by Thom Erb
“Hot damn, there she is, gents and good lady. Oh, and fine pooch,” Capt. Al said into the whipping wind and rain.
The Armory loomed massive in the distance. The stone fortress stood five stories and looked every bit a fort or castle. Warren looked upon the massive building and instantly thought of the many castles they had defended and created for their weekly game of Dungeons & Dragons. His jaw dropped in awe as it came closer into view. While his Dad had taken them to Rochester on occasion, he never knew of the Armory's existence, let alone seen it in person.
The large stone walls and Gothic architecture was only found in Warren's mind as he crafted intricate plans on how to defend this humongous keep that looked like it belonged more on some remote hill in medieval England instead of rundown Rochester, New York.
“Hey, stop here,” Capt. Al suggested, and Arnie brought the truck to rest about a hundred yards from the large stone walls and iron gates, its screeching brakes echoed off the marble and stone buildings. The fifteen-foot tall gates were topped with concertina wire, but that was not what blocked their way.
“Holy smokes,” Dex said.
“You can say that again,” Warren replied as he took in the packed scene before them.
“Holy smokes!” Dex and Arnie replied in concert.
“A laugh riot.” Warren said, his shocked gaze returning to the obstacle before them.
At least fifty to a hundred vehicles were jammed tight into the large parking lot and blocked the entrance to the Armory.
“Apparently, a lot of folks had the same idea we had,” Warren said.
“Hot damn, I'm just glad they made it,” Sam said.
Maico sniffed the chill air.
“Oh, man, I don't know about this,” said Arnie.
Many of the vehicles sat silent, their dead owners still tucked safely inside, with their seat belts still fastened. A multitude of permenantly dead, rotting families filled the bottle-necked scene. Some had been caught lost in their sad moments of death, while others had not been so lucky and couldn’t escape the zombies, only their mutilated, half-eaten bodies and torn clothes scattered about the sea of cars. The whitewash of the paved field of the dead caused them all to gasp.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch.” Capt. Al growled. His road map wrinkled face reciprocated his exclamation. He inched his head further into the cab, nudging the top of Maico's head.
“Sorry, kids. Looks like we are gonna have to hoof it from here.” He finished in a huff. “Well troops, let’s get this movable feast underway.” He chortled and withdrew his bulky frame from the window and began to slide toward the back of the truck.
“Quite hilarious, Captain,” Elton said, sliding out of the passenger side of the truck.
Warren stared at the old vet and let go a smirk. To look at the gruff, leather vest wearing fellow, who looked like a homeless man, his voice sounded like broken glass inside a cement mixer and stunk of cigarettes and marijuana, yet Capt. Al amazed him. There was more to this Capt. Al character than met the eye, Warren concluded as he hopped down from the bed of the truck onto the wet pavement of Main Street. Warren offered a hand to Capt. Al, who began to lower himself down into his wheelchair that Dex had salvaged from the van. Sam came to help Warren with the captain and Warren let out a sigh as the heavy DJ came to rest in his chair.
“What’s the matter, boy, didn’t eat your Wheaties this morning’?” Al laughed and Sam swiftly cuffed her hand over his mouth to stifle the loud sound. She smiled and nodded; grabbing the cobbled chair by its cloth wrapped handles and waited.
They all slowly assembled in front of the Chevy.
Arnie came from the front of the pickup. “Hey, Warren. I found some shotgun shells in the back of one of the trucks at the school,” Arnie answered, smiled, and handed the handful of slugs to Warren.
“Ah, excellent. Thanks, man. Hey, good driving back there.” He looked around the stone gate and into the parking lot proper, making sure there weren’t any zombies lurking about to surprise them this time. His nerves were getting the best of him. But he noticed that he was becoming more and more keenly aware of his surroundings. They all would have to learn and learn fast if they had any hopes to live. Judging by the number of burned out and abandoned cars and trucks, standing on the street in broad daylight didn’t seem too smart.
“Come on, easy peasy, buddy.” Arnie smiled and patted Warren on the shoulder.
Warren looked around him. Something felt off. Wrong.
Dex, Arnie, Maico, and new friends, Sam and Capt. Al, all gathered around, waiting for him to take charge. It felt like he'd swallowed an angry beehive but there wasn't any time for that. Not any longer.
They all scoured the large parking lot in front of the Armory filled with vehicles, but the only people there were all dead and not moving.
“You okay, man?” Dex asked. His eyes looked heavy, but his pupils flashed wide. All those around Warren looked at him with the same apparent inquiry.
“Man, I got a bad feeling about this,” Warren said. As he spoted the large, gate wide open.
Dex asked, “What is it?”
“Where is everybody?” Warren responded in a hush.”And why the hell is the gate wide open?”
“Good question,” Elton responded.
“Shouldn’t that Moreno dude have some kind of guard or something?” Warren asked.
“What are you expecting? A welcome wagon?” Arnie asked, letting a nervous chuckle out.
“No, but...,” Warren scratched his head, trying to ignore the slowly tightening knot in his gut.
“You might be right, kid, but if you take a gander around us, we only have but one damn direction to go.” Capt. Al motioned all around them. The dead were slowly gathering their way from ahead and behind truck.
“The good Captain is correct. I don’t quite like the scenario myself Master Warren, but choices seem a bit sparse.” Elton concluded.
“Well. Guess we go with door number one, then.” Warren nodded forward.
“At least still have choices, man.” Dex stood to his left, a weak but encouraging grin upon his face.
Warren returned the grin and said, “This is all we have to fight off those damn red-eyed things, so, keep `em close and conserve your ammo.” A sharp pain in his right arm brought him back to the moment.
“You about ready, Master Warren?” Sam teased in a horrible British accent.
Maico barked in agreement.
“I heard that, Ms. Samantha,” Elton countered in an even worse American accent.
Sam's wide, deep brown eyes refracted with the light in the sky. The brightness of her eyes reminded Warren of hope and, even though Sam, the captain, and Elton were strangers, it was still his responsibility to see them to safety.
“Shit guys. Those dead dudes are getting closer. Let’s go. Come on!” Arnie’s voice quivered as the undead closed in around them.
“Okay, gang, let’s find this Corporal Moreno and see if he has something cold to drink and some place to sleep.” Warren cast a wink to Dex who stood by his side. He only hoped his fear creeping through him, wasn’t showing on his face.
“Hooah,” Capt. Al added and racked the slide on his M-16.
“On your six, brother.” Dex grabbed Warren's shoulder.
“Thanks, man.” Warren said, and motioned the small group of survivors onward through the mass of static cars and trucks. The slight afternoon light raced toward the west as they made their way through the sea of metal and putrid, rotting flesh. The only sound was that of the squeaking wheel of Capt. Al’s aging wheelchair and the soothing hum of a large generator flowing out from the open bay doors of the Armory.
76.
Running for Cover
Main Street,
Downtown Rochester, N.Y.
An army of cackling crows and turkey vultures nearly blotted out all signs of daily light overhead as the nearly arctic wind whipped through the funnel that was the large buildings of downtown Rochester and found a home i
n the stonewalled compound of the Armory. The swollen, steel gray clouds spat sporadic rain drops down on the myriad of cars and trucks that crisscrossed the way to the entrance of the old structure. The dead watched from their Detroit and Japanese made crypts. Their icy stares watched the group as they made their way in and out of the pile of cars and trucks, the black-teared eyes filled with the burning flame Warren was horrifically growing used to.
Warren buried his nose within the crook of his elbow as he held the shotgun up. The stench reminded him of back home and the school, but the crushing sickening miasma of death, rotting flesh and feces caused him to fight back the vomit in his throat. Because here in the highly concentrated population of downtown Rochester, the suffocating reek of death was overwhelming.
Warren approached a BMW covered in dried, coagulated blood.
The driver was once a woman. Her defiled body laid half in the car; the other half lay splayed across the hood. She wore a gore-slathered white dress. Its lace fluttered in the cold wind, and her matted red hair twittered about her exposed, ivory colored skull. Her face was missing its lower jaw, and her right eye socket sat empty while the other eye held the same bitterly angry red glow as the rest of the dead. Bits of rigid flesh hung from the socket with a careless ease. Warren positioned himself between it and Sam. The girl didn’t need to witness such horror. “It's clear. You can go through over there.” He smiled at Sam as he gently pushed her on the shoulder.
Sam pushed Capt. Al in his chair, its squeaking wheels piercing through the air.
“Damn, that's loud,” Warren winced. “You can go up to the blue blazer right there, and stop and wait for us, okay?” He pointed and smiled. Sweat beaded down his face. His thick glasses kept sliding down his nose, and he repeatedly had to push them back into place. Maico trotted next to him, sniffed the thick air and sneezed. Warren reached down and scratched his ears.
Arnie and Dex brought up the rear.
“How's it look?” Dex whispered, holding the pistol to his side.
“Looks pretty clear, man. Don't see much of anything,” Warren replied, continuing to search the parking lot of the Armory.
“Kind of spooky,” Dex said.
“You ain't shittin',” Arnie said, pacing behind them. “Where the hell is everybody?”
The dead were beginning to come out from the side streets and further down Main Street.
“Come on, guys. We need to go. Quick like.” Arnie urged.
“Shit. I bet you they heard the old dude's wheelchair squeaking all the way back to goddamn Webster,” Dex said.
Warren nodded. “Bet you're right. Let's get going.”
Warren had read and studied all the magazines, books, and war movies he could get his hands on. He loved the military and dreamed of defending his country against the Red Army. But now, the army wasn’t so much red as it was a sickly hue of pus-colored green and yellow with a little shit-brown tossed in the mix. Still, the spark still burned within him. Dex knew about his passion, and he shared it. Warren remembered how they talked about signing up for the Army’s buddy program, but that was now never meant to be.
Warren joined Dex and Arnie who'd made it to the blazer with Sam and the captain. Maico walked circles around them, continually sniffing the air.
Warren stopped at the blue blazer and scoured the area and saw nothing. No undead lingered looking for food. No looters or bikers came out to stake their claim. All looked squared away. Warren shot a look to Dex and Capt. Al looking for approval. It was met with a common consensus. It seemed safe and nothing foul was afoot.
“You take point,” Warren said to Dex. “And any sign of trouble, let’s haul ass back to the truck, okay?”
“Yes, sir, General Brennan, sir.” Dex smiled, brushed his long bangs from his face. He slipped between Elton and Sam. “Come on English, look lively, man,” Dex ordered. “Stick close.”
“Ass.” Warren watched Dex step cautiously toward an ambulance a few feet away.
“He is kind of an ass, isn't he?” Sam asked, a slight grin on her face.
Warren watched Sam watch Dex. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Stay here,” Warren said and ran up to join Dex.
Maico followed.
As they passed through the gate, they saw eight bays of the Armory lay open. A row of eight, dim, flickering, fluorescent shop lights glowed faintly in the nearly dark sky. Only two military vehicles sat in the bays. A Humvee sat in the last bay with a missing front axle. The second, a deuce and a half cargo truck sat in the first bay. Its ailments couldn’t be as easily discerned from the crowded parking lot.
“Anything?” Warren asked.
“A whole lotta nada, man,” said Dex.
“Let's go make sure it's safe, and then we can wave those guys up. Sound good?” Warren asked.
“Sounds good. We really need a place to chill. I'm dead tired, dude, and I'm sure they are too,” Dex said.
“Me too, man. I'll be right back.” Warren patted Dex on the arm and slunk back to the others and informed them of the plan, and then ran back to Dex.
Warren, Dex and Maico slowly made their way to the front of the entrances to the Armory.
Dark storm clouds held in place over the Armory as thunder rolled off in the distance. It all seems too quiet, Warren thought.
“And empty. So much for a safe haven,” Dex said.
“I know. Too quiet for my liking,” Warren added.
Maico wandered toward one of the loading bays, his ears perked.
“Maico, get your ass back here,” Warren said as loud as he dared. His voiced echoed off the stone walls at him like a mocking whisper.
Figuring it was too late for surprising anyone, Warren called out. “Hello? Corporal Moreno? Anyone?” His words came out sounding exhausted and filled with frustration. He knew being a leader would take practice and time. Time was something that seemed to be in short supply these days. He looked at Dex for disapproval for his hasty and loud action. It was met with a reassuring nod. It seemed Dex had no better plans than he did. That was reassuring. He slapped his thigh and Maico came running to his side. Together, they stepped forward.
“We ah, heard you on the radio, calling for all survivors. Well, here we are.” Dex stepped next to Warren and spoke. “Ya know, survivors.”
They all grew tense and waited for some response. Many long seconds hung in the thick air. Finally, a voice echoed out into the parking lot, from where, Warren couldn’t make out.
“Oh yeah, hey, c'mon in folks, I’m so glad you’re here. I would come out n’ welcome ya, but I’m on the horn. Give me a bit and I’ll be there. Make yourselves at home.” Corporal Moreno’s voice flowed out into the lot full of cars. It sounded kind of hollow to Warren, but the thought of warm food, water, and sleep beat any doubts. He looked at Dex as he started to walk toward the first bay door. Small strains of music could be heard on the frigid air. W.A.S.P, he could have sworn it was, “Sleeping in the Fire” but he couldn’t be sure. He smirked and quickened his pace. Warren looked to Dex, and he shrugged his shoulders and motioned for the rest to follow them up to the large garage entrance to the Armory.
The large bays looked clear and bizarrely clean considering the world had fallen apart outside its thick, stone walls. All the tools were neatly stacked and in their appropriate places on the pegboard that lined the far wall. The workbenches were clear of in-progress work and absent of random auto parts. There weren’t any greasy shop rags, no half-empty oil cans, not even a beer can littered the Army base. The floors were clean, and the cement almost had a sheen that reflected the grim daylight outside. The fluorescent shop lights swayed slightly from metal rafters high above the garage floor.
Warren’s body prickled with goose-bumps and the hair on the back of his neck stood as straight as an arrow. This did not feel right. But Dex moved on so Warren worked his way slowly into the first bay, the Deerslayer held tightly to his hip. The large olive drab deuce and a half stood before him as he entered. He c
hecked the driver’s side and it was empty. He then waved the rest of the group forward.
To his left lay a large shop area, which housed the vast array of tools and fluids for the various vehicles serviced there. The motor pool was huge. It must have been the size of a football fields. It was empty save for the two vehicles they noticed from outside. The lights were on and the distinctive chugging of a large generator filled the cavernous bay.
It didn’t take long before they were all inside. Warren caught Capt. Al’s grin while he looked around, and his bearded face looked lost in reminiscence.
“Heya, kid, close those doors, bro. We don’t want any of those motherhuckers sneaking in here,” he suggested.
“Good idea, Mr. Al. Gee, it's almost like you've done this before,” Sam said.
Warren liked the girl's sarcastic, dry humor, but the mocking look from Dex made him focus on the task in front of him. He only hoped no one noticed his face blushing.
“Cool it, Romeo,” Dex teased.
“You stud-muffin, you,” Arnie chortled and pointed at him.
“Piss off,” Warren countered and continued on.
While Sam shut the large bay of doors, Warren and the rest made their way into the tool area of the large shop. Still no sign of anyone and it only increased Warren’s already abundant paranoia. The tool area was divided by two long counters that split in the middle with a swinging door. Everything was painted in a faded olive drab. The last paint job must have been done in the mid-seventies. Several workbenches lay behind the counters, as well as the continuing peg boards of tools lining each wall. They met at a set of double doors. One of the doors lay open and propped by a black jump boot.
They all looked at each other, down to the boot and back to one another.
The hallway that lay beyond was dark. The smell of oil, body odor, and stale air filled their noses.
“You know, this has ‘Oh hell no! Don’t go in there!’ written all over it, don’t you think?” Dex’s face grew red, causing his sea of freckles to nearly disappear.
