by James Gurley
Davis-Monthan Airbase in Tucson had been abandoned for almost a year, but somewhere within flying distance, enough military personnel survived to maintain jet aircraft. It might be from Luke Airbase west of Phoenix. Undoubtedly, the pilot had been taking reconnaissance photos. He hoped no one decided to make use of them.
Jessica heard the jet as well. She stood on the balcony staring up at it. To her, it probably meant possible rescue. To him, it meant trouble. In other regions, the military had rounded up survivors into FEMA camps. Last he had heard, conditions in the camps were appalling, akin to survivors tales of the 2005 Hurricane Katrina aftermath in New Orleans. He wanted no part of military intervention. After the jet left, she looked down at him but made no attempt to wave or talk to him. She went back inside. He resumed his gardening.
He had broken a new record. In less than forty-eight hours, he had managed to allow evil to insinuate itself into his Garden of Eden.
10
June 11, 2016 Split Rock Canyon –
Jessica watched the jet fly away with a sinking feeling in her stomach. She didn’t really expect rescue, but the jet meant that someone somewhere was still alive. She had almost given up hope on humanity. She was one of the lucky ones, though she had not yet come to terms with her good fortune. So far, her life after the apocalypse had been a cascading series of poor decisions. Had she made another one by staying with Jake? Only time would tell.
Before the Staggers, she had been happy and content with her job as a nutritionist and yoga instructor at the Foothills Spa. Her boyfriend was a caring man whom she deeply loved. When the plague struck and people all around her began dying, she had thought it providence that both she and Lloyd were immune. They bought a pickup load of supplies and barricaded themselves in their condo to wait for help. After three weeks, no help came and their store of supplies ran out. They ventured to several stores searching for food, but found most of them already looted. Against Lloyd’s advice, she had insisted on one last store. When the zombies cornered them in an office, he had shoved her out a window and remained to fight them off while she escaped. His screams still echoed in her mind.
Later, she had encountered two more people, and together they managed to survive. Not learning from her previous mistake, she had insisted that Ben go out for supplies, even though Liz had been vehemently opposed to the idea. Zombies had followed him back, and both he and Liz had perished. If not for Jake’s providential appearance, she would have died as well. Her decision to sleep with Jake had been born both by desperation at the thought of facing zombies alone, and by her physical need. He was a good lover, though strangely cold and withdrawn.
Her moral compass had changed considerably since the apocalypse. At first, it had been little things. Even taking food from an abandoned home had felt like stealing. Now, she had participated in cold-blooded murder. The blood on her hands this time was deliberate. It didn’t wash off with soap and water. It left a stain that reminded her of the world in which she now lived. Jake was a survivalist. He had anticipated how bad things could get. He had considered what he might have to do to survive and had come to grips with it. Could she become as hard and as cold as him? She had made mistakes, but she was learning quickly. If sex could keep her alive, she wasn’t opposed to using it, but now she wondered if teaming with Jake was another big mistake.
Jake had been right about one thing, and she despised him for pointing it out to her. Though the idea of murder was abhorrent to her, the danger had excited her. Not the killing itself, but the thrill of the operation. For once, she had been doing something other than running or hiding. She had been acting rather than reacting. The shame had come came later. Jake was a hard man. Maybe that was why he had survived. She didn’t want to become a hard woman, ruthless and uncaring, but she knew that if she didn’t follow his rules, Jake’s Laws, he might kick her out.
She sighed. She had never been so calculating before the plague. She had considered herself a strong, single woman; a professional with reasonably attainable goals. The collapse of her world had left her frightened and alone, thrown her into a world of chaos and confusion. She knew now that survival meant more than simply staying out of the hands of zombies. It meant developing the proper skills. If that meant selling herself to Jake, so be it.
Jake returned to the house carrying an armload of freshly picked vegetables. She decided to ignore their earlier encounter. She smiled and took them from him. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something, but he turned away abruptly, leaving it unsaid. She hoped it had been an apology, but he was a stubborn man. If an apology from her would help soothe his ruffled feathers, she would swallow her pride and offer it.
“You’re right,” she said.
“Being right doesn’t make it any better,” he said, surprising her with his candor.
“What do you mean?”
“Killing people is never going to be easy or right, but it is necessary at times. Zombies are easy. They’re no longer human, but what about the infected? They can kill you as quickly as a zombie. We may be immune, or we might just be lucky. Can you kill someone that isn’t a zombie, someone who can speak and reason, but by his or her very presence can kill you?” He shook his head. “It’s a hard choice to make, but you may have to make it.
“I once had the responsibility of upholding the law. I believed it was the only way to maintain order and stability. In Afghanistan, I saw firsthand what lawlessness looked like. People died every day with no one to turn to for justice or protection. The Afghan Army couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything. We couldn’t do anything without risking political repercussions. I wrote my own set of laws and tried to live by them. I did the same thing here. I could see the writing on the wall for us. I became a survivalist. I still tried to do some good as a deputy, keep our laws in effect, but I knew something was going to happen in my lifetime.” He chuckled. “I never suspected zombies. When the President declared Martial Law, it broke my heart. It meant our laws were finished. That just left my laws. I kept them few and simple, easy to interpret. They keep me straight, at least in my heart. They might not be nice laws, but they are effective. Someday, when things get better, I’ll set my laws aside, but not yet.”
She nodded, puzzled but strangely shaken by his sincerity. “I think I understand.”
His face became grim. “You think I’m a cold, heartless bastard. You may be right. It’s my choice, and I’ll live with it. You don’t have to. You’re a good person, and that works against you now, but you’re the kind of person the world needs. Simply surviving isn’t enough. You have to think beyond the plague, beyond all the death and destruction. When that time arrives, I’ll be superfluous. If you survive and keep your humanity, you can rebuild the world. I can teach you survival. That’s all I’m good for.”
His admission touched her deeply. In his own way, he was apologizing, not for killing the men, but for scolding her for condemning him. “I’ll try.” She paused. Was her next question too personal? “Tell me, what’s with the badge?”
He reached up and touched the badge on his chest. “It’s a long story.”
She laughed. “We’ve got nothing but time.”
“My great-grandfather, Cody Blakely, was an Arizona Ranger. The Rangers originally formed in 1860 to fight Indians but disbanded in 1861 when the Confederacy took over the territory. In 1882 when the Indian raids and the Mexican border troubles grew worse, the Rangers were reformed under Captain John H. Jackson. My great-grandfather lied about his age and joined up when he was sixteen. He was a lieutenant by eighteen. The Arizona Rangers were a bad ass bunch of hombres. They took on gangs of outlaws, Mexican border bandits, and renegade Indians. In most cases, they were judge, jury, and executioner. I wear the badge to remind myself that the only law now is my law, Jake’s Law.”
She looked at him and caught him smiling at her.
“You’re wondering if you’ve made a bad decision hooking up with me. Maybe you did.”
She tried not to let
her agreement show on her face. He turned to walk away.
“Jake,” she called out. Had she been too hard on him?
When he turned to look at her, she couldn’t read his expression, but his jaw was clenching and unclenching, as if he dreaded what she might say.
“I’m sorry I tried to be your conscience. I owe you my life. I’m … not sure how I feel about things, but I won’t second guess you again.”
“No, you be my conscience. I need one.”
He had surprised her. He was a deeper person than she had thought. He just had difficulty expressing himself to others. If she was wrong about one thing, she might be wrong about others. She wouldn’t underestimate him again.
Later, they sat on the balcony with the heat rising from the canyon floor in invisible currents that shimmered and danced at the edges of her vision. The balcony was still in shade, making it comfortable. She relaxed, leaning back in her chair, enjoying the day. Jake sat stiff-backed, staring out across the canyon, as if keeping an eye on his domain. Music drifted up from Reed’s RV. She recognized a few strains of one of Handel’s organ concertos and smiled. Reed’s classical musical tastes mirrored her own. The eighteenth-century German composer’s music was perfect for yoga meditation. She wondered what type of music, if any, Jake liked. She considered a person’s choice in music to be very telling about their character. She smiled at a fleeting mental image of Jake cleaning his rifle while listening to Bach.
Near sundown, Reed joined them. He brought along a bottle of wine.
“This Pinot Grigio should go with whatever we’re dining on,” he said.
“A fresh garden salad and venison for you two. Salad and cheese for me,” she said.
As she rose to get started on the meal, Jake stopped her. “We should all prepare the meal.”
“The kitchen’s too small. We can take turns. Tomorrow, you cook.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
She could hear the pair talking about the previous night’s escapade as she chopped veggies for the salad. A package containing several cured venison steaks sat in a refrigerator drawer next to slab of bacon. She chose two and tossed them in a frying pan. She sliced some carrots and potatoes and placed them around the venison. The smell of cooking meat almost nauseated her, but she endured.
“Why are you so sure Levi won’t just go away?” Reed asked. “Hell, maybe the zombies got him.”
Jake’s answer gave her pause. “He had the look of a lone wolf killer.”
“He’s only one man.”
“He found those lowlifes. He’ll find more. Dirt attracts dirt. The promise of food, booze or women will be enough to rally them. He’s methodical, ruthless, and determined. That makes him dangerous.”
“So what do we do?” Reed asked. After a moment, he added, “I can rig some security cameras along the road and outside the fence for early warning if they find us.”
“That’s a good idea. We need to become more proactive in our defense. Life is dangerous. Sooner or later, someone will find us here.”
“Who are you …” Reed paused. “Oh, the jet. You’re talking about the military.”
“Or the militia. Either way, their goals might not mesh with ours. I don’t intend to be cooped up in some FEMA camp like breeding cattle.”
Jake’s anger seethed just below his words. What did he know about the FEMA camps that she didn’t? She, Ben, and Liz had discussed finding a FEMA camp, but decided the journey was too dangerous. As it turned out, not going had been even more dangerous. If the army offered safety, what was Jake’s objection – his innate distrust of authority, or was he just afraid of giving up control?
“You seem pretty certain about the military,” Reed said. His expression at the mention of the FEMA camps betrayed his disgust.
Jake didn’t answer.
“I think you’re hiding something from us,” Reed continued. “I don’t appreciate it. We’re all in this together.”
“The military has their own agenda. To them, it’s all in the numbers – the number of dead versus the number they can save. Who can contribute, and who is a drag on resources? To me, it’s more personal. I trust me more than I do them.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Reed responded, but he didn’t elaborate.
Jake’s answer baffled her. If they couldn’t trust the military, who could they trust? Were his own prejudices and resentment of the military clouding his judgment?
As soon as the steaks were ready, she brought them to the table. The tension between the two men was palpable. As she set a plate in front of Jake, she deliberately brushed her hip against his shoulder. As she hoped, his anger dissipated as he reached out to fondle her waist. She smiled down at him, but she was thinking, “My life is my own. I’ll decide who to trust and how to live it.”
11
June 16, 2016 Oro Valley, AZ –
By ones and twos, Levi slowly found the kind of men he needed. Some had always been cold and cruel – thieves, gang members, ruthless businessmen. Others had become that way after the plague when wits and weapons were all that stood between death and deliverance. All were barely eking out an existence, anxious for more. Levi attracted the desperate to him like a hooker attracts customers, by displaying his wares, what he had to offer them.
With the seeds of his new army in tow, he scoured the city, choosing only those he deemed capable of accepting him as leader, killing the rest and taking their supplies. By week’s end, he had gathered twenty men and five women who shared his ideas of survival of the fittest. Most would have been at home in the cell next to him in prison. He trusted none of them, but knew they would follow him. Each of them had a basic character flaw that assured this – they sought approval in others they considered superior to them. They each needed and wanted to belong to a group with a leader that made all of the decisions and accepted all of the responsibility. Two years earlier, he would have been one of them, meekly accepting his lot in life. Now, post-apocalypse, he was a changed man – harder, colder, more sure of himself. As long as he produced for them, they would follow him.
He selected a school in Oro Valley surrounded by a high wall and a gate as a base of operations for scavenging the area for weapons and supplies. To keep them occupied, he often made zombie killing runs for fun and target practice. Choosing three of the hardest and cruelest who showed an innate knack for leadership, either through example or by the simple expediency of pummeling all opposition, he divided the group into three teams.
One of these three was a woman. The other women were simply camp followers, a bit of fluff for the men to enjoy. This one was different. She was almost as hard as he was and held within her a barely controlled rage against everyone and everything. The plague had taken her family, but she couldn’t extract her revenge on a parasite. Instead, she was at war with the world. She intrigued him. In the classroom he had commandeered for his quarters, he called her to him.
She sauntered in, unafraid, allowing no emotion to show on her face. She stood before him, a few inches shy of six feet, her short-cropped hair dyed jet-black, with a crudely-inked tattoo of a red-tailed hawk on her right forearm. She wore tight jeans that hugged her hips and sculpted her buttocks. She wore no shirt. Her two-button denim vest barely contained her ample breasts. She would have been pretty,except for the livid scar running diagonally along her right temple. That she chose to expose the scar rather than cover it with longer hair spoke volumes to him about her. She was defiant and proud. He forced her to stand before him for several minutes before speaking. She didn’t flinch from his gaze.
“What’s your name?” he finally asked.
“Hawk.”
He smiled. “Your real name?”
Her lips quavered slightly, and her eyes grew colder and darker, as she repeated, “Hawk.”
He nodded. “Okay, Hawk it is.” Her name didn’t really matter. He was sure many people had chosen new identities after the apocalypse. He found it interesting that she had chosen a predator bird
for her totem. “What do you want out of life?”
She stared at him for a moment, as if she had never asked herself that question. “Want?”
“Yeah. Are you looking for an honorable death, revenge, a new spring wardrobe? What the hell do you want to do?”
Her face went rigid. “Kill zombies.”
That brought a smile to his face. Her hatred for the creatures matched his own. As long as he provided targets, she would stay with him. “Are you opposed to killing a few people, for survival purposes of course?”
She paused before replying. Her rigid stance relaxed slightly, but only slightly. “No.”
Her answer was short and sweet, just the way he had expected her to answer. He liked her more and more. “You’re not bad looking, not that it would matter to these assholes. They’ll fuck anything. They’re going to be all over you. You’ll have to fight them off and sleep with one eye open.”
Her right hand dropped to the hilt of her knife, a massive Jungle Master with a ten-inch stainless steel blade and rubberized grip. Judging by the nicks in the handle and scratches on the blade, it had seen considerable use.
“There’s an easier way,” he said.
She stared at him for a moment before a tight smile flickered across her lips. “Be the boss’s bitch.”
He stood and walked over to her. He pushed his face to within inches of hers and inhaled her muskiness. She didn’t bat an eyelash. “It won’t be that bad. They’ll leave you alone, and maybe I won’t be such a bastard all the time. Who knows, you might even grow to like me.”
Her face resumed its original hardness. “I’ll fuck you, but I won’t like you.”
He backed away and laughed. “I like you. You’re me with a set of nice tits.”
“Is that all?” she asked.
“Move your shit in here and let the others know about our arrangement. Tonight … well, we’ll see.”
He could feel the chill of the room dissipate after she left. He would never break her or own her. He didn’t know what lot in life had turned her so cold and bitter, and he didn’t care. She would submit to him for her own reasons, and that was enough for him. However, he would sleep with a knife under his pillow just in case. She would turn on him in a heartbeat if she felt he had passed whatever line she drew between them. He licked his lips. Probing that line would be exquisite.
