HOLD

by Duane P. Craig

  Fred and I we­re out­si­de qu­ite a whi­le tin­ke­ring with that snowp­low, and then the wind kic­ked up so much that it was cut­ting thro­ugh our clot­hes li­ke cold lit­tle ne­ed­les. I don’t know if that wind was what bro­ught the gho­ul to­wards us, may­be ta­king our scent to it, but from out of the wo­ods be­hind the bu­il­ding ca­me what was a very big man in hun­ting ge­ar. He was even still car­rying a rif­le in his hands as if re­ady to fi­re. Fred and I hop­ped in­to the snowp­low qu­ickly. The­re was no do­ubt the hun­ter was a gho­ul, but who knew if its rif­le was lo­aded, re­ady to fi­re or wor­se - a go­od eno­ugh shot to ta­ke one of us down. We sat still in the snowp­low and watc­hed with ten­si­on as the gho­ul stumb­led abo­ut. It got clo­se eno­ugh that we co­uld tell its eyes we­re mis­sing, and its fa­ce lo­oked to be cla­wed at - its no­se well in tact, tho­ugh. It had to smell us. Fred and I kept whis­pe­ring what to do. Fred wan­ted to just get out and sho­ot it as he’d bro­ught his shot­gun. I co­un­te­red by sa­ying that the gho­ul sho­uldn’t ha­ve be­en mo­ving that well - it sho­uld’ve be­en too damn cold! That me­ant we wo­uldn’t know how fast it co­uld re­act, and if that rif­le was re­ady to fi­re. Fred then as­ked for my sword, which was all I had bro­ught along. Aga­in, I co­un­te­red with us not kno­wing how fast the gho­ul co­uld mo­ve - that we sho­uld at le­ast watch it to see its pat­terns of mo­ve­ment. We en­ded up just sit­ting still for what se­emed li­ke fo­re­ver. We we­re star­ting to fe­el the cold re­al­ly get to us as we co­uld only sit still. The gho­ul was then to the po­int of clo­sely circ­ling the snowp­low over and over. Fred be­gan spil­ling tho­ughts of Beth and El­len, not kno­wing if ot­her gho­uls we­re ma­king the­ir way to them, and it re­al­ly be­gan men­tal­ly pus­hing us to ha­ving to find out how fast this gho­ul was any­way. Al­so, what if Beth and El­len ca­me to find us and eit­her ran in­to ot­her gho­uls or fell vic­tim to this one. I wo­uld de­fi­ni­tely be the bad guy in that ca­se. Just as I star­ted fe­eling li­ke a big wuss and be­fo­re I co­uld even ma­ke a mo­ve, Fred lo­oked at me in a cross sort of way, and he just sa­id, FUCK IT. Fred burst out of the snowp­low, to­ok to lying on the gro­und and qu­ickly aimed his shot­gun at the gho­ul. The gho­ul tur­ned qu­ickly, and did ac­tu­al­ly fi­re its rif­le. Fred fi­red on­ce and to­ok off the top of the gho­ul’s he­ad - al­so blas­ting off the gho­ul's oran­ge hun­ting cap it had be­en we­aring.

  I’m not su­re how much lon­ger I sat in­si­de that snowp­low, but I know that Fred, Beth and El­len all we­re even­tu­al­ly cal­ling for me to co­me back in­si­de the bu­il­ding - that everyt­hing was okay. I just kept sta­ring at the bul­let ho­le the gho­ul’s rif­le ma­de. The bul­let ho­le was in the winds­hi­eld right in front of me - the ac­tu­al bul­let was lod­ged in­to the back of the me­tal cab only inc­hes from my right ear. I he­ard that bul­let. I ac­tu­al­ly saw the blur of its co­ur­se. That was re­al­ly fuc­ked up, Fred!

  DAY - 70

  Appa­rently the re­ason why Beth and El­len didn’t co­me lo­oking for Fred and I ear­li­er du­ring our snowp­low in­ci­dent yes­ter­day was be­ca­use Beth de­ci­ded to start te­ac­hing El­len so­me sign lan­gu­age. I saw them trying to con­ver­se mo­re this mor­ning as Fred and I lo­aded up the snowp­low. I was a lit­tle pis­sed be­ca­use Beth hasn’t be­en sho­wing me too much of her sign lan­gu­age in a whi­le. I gu­ess our re­la­ti­ons­hip is just dif­fe­rent and go­od eno­ugh for her as it is.

  The we­at­her was hor­rib­le and windy aga­in. The snow and ice be­gan fal­ling mo­re. We de­ci­ded that it was best to use the snowp­low as our ma­in so­ur­ce of trans­por­ta­ti­on un­til we eit­her run out of di­esel fu­el op­ti­ons to fill up or un­til we’re cle­ar of this shitty we­at­her - whic­he­ver co­mes first.

  As luck wo­uld ha­ve it - my luck, at le­ast - we didn’t get too far in the snowp­low. At a pa­ce of abo­ut 15-20 mph. We ma­de it to just past Eag­le, Co­lo­ra­do’s city li­mits be­fo­re the snowp­low’s en­gi­ne be­gan star­ting to fal­ter. Aga­in, my luck al­lo­wed us to ma­ke it in­to the ro­ad­si­de par­king lot of a big res­ta­urant - EAG­LE EYE GRILL AND CA­FE. The­re we­re far too many cars in the par­king lot than I wan­ted to see, and I exp­la­ined to ever­yo­ne that if we we­re abo­ut to try and ta­ke hold up in the­re, it was go­ing to pro­bably be a dan­ge­ro­us and messy si­ege. Beth kis­sed my che­ek and just smi­led a bit abo­ut it. El­len gri­ma­ced. Fred just star­ted lo­ading his shot­gun in full with a very nonc­ha­lant lo­ok on his fa­ce - li­ke it was go­ing to be no big de­al. I fol­lo­wed su­it, but I was in­tent on using the Tommy gun. One lo­ok at The Eag­le Eye re­min­ded me of a Crac­ker Bar­rel res­ta­urant in that it was bu­ilt li­ke a hu­ge log ca­bin with a so­uve­nir shop just in­si­de the two sets of front do­ors that ser­ved as a lobby and wa­iting area for wha­te­ver hos­tess to even­tu­al­ly se­at you. As so­on as we en­te­red the lobby we saw three gho­uls stumb­ling abo­ut. One of them was ste­adily ro­ta­ting a swi­ve­ling post­card hol­der as if re­al­ly shop­ping for the right one. The ot­her two gho­uls we­re stan­ding at the far wall whe­re the­re va­ri­o­us as­sor­ted can­di­es - suc­kers, candy ca­nes, gummy be­ars and such. Tho­se two gho­uls tur­ned to us im­me­di­ately and re­ve­aled the­ir mo­uths we­re stuf­fed li­ke hams­ter's che­eks full of candy. They we­re a man and wo­man and pro­bably a co­up­le be­fo­re all of this be­ca­use the front of the man’s shirt re­ad, “ I’m with stu­pid, “ and un­der it had a big ar­row po­in­ting to the wo­man be­si­de him. I chuck­led, Fred star­ted la­ug­hing his ass off but Beth and El­len step­ped for­ward and star­ted sho­oting the gho­uls - three shots, three down for the co­unt. Then all hell bro­ke lo­ose.

  We co­uld he­ar the rust­ling and scam­pe­ring co­ming from the ma­in di­ning ro­om that we co­uld only ba­rely see at that mo­ment. I kic­ked in­to ge­ar, step­ped to the thres­hold that ope­ned in­to the ma­in di­ning ro­om and let the Tommy gun rip. I’m gu­es­sing that I spent the fi­nal 70 or so ro­unds in its hu­ge ma­ga­zi­ne of am­mo. I tos­sed the Tommy gun to the flo­or - no way I was re­lo­ading that damn thing ever aga­in. Just as I was su­re I to­ok all of the gho­uls down, the­re we­re two that sur­fa­ced from the kitc­hen area that lo­oked and mo­ved comp­le­tely dif­fe­rent than any gho­uls we’ve yet to en­co­un­ter.

  The­se two things had bo­nes prot­ru­ding from the­ir limbs and the­ir backs as if they had bro­ken them­sel­ves in­to the­ir cur­rent sha­pes. They we­re styled mo­re li­ke dogs in sha­pe - even mo­ving and jum­ping aro­und, and they we­re dam­ned qu­ick des­pi­te the cold tem­pe­ra­tu­re. Fred, Beth and El­len be­gan fi­ring the rest of the­ir ro­unds to fi­nal­ly dis­po­se of them. I then pul­led my sword and re­mo­ved the thing’s he­ads comp­le­tely as well. I al­so re­mo­ved the he­ads of any of the gho­uls still writ­hing a bit stuck se­ated at bo­oths or too clo­sely se­ated at tab­les. We’ve loc­ked our­sel­ves in the ma­na­ger’s of­fi­ce for the night. We’re all ho­ping for de­cent sle­ep to­night.

  DAY - 71

  If ever the­re we­re qu­es­ti­ons as to whet­her the na­no­tech we­re af­fec­ting everyt­hing by now, then tho­se qu­es­ti­ons we­re put to rest as so­on as dayb­re­ak. We felt so warm in the of­fi­ce this mor­ning that Fred and I we­re ex­pec­ting to open the do­or and wit­ness the pla­ce on fi­re. Not so, tho­ugh, as it was simply the we­at­her out­si­de. Bright warm rays of sun­light we­re bla­zing in thro­ugh the many win­dows of the res­ta­urant, and it felt qu­ite muggy, even hu­mid it was so warm. One wo­uld think it a hot sum­mer day at the be­ach. We all to­ok a long lo­ok out­si­de. The snow and ice we­re go­ne - only wet gro­und re­ma­ined. Beth then co­ve­red her mo­uth, her eyes grew wi­de and she bac­ked away from the win­dows
a bit. El­len then pop­ped a qu­es­ti­on that Fred ans­we­red be­fo­re I co­uld - tho­se many things out on the in­ters­ta­te - tho­se we­re sna­kes. I’m pretty su­re no­ne of us had se­en that many sna­kes be­fo­re - ever. The­re they we­re, tho­ugh, no do­ubt sun­ning as they tend to on a ni­ce hot day. I per­so­nal­ly do not li­ke sna­kes at all. I don’t li­ke anyt­hing that has te­eth and at­tacks you with in­tent to kill you for that mat­ter.

  In no ti­me we we­re ca­uti­o­usly but fu­ri­o­usly get­ting our things out of the snowp­low and cram­ming them in­to a Mit­su­bis­hi se­dan - it had the most fu­el in its tank of all the cars in the par­king lot. Fred so­on hot­wi­red it, got the en­gi­ne run­ning for us and pla­ced him­self in the dri­ver’s se­at re­ady to go. El­len jo­ined him in the front. Thro­ugh all of the stress of the si­tu­ati­on, we ne­ver even ca­me clo­se to ha­ving to worry abo­ut tho­se sna­kes. They pretty much sta­yed whe­re they we­re, but that didn’t stop Fred from pur­po­sely run­ning over as many of them as he co­uld as we sped off. He do­esn’t li­ke sna­kes eit­her.

  It wasn’t very long at all un­til Fred stop­ped the car with a scre­ec­hing halt. He grin­ned big and po­in­ted out the sign on the si­de of the in­ters­ta­te. It sa­id Gypsum, Co­lo­ra­do HA­ATS - Next Exit. Fred star­ted sa­ying that we just struck gold, as long as eno­ugh fu­el was ava­ilab­le for us - and that we­apons wo­uldn’t be a prob­lem eit­her.

  HA­ATS me­ans: High-alti­tu­de Avi­ati­on Army Tra­ining Si­te.

  And on this si­te they ha­ve a shit­lo­ad of what Fred had be­en ra­ving abo­ut - he­li­cop­ters. His first as­sign­ment in the mi­li­tary was flying UH-1 Hu­ey he­li­cop­ters. He ap­pa­rently did a lot of black-ops mis­si­ons in So­uth Ame­ri­ca and co­uld fly us anyw­he­re if everyt­hing was in tact for us to use. The only thing that slo­wed us down from fin­ding out - the en­ti­re fen­ced in ba­se was a fort­ress for gho­uls. We dro­ve up clo­se eno­ugh to see many gho­uls in fa­ti­gu­es and then even mo­re of the ones that se­emed to bre­ak them­sel­ves in­to qu­ad­ru­peds and mo­ved abo­ut qu­ite qu­ickly.

  We wa­ited in our se­dan un­til night set in. We lo­aded our shot­guns in full, and we wa­ited to see if any lights ca­me on anyw­he­re on the ba­se. We we­re hol­ding out ho­pe that may­be so­me folks had sur­vi­ved and we­re in­si­de so­mew­he­re. We saw not­hing, tho­ugh - no signs of sur­vi­vors. Fred didn’t want to sit tight, tho­ugh. We pre­pa­red our­sel­ves, and Fred dro­ve us thro­ugh a pa­ir of fen­ces and didn’t stop un­til we re­ac­hed a ro­und ro­ofed bun­ker. He kil­led the en­gi­ne, or­de­red us out and used a shot­gun blast to open the do­or to the bun­ker. The fast gho­uls ca­me qu­ick, but we ma­na­ged to bar­ri­ca­de our­sel­ves se­cu­rely in­si­de the bun­ker. It then to­ok only a flip of so­me light switc­hes to re­ve­al that we had en­te­red an ar­mory - airc­raft ar­til­lery, in­fantry we­apons and just we­apons ga­lo­re.

  Fred has us plan­ning qu­ite an as­sa­ult at dayb­re­ak. I can ima­gi­ne we’re go­ing to ma­ke a re­al­ly big fuc­king mess of tho­se gho­uls.

  DAY - 72

  With only a hint of sun­light pe­aking in­to the bun­ker thro­ugh part of Fred’s shot­gun blast to the do­or, I awo­ke to ever­yo­ne pac­king mor­tar ro­unds on­to a fo­ur-whe­el cart. Fred al­so had a slew of we­ird lo­oking guns se­emingly re­ady to go on the bot­tom tray of the cart. Fred pic­ked up one of the guns and han­ded it to me whi­le hel­ping me to my fe­et. He sa­id, “ wel­co­me to the re­al world of we­aponry. “ I was han­ded a P-.50 as­sa­ult rif­le. Per­fec­ted and in li­mi­ted use for the past six ye­ars al­re­ady was this gun ba­sed on pul­se fi­ring. It was much the sa­me pre­mi­se as the ra­il guns used in mo­vi­es I had se­en. Fred sa­id it was go­ing to get col­der the mo­re I fi­red it, so I ne­eded to use the glo­ves that he han­ded me next.

  So­on eno­ugh we we­re all fit­ted li­ke a S.W.A.T. te­am. We had the hel­mets with the glass fa­ce shi­elds, zip-up style Kev­lar vests, thick glo­ves with open trig­ger fin­gers, ste­el-to­ed bo­ots and best of all, we had a mor­tar mo­un­ted and re­ady atop our cart. The first ro­und we la­unc­hed blas­ted a hu­ge ho­le out of the front of the ar­mory. I’m thin­king that alo­ne to­ok out abo­ut 4-5 gho­uls. Im­me­di­ately the qu­ad­ru­ped gho­uls ca­me our way. We to­ok ca­re of them with our pul­se rif­les. I co­uldn’t be­li­eve the lack of a kick from them, and then to see the da­ma­ge they did was ama­zing. It’s li­ke STAR WARS al­most. We ma­de our way to every bu­il­ding on the ba­se ta­king out gho­uls left and right. We ma­de su­re not to open any do­ors or harm tho­se bu­il­dings eit­her. Our plan was to fully wi­pe out and se­cu­re the out­si­de. It was such a rol­ler co­as­ter ri­de of emo­ti­ons that I can’t even fi­gu­re how long it to­ok us to kill them all. We did kill them all, tho­ugh. Not a sing­le gho­ul ca­me clo­se eno­ugh to to­uch us.

  The se­cond part of Fred’s plan was then set in ac­ti­on. We had to fi­nal­ly en­ter anot­her bu­il­ding on the ba­se. This bu­il­ding was a fu­eling and cont­rols sta­ti­on for the airc­raft. Fred wan­ted what he ne­eded to get us in one of tho­se Hu­eys and get us out of he­re. I was savvy to that as well. Beth blas­ted the do­or knob off of the front do­or to the sta­ti­on, El­len sto­od watch by the ne­arest Hu­ey and Fred and I ran in­si­de the sta­ti­on.

  Once in­si­de the­re we­re fi­ve gho­uls to de­al with, and they we­re all fuc­ked up. They lo­oked to be se­ated at desks, or so we tho­ught. We we­re wrong. The­se gho­uls we­re anot­her new va­ri­ati­on - ones with three legs. I swe­ar it lo­oked li­ke they had grown an ext­ra leg each right out of the­ir as­ses. I wan­ted to la­ugh even tho­ugh I was shoc­ked by them. They ten­ded to mo­ve li­ke crabs, but they we­ren’t so fast. Aga­in tho­ugh, our pul­se rif­les we­re eno­ugh to ta­ke ca­re of them.

  We had spent pro­bably a go­od ho­ur or so pi­ling what we felt was only ne­ces­sary in­to the Hu­ey. Fred did gi­ve us a we­ight li­mit, but I’m su­re we we­re well un­der that re­qu­ire­ment. El­len then hel­ped Fred fu­el the Hu­ey to its max and al­so lo­ad so­me fu­el cans to ta­ke along. For the re­cord we are now equ­ip­ped with fo­ur pul­se rif­les, fo­ur shot­guns (with a shit­lo­ad of new am­mo for them) one mor­tar la­unc­her with 6 shells, an M-60 belt-cha­in, am­mo dri­ven mac­hi­ne gun mo­un­ted on the Hu­ey, a hell of a lot of so­das and MRE’s, a slew of new mi­li­tary clot­hes (fa­ti­gu­es mostly) and of co­ur­se, one sharp as hell ka­ta­na sword.

  Fred had us in the air by dusk. We’re all enj­oying the ri­de and fe­eling an inc­re­dib­le rush.

  DAY - 73

  I see that Del thinks I am sho­wing fa­vo­ri­tism to­wards El­len for sho­wing her mo­re abo­ut sign lan­gu­age than I’ve sho­wed him. Well, it’s com­mon know­led­ge that wo­men al­ways ha­ve mo­re to talk abo­ut, so why not te­ach her to com­mu­ni­ca­te bet­ter with me? You must know that I ha­ve many qu­es­ti­ons for her re­gar­ding de­aling with a few fe­mi­ni­ne is­su­es at this po­int. I’m su­re you don’t want to know abo­ut all that stuff, so I’ll be as­king El­len.

  I can’t be­li­eve that you we­re ever put off by Cody’s be­ha­vi­or. Yes, he had inc­re­dib­le tro­ub­les in­si­de his he­ad, but it was ne­ver fa­ir to dis­li­ke him be­ca­use of it. I gu­ess that’s just a man thing, so I’ll le­ave it be. I ne­ed you, Del. I al­ways will. Don’t for­get it.

  As for how I de­alt with this apo­calyp­se in its be­gin­ning pha­se, I did hap­pen to ha­ve to run away from my own fa­mily mem­bers. I was on my way to work any­way, but it’s a hell of a thing to ha­ve yo­ur fat­her half-na­ked and cha­sing you in yo­ur car. Ap­pa­rently, the pa­per-de­li­very per­son at­tac­ked my fat­her early that mor­ning. I en­ded up ha­ving to run over both of them to get awa
y. I still ho­pe that I kil­led them, but I’ll be dam­ned if I’m go­ing back to ma­ke su­re of it. On­ce at the the­me park whe­re I wor­ked in the wa­ter park area, my fri­ends we­re al­re­ady hurt and dying. I had to watch them be­co­me gho­uls li­ke all of the ot­hers, and that’s when I de­ci­ded to lock myself away from them.

  I’m not even su­re how long we’ve be­en flying in this he­li­cop­ter so far, but I know that we are go­ing to ha­ve to land so­on for re­fu­eling. It’s not very la­te in the mor­ning.

  The sun hasn’t be­en up for that long.

  It’s eve­ning al­re­ady. I can’t be­li­eve the hell we’ve go­ne thro­ugh to­day. Fred lan­ded our he­li­cop­ter on top of a tall bu­il­ding in this city. The plan was that we we­re just lan­ding to re­fu­el as I had ex­pec­ted. Del wan­ted to be his cu­ri­o­us self whi­le El­len and I we­re sco­uring the ro­of­top for anyt­hing we might not ha­ve se­en at first when lan­ding. Del ope­ned the do­or to the sta­ir­way go­ing back down in­to the bu­il­ding. That’s when a lot of rats ca­me po­uring on­to the ro­of­top. Del be­gan stom­ping and swin­ging his sword at them. El­len and I shot at them be­fo­re fi­nal­ly pi­ling back in­to the he­li­cop­ter and shut­ting the do­ors to ke­ep away from them. Fred drop­ped his fu­el can and al­so hop­ped back in­to the he­li­cop­ter. We had to watch, as Del ma­na­ged to climb upon a mo­un­ted ra­dio an­ten­na far eno­ugh that the rats co­uldn’t re­ach him. He still kept swat­ting at the rats with his sword. Fred star­ted the he­li­cop­ter’s en­gi­ne and be­gan yel­ling at Del to jump down and ma­ke a run for the chop­per. With the rats se­emingly nip­ping at Del’s ank­les, he still ma­na­ged to get in­si­de the chop­per un­to­uc­hed. As we lif­ted in­to the air a go­od he­ight, I shot down at the spilt ga­so­li­ne with a fla­re gun from the chop­per’s emer­gency kit.