I muttered.

  The window was down. A Z trapped in a car, no brain to know how to open the door, but the moan carried across the roadway.

  And let a dozen more Z's know exactly where I was.

  It was like that Z moaned out, "Dinner, come and get it."

  I huffed across the next car and tried to watch for Z's.

  One popped up in front of me and I tested my broomstick spear on its head. Another lurched from the side and swiped my legs out from under me.

  The hood dented with a loud bang. I kicked out at the Z and knocked it's jaw off. Fluid, ichor and gore dripped from its mangled face. I shoved the mop handle spear through its eye with a pop.