by James Gurley
His small ranch also housed four pigs, a chicken coop with fifteen hens and two roosters, and two goats, supplying him with meat, milk, and eggs. He hunted as often as possible to supplement his meat, but game was becoming scarce on the lower elevations. A large ironwood tree and a few sycamores provided some shade for the animals to escape the worst of the day’s heat. He had planted two lemon trees, an orange tree, and an avocado tree a year earlier. If he survived long enough, he would have fresh fruit to supplement his diet. A small smokehouse beside the original ranch house was filled with hanging slabs of bacon, ham, venison, and pork sausages.
The one thing he had not prepared for was the loneliness. He had considered himself a hermit, seeking out companionship only on rare occasions and only on his terms, but at least he had been able to walk among people without the need to interact with them. Now, the lack of companionship was taking its toll on him. On his infrequent trips to scavenge for supplies or to raid a pharmacy for his medication, he saw many zombies but few living souls. Survivors had, like him, learned to hide. He often wondered if eyes watched him from behind curtained windows as eager for fellowship as he was. Only the fear of being greeted by a bullet prevented him from knocking on random doors. He found himself watching old movies on his DVD just to hear the sound of human voices. Lately, he had developed an unhealthy lust for Ingrid Bergman. He had once watched For Whom the Bell Tolls three times in a row just to gaze into her mesmerizing blue eyes.
A sudden sound tore his mind from his daydream. He glanced down the canyon in alarm, but it was only the two roosters fighting for territory, not coyotes. Predators like coyotes and mountain lions were becoming more numerous and bolder and had made several attempts at his animals. The chickens quickly settled back down. It amazed him how much like chickens humans were. They staked out claims to small parcels of land and fought all comers for a few kernels of corn. That same lack of cooperation had doomed mankind. Now, the zombies ate humans like humans ate chickens. He wondered if they considered humans to be finger licking good.
The temperature soared as the day wore on. By noon, his thermometer read 101. It was almost monsoon season, but he thought it would be weeks before the monsoons came, bringing with them a few clouds, a brief respite from the heat, and life-giving rain. He retreated to the relative coolness inside. He hadn’t installed air conditioning. That would have been too large a load for the solar panels, but he had fans. They moved sufficient air to keep the inside of the house comfortable. Part of the rear wall of the house was built into the solid cliff face, providing a heat sink that retained the heat of the day in the winter and the cool of the night in the summer.
His roof-mounted solar panels provided electricity for a refrigerator to store food, but he kept his refrigerated supplies to a minimum in the event of several consecutive cloudy days. Mostly he used it for beer. A large pile of oak firewood chopped and split from trees higher up the slope was stacked beside the house. The wood fueled his fireplace, offering heat in the winter and doubling as a means of cooking if he ran out of propane for the stove.
He pitied the survivors living on scraps and huddling in their homes afraid to venture out for supplies, but not enough to search them out and invite them to share his domain. He had prepared and they hadn’t. It wasn’t quite survival of the fittest, but it came damn close. Those in the large cities had fared worst. When supplies had stopped entering from outside, riots had broken out, then full-scale turf wars over limited resources. He had heard tales of cannibalism, but he didn’t know if they were true. However, determined people often did whatever was necessary to survive.
By late afternoon, he had grown restless. The continued cloud of smoke over San Manuel disturbed him. He knew a few people still lived there, though he didn’t know how they managed to survive in a town filled with thousands of zombies. Probably less than that, he corrected himself. Many people had fled the city for imagined safety in the FEMA shelters set up in Phoenix and Tucson. Others had been killed by zombies, mostly infected loved ones they had refused to restrain, and a few had chosen suicide when they had become infected. By his estimate, less than a few hundred zombies remained in the area, enough to pose a considerable problem, since the only road out of the area led right through town. Too many to shoot.
When he went among the zombies, he carried his R-15 450 Bushmaster. Its light weight made it portable. He had replaced the weapon’s original clip with an aftermarket thirty-round clip. The semi-automatic used the same .45 caliber 260-grain ammunition as his Remington Model 1911 R1 pistol, reducing the different types of ammo he needed to keep on hand. He had other weapons, like the Versa Max 12-gauge shotgun, but those two sufficed in most instances. He also carried a crossbow for silent killing. He had learned that noise attracted zombies. The Parker Concorde bow fired twenty-inch bolts like a rifle, complete with 3X scope and pistol grip. It cocked automatically at the push of a button, using a CO2 cartridge. It was a formidable weapon, saving the R-15 for difficult situations.
In his recon unit in Afghanistan, he had been the SDM, the Squad Designated Marksman, and had carried a modified M16. Such a weapon was illegal in the US, but he doubted anyone cared now. 45 caliber ammunition was easier to find than the 5.56 mm the M16 used, so he preferred the R-15.
The drive into town was a rough one, even for his four-wheel drive jeep. His dirt trail had suffered during the spring rains. He had tried to repair the worst spots, but without heavier equipment than a rake and a shovel, it was only patchwork. Soon, he would have to find a small bobcat bulldozer for more permanent repairs or risk being stranded and on foot. San Pedro River Road proved little better. It was gravel and wider, but the washes were almost impassable and the innumerable washboard ruts jarred his spine. Grass and weeds thrust upward through the packed gravel. In some places, it was difficult to tell road from desert. Already, the land was busily reclaiming what man had wrestled from it.
A few miles from San Manuel, the gravel road became pavement. He stopped the jeep and killed the engine, listening before he entered the town. The sharp report of a gunshot was followed by two more, then silence. Someone was alive and in trouble. He hesitated. He didn’t like getting involved in other people’s problems, but he was curious about the smoke. He unsnapped his holster and laid the R-15 across the seat beside him just in case, and continued down the road.
The town of San Manuel was mostly located off the main road. He usually avoided the densely packed neighborhoods and its inherent local zombie population. However, this time his curiosity compelled him to enter the town. A cloud of smoke rose from the combined junior high and high schools. A large part of the main was already gone. Fingers of steel rebar and thick support columns protruded through piles of smoldering brick and rubble. Another section was mostly intact but in flames. Smoke billowed from the windows and curled over the eaves. A man stood near the school entrance shooting zombies as they emerged from the flames. Some of the creatures’ clothing was on fire, their flesh seared and blackened from the inferno, but they charged him, heedless of the flames consuming them. Jake silently saluted the man’s ingenuity in herding the zombies into the school to dispose of them en masse. He watched him take down several of the creatures in this manner, but as a wall collapsed, more than a dozen creatures rushed from the ruins. The shooter turned to run toward a nearby Toyota pickup, but he was overweight and ran too slowly. Jake saw that he would never make it before he was overtaken.
He was torn. He could either watch the man die or help him. The ex-deputy in him pushed him to help, but the survivalist cautioned against risking his life for a total stranger. Deciding he had watched too many people die, he picked up his R-15 in one hand and drove closer. The man didn’t hear or notice the jeep until Jake began firing the Bushmaster into the mass of zombies. Then, startled, the stranger cowered behind his pickup. Jake finished off the zombies and parked a few yards away, waiting. The stranger watched Jake for a couple of minutes before emerging from behind his vehicle, his ri
fle cradled in his arms, handy but not threatening. Jake exited the jeep. He left his rifle on the seat, but he had his pistol on his hip, so he felt safe.
“Nice job,” he said, nodding his head toward the burning school.
The man, shorter than Jake by three inches, slightly balding, and severely overweight, smiled. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and said, “I lured about fifty inside a couple of days ago and set it afire. I thought the fire would kill them all, but it died out. I tried again last night, but a few managed to escape. I was cleaning up.”
“I saw the smoke and was curious.”
The man stared at the smoke rising into the sky for a moment. “Thanks for saving my ass, Deputy. I can usually hit what I aim at, but I can’t shoot fast enough to take on a group like that.”
“You need something bigger, and I’m not a deputy anymore.”
The man stared at the badge more closely. “A Ranger?”
“No. This belonged to my great-grandfather. I wear it as a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?”
Jake tapped his pistol. “That this makes the laws now.”
The man shrugged. “If you say so.” He kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot. “I can cook up some stew if you’re hungry. I live in Oracle.”
“Why come out here to kill zombies? Aren’t there any of the bastards in Oracle?”
The man frowned. “Too damned many.” He glanced at the building. “I taught high school science here. Some of those zombies were my students. I needed to … tidy up.”
Jake noticed movement in the distance – more zombies drawn by the noise. “We had better get out of here before reinforcements arrive.”
“You don’t look like you’re afraid of a few zombies. You’ve got the firepower. Let’s wipe them out.” A look of grim determination swept over the man’s face. Jake recognized the look of a zealot. Zealots had no instinct for survival.
He shook his head. “It’s not my war.”
“Not your war? That’s a curious attitude. Whose war is it, do you think?”
“We lost the war. Clean up isn’t my thing. I kill zombies when they get in my way. I’m not angry with them the way you seem to be.”
The man nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m at war with them. I hate them with the same degree of passion I had about teaching.” He glanced at the burning school. “Maybe I’m simply teaching them a lesson.”
“Do you think they learn?”
“About as well as some of my students did,” he snorted. “Now, about that stew. My name’s Reed by the way, Alton Reed.”
The sound of a human voice sounded strange to Jake after so long alone, but he found it sweet in his ears. A few minutes of conversation and a shared meal wasn’t a commitment to humanity. “Sounds good. My name’s Jake Blakely.”
“Great! Follow me, Jake.”
He followed Reed’s pickup out of San Manuel past the abandoned smelter. Jake had watched the demolition of the twin, five-hundred-foot smokestacks that had once stood there in January of 2007, while sitting in his jeep nursing a six-pack of beer. It had been the most excitement the town had experienced in years. As he drove by the abandoned local Pinal County branch sheriff’s office, memories of his days as a deputy in nearby Pima County rushed over him. Not all of them had been good, but he especially missed the search and rescue missions. Hikers were always getting lost, injured, or trapped on a cliff. It was certainly better than writing tickets and getting involved in domestic disputes.
They continued through the winding canyons surrounding San Manuel to Oracle. Just past American Avenue, the main street for downtown Oracle, Reed crossed Tucson Wash and turned onto Goodman Ranch Road. They drove about three miles out into the desert before reaching a parked RV, a Country Coach Magna, nestled in a little depression between copses of saguaros and mesquite. Reed pulled up beside the RV, stopped, and hopped out.
“Here’s home,” he announced, waving his arm at the vehicle.
A small gas-powered generator sat humming beside the RV, supplying electricity. Inside, the forty-two-foot RV was cramped with stacked boxes of canned goods and bottled water. A hacksaw and short lengths of steel pipe littered the floor. Reed dropped his rifle on the couch beside a 20-gauge Marlin shotgun. Jake took a seat at the table while Reed opened a can of beef stew, poured it in a pot, and set it on the stove. He added a few herbs and a splash of hot sauce. After a few minutes, the delicious aroma of hot stew filled the trailer. His host ladled out two bowls of stew and produced two bottles of cold beer.
“Do the zombies bother you out here?” he asked, as he lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth.
“Not much. If it’s just one or two, I kill them with a Kaiser blade to be quiet.” Reed grimaced. “I used to live in a comfortable house in Oracle, but it got too crowded with rowdy undead neighbors. I found this RV, and now I simply pick up and move if things get too dangerous.”
Curious, he asked, “Why do you remain here?”
Reed wrinkled his brow and frowned. “It’s my home. I grew up in Oracle. I left once, but I came back. I’ve got no place else to go.” He shoveled a spoonful of stew into his mouth and took a sip of beer. “I’ve seen your jeep around a few times but stayed hidden. I didn’t know if you were friend or foe. There are a lot of bad characters running around. I’ve seen some dead bodies with bullet holes in them. They weren’t zombies.”
Jake nodded. He had encountered murder victims as well. Not everyone believed in the sanctity of life. “Bad times,” he said.
“Bad times indeed,” Reed agreed. He stopped eating, folded his arms on the table, spoon in hand, and stared at Jake. “Why did you help me?”
Jake shrugged his shoulders. He had been asking himself the same question. It was a first for him. “I don’t know.”
Reed leveled his spoon and pointed at Jake, as if he were calling upon a student to answer a question. “I think it’s because you craved a human voice. I know I do. I’m used to thirty kids screaming and yelling all day. The silence is killing me.”
“Not as fast as the zombies will.”
Reed nodded his head. “True. True. I knew shooting zombies would bring more, but I was angry. I took a chance.” He stared at Jake. “Will we be two ships that pass in the night?”
Jake took a sip of his beer, a Dos Equis, and then returned Reed’s steady gaze. “You looking for a play date?”
Reed laughed, slapped the table with the palm of his hand, and laughed again. “Good one. No, I just thought we might cooperate a little. You know, scavenging. Two sets of eyes, two guns… You know I can shoot.”
“Maybe, but I’m not ready to adopt you yet.”
“Good enough. We’ll feel each other out a bit first. There’s a CVS pharmacy in Oro Valley that I don’t think has been completely stripped. Oh, the real drugs, the Oxycontin, Vicodin, etcetera are probably gone, and the Valium. Hell, I take a Valium every now and then. Who wouldn’t in this mess, but I’ve got asthma. I need Millipred and more inhalers. The pollen count is rising, and I don’t need another asthma attack. The last one almost did me in.”
Jake didn’t know if he trusted a man who took narcotics, even something as common as Valium, but he understood Reed’s medical problems. He needed more Actos and supplies for his first aid kit. “Okay, but we take two vehicles.”
Reed smiled. “Let’s eat first.”
The stew hit the spot. It had been cooked and canned by Armour and Company, but Reed’s addition of dried herbs enhanced the flavor. The beer hit the spot as well. The irony of the two of them together didn’t amuse him. Reed, a high school science teacher and a decent shot seemed capable of surviving the zombie apocalypse, yet required modern medicines to function, while he, a survivalist and an avid hunter, also needed medication to survive. That two people blessed with immunity to the Staggers might die as their drug supply dwindled had to be a cosmic joke.
After the meal, Reed tidied up quickly, as he seemed in a hurry to
leave. Jake visually inspected Reed’s trailer while Reed washed the dishes. Boxes of ammunition and a pair of binoculars lay beside the two guns on the sofa. A trashcan overflowing with empty cans, water bottles, and short pieces of metal pipe was pushed up against the sink. Together with the pieces of pipe on the floor, it looked as if Reed was doing a little plumbing. The cases of food and water were neatly stacked, but the bed down the short hallway was unmade. Clothes were strewn on the floor.
“There! Finished,” Reed announced as he dried his hands on a dish towel.
As they drove south, they passed many vehicles abandoned when their drivers succumbed to the disease. Most of the zombies had ambled into the nearest towns or wandered into the desert to die of starvation. They were forced to drive around a jack-knifed semi blocking most of both lanes near Biosphere 2. The rear door had been forced open and the contents scattered. Instead of the hoped for food someone had expected, the truck’s cargo had been cell phones and electronic devices. Discarded boxes of them lay scattered in the ditch.
At one point, Reed swerved his Toyota onto the shoulder at forty miles per hour to take out a female zombie clad only in panties and slippers. The woman turned at the sound of the truck but showed no awareness of her immediate danger. As the truck’s right front fender crushed her chest, she spiraled into the air, and landed in a broken heap in the ditch. Jake shook his head in dismay. Reed’s personal vendetta against zombies could get him killed. A simple flat tire could strand him out in the open miles from shelter. He understood the former teacher’s hatred for the creatures, but he refrained from foolish actions. Jack’s Law #3 – A fool and his life are soon parted.
