by Todd Sprague
Jose jumped off the counter and ran to John, helping him up. The two stood back to back as they recovered their breath. John’s walkie talkie crackled to life with Roger’s voice.
“Everything okay in there?”
“Roger that... umm, Roger. We’re fine,” John said, smirking at his brother-in-law. “How’s it going out there?”
“We’re about done here. All the drums are full and the tanks on the dump truck are topped off. Get your asses out here so we can go home.”
“On our way.”
John nodded to Jose and motioned toward the door. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell your mother or Sara about this.”
Jose grinned and nodded.
On his way out, John stopped at the coffee counter, opened the cupboard underneath, and picked up several silver bags of coffee.
“Ah, Colombian. It would be a crime to just leave this here.” He tossed a couple bags to Jose and took the rest himself. As they walked toward the door, John looked at Jose, raising his eyebrow. “Take it, bitch? Seriously?”
Jose grinned and shrugged. “What?”
John just shook his head.
Together, they left the trashed store and climbed up into the truck. The group drove out of the parking lot with their precious cargo of coffee and fuel, the first step of their plan complete.
* * *
Though everything was ready, they decided to wait until the following morning to begin their journey. Before the Zeds had come, the trip would have taken less than two hours by car, but they anticipated obstacles along the highway, so planned to be gone two or three days. They packed enough food and water for a week, just in case. This left those remaining at the compound with enough food for two or three weeks at the most.
They had a little going away event at the compound that night. Sara, ever the social organizer, put on a great party for everyone, making the most of the dwindling supplies.
“Babe, I don’t know how you did it, but everyone here is smiling. I haven’t seen one frown the whole night,” John said, eating one of Sara’s special chocolate cupcakes.
“That’s because you haven’t been looking hard enough. You know I’m not happy with you going. I’m afraid for you. And for the rest of us here.”
John pulled Sara close with one arm. “I know, Sara, but we don’t have much choice. We need whatever supplies we can get. We’ve been over this.”
“So? That doesn’t mean you have to go.” Sara kept her voice down, not wanting to break the festive mood she’d managed to create out of almost nothing.
“We have responsibilities here. The kids...”
“The kids will be fine, you’ll be fine. I’ll be back, and we’ll all be fine together.” John smiled indulgently at Sara around a mouthful of chocolate heaven.
“Don’t patronize me. I’m the one stuck here, wondering if you’re safe, not knowing if you’ll come home or not. And now I have three kids to raise by myself if you don’t make it? That’s not fair, goddammit!” Sara’s quiet whisper managed to convey her anger.
John wiped the chocolate from his face. His expression turned serious. “Nothing – NOTHING, will keep me from coming home to you. Ever. Do you hear me?”
Sara looked up at John, eyes watery but brave. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
* * *
John sat, slowly rocking in the old wooden chair his grandfather had made decades ago, nursing a lukewarm beer. The fall night held a slight chill, and he watched as his breath came out in little puffs of misty vapor. His little porch gave him a great view of the valley. The paper lanterns Sara had made glowed brightly, people milled about, enjoying the little send off party.
Patrick sat next to John, drinking something clear and volatile from a chipped mason jar. “You’re taking a big chance tomorrow. I hope it pays off.”
“Me too.” John took a swig from the bottle, frowning as the warm liquid filled his mouth.
“What’s bothering you, boy?”
“I don’t know. It’s crazy, really.”
“Well, out with it. I’ve seen crazy all over the place lately.”
“Halloween’s coming up. I want to be back before then.”
“Why?”
“It’s supposed to be the time when this world and the next are closest together, or when the walls between the two are the weakest.”
Patrick grunted and took a long pull from his mason jar. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know, the old legends about Halloween, people used to dress up to scare the demons or monsters away, that sort of thing.”
“Um, okay. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Look, I told you it’s crazy, but how do we know that what’s going on out there isn’t something supernatural? What if things get worse?”
Patrick started to laugh, but stopped as what John was saying began to sink in. He shook his head, as if shaking the thought away. “Oh come on, how could it get worse?”
“I have no idea. I told you, it’s crazy, but I’d still like to be here, just in case.”
“Well, you’ve got six days, that should be plenty of time to get what we need and get back here, right?”
“If we can get through, it could take as little as one day.”
They both snorted at that, and sat watching the party go on well into the night.
* * *
Jose stomped his foot angrily. “Come on, you know I can do it. Let me go with you.”
John put his hand on Jose’s shoulder gently. “I need you here, Jose. We’re already taking too many people with us for my liking. I need someone I can trust here to protect Sara, your mom, and the children. You did really well on the diesel raid, man. I know I can trust you for this.”
The teen looked ready to argue, but John squeezed the boy’s shoulder, forestalling the outcry.
“Besides, I have a special project for you,” John spoke quickly, trying another tack.
“What?”
“That armor you told me about. The plastic armor? Can you make it?”
Jose looked skeptically at John. “What? Are you serious, or just trying to distract me from going with you because you know damn well I’d kick some serious ass out there?”
“No, no, I think it’s worth exploring. We keep having to go outside of the fence, and I’d like us to be as safe as possible. If you hadn’t been there at the store, I’d be one of them right now. We need some advantage over these things if we’re going to make it. If you can make a suit, with what we have here,” John emphasized, “then do it. Think you can?”
Jose thought for a moment, then grinned. “Oh, I can do it. Man, it’s going to be sweet!” The boy ran off, waving over his shoulder. “Good luck, John!”
John shook his head and smiled. Well that’s one worry out of the way.
* * *
“I’m worried about Kurt. He’s not doing well. He’s got a constant fever and is delirious.” Margaret, the school nurse, said to John. June and May, as well as Kurt’s wife, Franny, and his daughter, Jill, stood in May’s kitchen, listening worriedly.
“Is he going to lose his leg?” John asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t see any signs of gangrene, and the wound itself seems to be healing, but his fever won’t break. I honestly don’t know what it is, but if we had a general antibiotic to give him, we might be able to lower the fever.”
“Tell me exactly what we need. Give me as many alternatives as you can, and we’ll find them. One of the bases must have an infirmary, we’ll get what we can while we are there.”
Margaret handed John a slip of paper. “I’ve written down everything we need, in order of importance.”
John nodded. “Thanks, I’ll do my best, I promise.” He cringed mentally at how many promises he had been making as of late.
* * *
At precisely 9 a.m., with the sun shining over the crisp fall morning, a ragtag band of survivors gathered in front of the big dump truck and the empt
y tractor trailer. Roger sat in the driver’s seat of the tractor, while Morgan stood next to the driver’s side of the dump truck. John stood facing the group. Marta, Roy, and three of the new survivors stood with rifles on their shoulders, bags of ammunition and food at their feet. Douglas stood slightly off to one side by himself. I’m still not sure about him, better to keep him close, John thought. Jack Kensington stood near the tractor trailer with one of his cousins, Richie. They’d asked to come for a share of the supplies, and John had readily agreed, glad for the Marine’s expertise Jack brought to the team.
He turned around, looking at the Mason clan assembled behind him. God I hate leaving them like this, he thought. Not enough people who can fight to go around, but Sara’s here, and Jose. They can handle themselves. John waved to Sara, who stood with her mother and Jose. The twins, Tommy and Tammy sat on the grass next to them, waving enthusiastically. Marisa stood next to Sara, holding her hand. John chuckled to himself, noticing how Marisa stood exactly like Sara, mimicking her precisely. The little girl had taken to Sara immediately, becoming the teacher’s pet and volunteering with anything Sara needed.
John raised his right hand and whirled it around in the air. They started climbing up into the trucks, when Jill Crawford came running up, rifle and backpack in hand.
“I’m going with you,” she said as she ran past John.
“Jill...” he began.
“It’s for my dad. I have to do something. At least I can go and help you look for the medicine. And I can shoot. You know I can.” She spoke as she climbed up into the back of the dump truck.
Shaking his head, John climbed up into the passenger seat. John switched to his best backwoods Vermont voice.
“Fine! But don’t come crying to me when you get ‘et!”
Folks laughed at the morbid humor as the big trucks roared to life with a blast of dirty exhaust. The trucks pulled out onto the road and chugged past the barricade, heading north.
Chapter 13
October 26, Zed Year One
Interstate 91 North of Brattleboro, Vermont
John Mason sat in the front passenger seat of the big orange dump truck and watched the scenery fly by. He kept a loose grip on his Heckler and Koch MP5 as the beautiful fall foliage slipped past them on their journey north. Looks like it would have been a great season for tourists this year, John thought. Fuckin’ Zeds.
The trip through West Brattleboro went smoothly, as they’d already cleared the road from obstacles on prior supply trips. The group saw scores of Zeds shambling about here and there, but none of the faster, fresher variety. John thought that might be a good sign. They were also lucky enough not to encounter any of the huge Zed packs that they knew to be roaming around the downtown area.
The two trucks pulled onto Interstate 91 and headed north. The northbound lane was fairly free of obstructions for the first part of their journey. They were able to keep up a good pace, sometimes hitting forty miles an hour, stopping occasionally to allow the dump truck to push a vehicle aside.
Their first major obstacle appeared at the Springfield exit. They crested a small mountain and began heading down the other side when they were forced to stop. Ahead of them, just before the exit, a line of cars had been pushed or driven into a makeshift barricade across the highway on both sides.
“Roger, hold up back here for a minute. We’re going to go have a look,” John said into the radio. He leaned out the window and yelled up to the folks in the back of the truck. “Heads up. We’re going to check this out.” In the big side mirror, he saw several rifle barrels move over the side of the truck, pointing at the barrier.
Morgan shifted into low gear and approached the cars at a crawl. John scanned the area with a small pair of binoculars Sara had thoughtfully packed in his backpack. As they drew closer to the roadblock, he began to see signs of a struggle. Great bloody smears and splashes of red gore littered the cars. The ground in front of the barrier was strewn with bodies and parts of bodies. Most of the glass had been broken out of the cars, and John could see there were bodies inside some of the vehicles as well.
After what seemed like an eternity, they pulled to a stop less than twenty feet from the line of vehicles. Morgan killed the engine. The sudden silence loomed ominously.
“Stay here. I’ll go have a look,” John said, as he climbed down out of the truck. He glanced up in the back and was happy to see his family covering him as he walked forward. John carefully stepped over the bodies, checking to make sure that each one was truly dead as he passed by. He swept the muzzle of the MP5 over each one, not willing to take any chances. Most of the bodies had been Zeds, horrible wounds and decomposing flesh giving evidence to the fact, but some looked like they had been fighting the Zeds. These had fresher wounds. He even saw one man slumped against the side of a car with a Zed’s jaw still clamped to his neck. The Zed’s head ended at a ragged neck, its body slumped several feet away.
John climbed gingerly over a big Chevy Suburban, sliding across the bloody hood. He dropped down onto the pavement on the other side, suddenly more cautious. Bodies lay everywhere, most with hunting rifles or improvised weapons made from axes, pitchforks, saws, and other unidentifiable things. Not nearly enough bodies, though. The dead in front of John were only the ones with vicious head wounds, bites or lacerations, or sometimes gunshots from a merciful fellow defender. He did a quick count of the dead on this side of the barrier. Thirty-one.
His radio crackled to life, causing him to jump. “Careful there, we can’t see you anymore.”
“It’s okay, Roger. There’s nothing moving over here either. Looks like they were trying to keep a pack of the bastards out,” John said, bringing the black radio to his mouth and speaking softly.
“Did they succeed?”
“Not even close.”
* * *
They spent the next hour moving vehicles and bodies out of the way, all the while keeping watch for any of the Zeds that might still be roaming around.
“I don’t like it, John,” Roger said as Morgan pushed the last car out of the way with the dump truck. “It must have been a huge pack of those motherfuckers that hit these guys. I don’t like knowing they might be close.”
“These bodies are a couple days old, at least. The fresh ones, I mean,” John said, looking around at the dead. He bent down and picked up a pistol from one of the former defenders and tucked it in his belt. “But you’re right. I don’t want to stick around here any longer than we have to.” He patted the pistol he’d just recovered. “Let’s pick up what we can and get back on the road.”
They recovered several rifles and pistols but not as much ammunition as John would have liked. They loaded their booty in the trucks and continued their journey north, watching warily for whatever pack of undead had massacred the poor defenders of Springfield.
* * *
The two trucks rumbled along the deserted highway until they saw the exit for Windsor. No cars blocked the exit ramp, so the big trucks pulled off, barely slowing as they reached the main road leading to the National Guard base. Finally, after several exhausting hours of remaining vigilant, they saw a sign that said “Vermont National Guard Armory 186, Forward Support Company A”. Several brick buildings surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire loomed ahead of them. A big chain link gate lay open in the road, with a small brick guard house to the left. Morgan pulled the dump truck right up to the guard house, but no one hailed them. John jumped down out of the truck and checked the little shack. A plain wooden desk with a clipboard and pen stood against one wall, with a simple metal office chair tipped over on the floor. A telephone was attached to one wall, with the receiver dangling by its cord.
A single bloody hand print stood out in stark relief on the white plaster wall behind the desk.
John climbed back up into the truck. “Looks like the Zeds hit here already.” He brought the radio to his mouth. “No guards; Zeds already came through. Watch yourselves, boys and girls.”
> After both trucks had pulled through the gate, Roy got out and ran to the guard shack. Moments later, the big metal gate rolled shut. He mounted back up and the trucks continued slowly into the base. Each brick building had been thoughtfully labeled with a green and white sign. They passed one building marked Administration but stopped at the second building. That one had a sign that read Security. John signaled a halt over the radio, and the group dismounted. They formed a loose circle around the two vehicles, keeping a watch for Zeds. John motioned for Douglas to follow him into the building. The others stayed behind, keeping the two precious vehicles safe.
The single story brick building was about the size of a small house, with white framed windows and a single glass door. John opened the door and shined his flashlight inside. Despite the sun’s position in the early afternoon sky, the hall revealed by John’s flashlight was dark. But he could see that the floor looked wet. As he moved into the hallway, he realized the wetness was blood. The thick red liquid was everywhere, the floor, the walls, even splattered onto the ceiling. As he motioned for Douglas to follow him, a thick spatter dripped down from the ceiling onto his right boot. He frowned and kept walking forward slowly, playing the light around in front of him, his MP5’s muzzle leading the way. Douglas followed close behind, his heavy breathing sounding far too loud in the close confines of the dark hallway.
John reached a lobby area with a desk marked Information. The desk had been tipped on its side, and a body lay just behind it. John slowly peered over the desk to get a better look. A man in his twenties with close cropped black hair and wearing a National Guard uniform lay in a heap, a bloody hole in the side of his head, and bite marks all over his face and hands. An armband marked him as an M.P., a military police officer. The dead man had a large ring of keys hanging from his belt. John reached down and grabbed the ring of keys, as well as the Beretta 9mm and spare magazines from the body. He tucked them into the thigh pockets of the cargo pants he was wearing and continued on past the desk.
