by Mark Wandrey
“We never did get that last order of powder,” Vance told Tim.
“Shit,” that sucks. “How much was left?”
“After that last shoot we had in February, we have about two hundred.”
“Pounds?” Harry asked.
“No,” Vance laughed, “two hundred cans.” He opened one of the powder lockers to show it full from top to bottom with five-pound cans of various types of rifle powder. “We’re down twenty-five cans.”
“I have to ask, Vance,” Harry said.
“Go ahead.”
“This is awesome, but isn’t it overkill for four people?”
“We planned to help rebuild after the collapse,” Vance said. “We have enough supplies to load about five million rounds of most types. That might seem like a lot, but you have to realize there are about a thousand families within twenty miles of us. Most are farmers. If a quarter of them survived that’s two hundred and fifty families, or around twelve hundred people. That’s only a couple thousand rounds each.”
Harry nodded, understanding. “Forward thinking of you. I like it.”
They finished in Vance’s office, the huge wall of LCD monitors configured to show some of the dozens of cameras all over the property. Tim was showing Harry the high resolution relief map of the property and the Marine was studying it with an eye towards tactics. “I’d put an LP/OP up here, at the crest of that hill, and another over here by this dry stream bed.”
“We have one on the hill,” Vance admitted, “but not by the creek bed.” He looked at the location where the property swept away towards the desert. “Why there?”
“Well, if I knew you were dug in here the way the house is cut into this hill, I’d consider taking the long way across the desert.”
“That’s a couple miles to the road,” Tim pointed out.
Harry shrugged. “If it meant not getting my ass shot off by that sniper point you have up on the third floor? I’d walk the damned desert and come in on you from behind.”
Both Tim and Vance examined the map and considered. Tim finally spoke. “Well, Harry, I admit we didn’t think of that.”
“Yep,” Vance agreed. “You mind helping us start on that new LP/OP this afternoon? We have the sand bags in storage.”
“Not at all,” the marine said and flexed his hands. He grabbed his slight paunch and shook it. “Hell, the old ladies been saying I need to lose the gut anyway.”
“The hell I have,” Belinda laughed as all three women arrived with plates full of steaming food.
“You boys done with your pissing contest and want some chow?” Ann asked.
“You betcha!” Vance agreed, and everyone set to.
The office was crowded with six, and the three dogs magically appeared when food was being served, but they managed. Vance told the women about Harry’s observation on the vulnerability and told them they were going to build the new Observation Post/Listening Post that afternoon.
“We’re going to get all of Harry and Belinda gear integrated into ours,” Ann said, “and I’m going to remake the rec room into a bedroom. That work?”
Vance considered, then nodded. He would miss the foosball table but it wasn’t fair to ask a married couple to sleep on the couch. It was already apparent they would be pulling their fair share. “Sounds like a good idea.”
“We really appreciate this,” Belinda told them, the relief on her face apparent.
“No problem,” Ann told her and the two hugged.
“Oh God, they’re all going to start crying again,” Tim moaned. Nicole threw a biscuit at him and that was that.
“Those eggs were great, by the way,” Harry said.
“Should be, we have a dozen chickens outside laying them,” Vance told him.
“And a small herd of goats we let free range the property,” Ann added.
“It’s supposed to be the damned dog’s job to watch the goats,” Vance said and hooked a thumb at Lexus. The part Doberman was instantly alert, still keenly aware that all plates were not empty. Giving in, he tossed a piece of bacon over and she snatched it expertly out of the air. Rock and Dewey gave their masters mournful looks and Tim instantly gave in. Harry reached over and scratched Dewey behind the ear, the shepherd almost smiling as he chewed. Vance was glad to see the Ross’ got along with dogs.
Vance’s computer chimed, the sound of a Facebook instant message arriving, and he turned to see who. As soon as his friend arrived with their new members, Vance had switched off the cellular connection and moved the house internet over to their DSL. It was less secure overall, but if the cell signals were being intercepted it was the only option. The problems he’d been having with the net instantly went away as further confirmation.
He only kept his low profile account up on Facebook. Unlike his public prepper face, this one was just for the few close friends that knew where The Retreat was, and he’d met. Harry hadn’t been in that circle, until now. It was a guy he only knew as Snapshot. He’d met him several years before and was surprised at how well connected he was within the government. He knew about all kinds of contingency plans and FEMA shelter locations. More importantly, he had contacts with the military intelligence circle. Vance had carefully cultivated him as a contact for years before finally meeting him in person. He’d turned out to be a little guy, not much taller than Belinda. And he didn’t have many people skills. But he’d proved several times that he was the real deal.
“Vance, you there?” the chat asked.
“What’s up, Snap?”
“Tim and Nicole make it to your bugout site?”
“How’d you know we were bugging out?” Vance asked.
“Dude, everyone is bugging out. So they make it?”
“Yeah, and they brought a friend,” he admitted, then told them who.
“Surprising, but good choice. Ex-Force Recon Marine, two tours in the ‘Stan. He could have been an operator, but didn’t like being in the shit that much. Got wounded, if I remember right, and retired.”
Once again, Snapshot proved himself knowledgeable. Vance added a little. “His wife is a PA as well.”
“Bonus!” Snapshot typed, then paused. “I bumped you to warn you, the shit just got real.”
“Like it wasn’t already?” Vance asked.
“No, I mean seriously real. You might be about to regret being in Texas.”
“No one can regret being in Texas, lol,” Vance finished, actually laughing. Tim and Harry were watching him type over his shoulder.
“Snapshot,” Harry said, “I’ve heard of him. I think he’s in military intelligence.”
“Right in one,” Vance confirmed, then returned to typing. “Dude, I need more than hints. What do you mean on getting real, and why would I regret being in Texas?”
“Pull up Google and type in Monterrey.”
Vance did as instructed and nothing came up. He checked his spelling, it was correct. He tried making it Monterrey Mexico and got a few hits for a vacation blog and some restaurants. Nothing else. “What the fuck?” he typed in the chat window. How can that disappear from the net?”
“Government controls it all, remember? Net neutrality in 2015?” Snapshot reminded him.
“Sure, okay, but why?” Vance shuddered. “Is it to do with the cannibals? Is it in Monterrey?”
“It was.”
Vance stared at the screen for a while. Harry’s silence behind him told Vance that Tim had already fully briefed their new member. He typed again. “Still, why remove a city from the internet?”
“Because it isn’t there anymore.”
Vance read the words, trying to understand what Snapshot meant. Realization came like a tidal wave, making his head swim.
“Don’t type it,” Snapshot said, “some words have triggers, even on these kinds of links. Before long we won’t be able to type Monterrey any more without drawing attention.”
“They nuked a city,” Tim said behind him. The room fell utterly silent, only the sound of a dog chewing a b
one broke it.
“Why would they nuke a city for some crazy cult or whatever?” Ann wanted to know.
“If it wasn’t a cult,” Belinda said, “if it was a plague maybe?” Is it getting colder in here, Vance wondered.
“What kind of a fucking plague makes people into cannibals?” Tim demanded.
“Zombie plague,” Harry said.
Ann and Nicole both let out a little laugh, then stopped when they remembered that one of their most reliable intel sources had just told them that a city had been destroyed with nuclear weapons.
Everyone in the prepper movement liked to joke that prepping for a ZA, or zombie apocalypse, was one of their contingencies. Hell, some companies even sold special ammo and weapons. They were usually just low velocity bullets so they wouldn’t over-penetrate a zombie skull, or cheap machetes and hatchets with “Zombie Killer” logos, or weird laser cuts in the metal. Pure crap.
Sure, they all talked about it, but on a scale of one to ten of the things serious preppers prepped for, a ZA was about #85. All kinds of possible plagues, sure. From bird flu to bio weapons to a return of smallpox, but a zombie plague? The walking dead eating brains? One of the inside jokes was that the hardest thing about a zombie apocalypse would be pretending you weren’t having fun. They said that because the very idea was fucking ludicrous. Yet, here they were.
Vance remembered that scene. The scene. A man eating a baby. The look in his eyes. It wasn’t human. “Oh fuck me,” he moaned. He looked at the screen. Snapshot hadn’t typed anything more, he was waiting for Vance.
“So what do we do?”
“Run.”
“We can’t. Not part of our plan.”
“Then be ready for Hell.” Then the chat window told them that Snapshot was no longer on the other end.
Vance turned to his friends. “We better get to work.”
* * *
Andrew woke up, then wished he hadn’t. Buzzers were sounding from the control panel and he was having a hard time focusing with his right eye. He put a hand up to the right side of his face, which was throbbing, and could see with his right eye that there was blood on his fingertips. “Oh crap,” he said. One of the dead control screens was fairly reflective and he could see that there was a jagged cut on his forehead that bled all down his face, including into his eye.
He looked around the cockpit and found an unopened bottle of water in a cubby. He took it, popped it open, and poured the liquid over the right side of his face, hissing as it hit the cut. It took half the bottle, alternating wiping with his flight jacket sleeve, before the dried on blood finally gave up and he could open his eye again. Luckily, it seemed to be working just fine. He drank the rest of the bottle then took stock of his situation.
The plane was stopped and resting at a slight angle. They were facing a taxiway, roughly perpendicular to the runway. It looked like they’d skidded to a stop just past the end of the runway, in the dirt. It was a miracle nothing had caught on fire. With empty tanks, the plane was a huge fume-filled bomb.
“THUMP, THUMP!” came from behind him. Someone was pounding on the cockpit door. He glanced at the screen to make sure nothing dangerous needed his attention. Mostly blown tires, failed hydraulics, and a warning he was running on batteries because the APU wouldn’t start. Something to do with empty fuel tanks, he mused as he unhooked his safety harness.
His hand was actually on the latch of the door before he fully remembered why he’d been flying an A380 and was no longer the prisoner of a couple MPs. He leaned forward and looked out of the cockpit’s spy peephole. There were two or three people outside, all in various degrees of distress by their appearance. All had dried blood on their faces, and all looked completely fucking insane. One, a huge guy who could have been a professional wrestler pounded the door again. Andrew wondered just how tough it really was. Either way, he wasn’t going to get out through three of them.
He grabbed the cockpit checklist and turned the emergency landing. “How the fuck do I get out of this crate,” he said to himself. He found what he was looking for. “You have got to be kidding me.” A fighter pilot, some part of him had been looking for an ejection seat or something fancy. Nope, he wasn’t nearly that lucky. Not by half.
Andrew reached over and worked the complicated latch to release the wide window. It popped with a whoosh of equalizing pressure, and he pulled. It came back towards him in its rail and slid backwards completely opening up a space about a foot and a half high, and two feet wide. From above the window he opened a panel marked “Emergency Use Only”. Inside, held in place by a retaining Velcro strap, was a length of rope with knots tied every foot. “A half-billion dollar airplane, and this is the best you asshole engineers could do?”
Hot air was wafting in through the window. In the air was smell of burned stuff of all kinds, bringing his mind instantly back to thoughts of Monterrey. “Fuck, fallout,” he thought as he saw the cockpit was quickly filling with smoky air. There were portable air bottles, back in the flight areas. Nothing up here, only tethered oxygen masks. The sound of the window sliding back had been loud, it was a heavy window. The wrestler was being joined by his friends, and the pounding on the door was more intense now. He thought he heard the sound of distressed steel and plastic.
Andrew threw the rope out the window and stuck his head out. It was a disturbingly long way to the ground. Cursing engineers, bean counters, and fate in general, he shoved his upper torso out of the hole and got the rope wrapped around his left hand. Holding the window frame with his right hand, he slowly began to pull his torso through. He thought of how many pilots he’d seen with beer guts and wondered if the engineers had thought of that. It was a pretty tight fit even for his lean frame. He was basically straddling the window frame, one leg out, one in, when the door latch gave up with a crash and the door flew inward.
“Son of a bitch!” he barked as the wrestler fell into the cockpit and landed a few feet from him.
“Graaahr!” the man growled and reached for Andrew, who let go of the rope.
Some part of his mind, the part that remembered her air rescue and evasion class, commanded his right arm to grab the rope even as his left one let go. He pivoted and fell, his leg only just avoiding being caught by the insane wrestler. He was a good five feet below the window before his right hand caught the rope. A foot of it slipped through his hands, giving in a wonderful rope burn before the knot stopped it from sliding any further. He held on like his life depended on it, and since he was basically falling face first, it did.
His grip made him flip around into an upright orientation again, the momentum caused his back to scream in protest and to swing madly from the rope. He had enough presence of mind to grab the rope with his left arm as well before the pain in his right made him let go. That same training echoed in his confused brain, and he wrapped a leg around the rope and trapped it against one foot with the other.
“Christ on a fucking crutch!” he gasped, breathing hard as he swung there, still almost thirty feet in the air. He looked up to see the wrestler snarling at him out of the window. A glance at his hand showed just a minor rope burn. Since the hand wasn’t holding anything, he flipped the wrestler the bird. His adversary didn’t appear to appreciate that, he grabbed the rope and heaved. “Oh no,” Andrew said and began to descend as fast as he could.
The wrestler was as strong as he appeared. He bodily began hauling Andrew up almost as fast as he was going down. Andrew didn’t know how much rope he had, but it couldn’t be that much. Ignoring the pain in his right hand, he let go with his legs and went down twice as fast.
He felt more than saw the end of the rope passing his legs. He kept going until he was at the last handhold, paused a second to bend his legs, and let go. There had been no reason to look. That would have meant being hauled higher, and it was either face Rowdy Roddy Piper and his buddies up there, or drop. He chose an uncertain fate over a certain one and let go. He dropped maybe two feet and landed on grass.
&n
bsp; “Ha!” Andrew laughed and flipped Roddy the double bird. “Bite me, mother fucker!” The crazed man took him literally and started to climb out the window.
Andrew thought the wrestler was going to climb down after him and took a few steps away, looking around for the first time. The A380’s port outside landing gear was half collapsed, folded under the plane from the power slide into the softer grass. Smoke was curling up from one of the engines and liquid dripped from a wingtip to his left. He figured it must be hydraulic fluid. If there wasn’t a nuked city a few miles away and a plane full of insane cannibals, including one climbing down to eat him just then, he might have figured the airline would be royally pissed for fucking up their plane.
The sound of a rapidly approaching screech made him turn just as Roddy hit the ground face first with a sickening CRUNCH! Andrew looked at the man’s head folded back along his spine and tried not to puke. Blood was leaking out of his mouth and ears as the body spasmed on the ground then fell still.
“Fuck me!” he said, “Fuck me!” He looked up just in time to step back a few more feet as a woman crashed to the ground, joining the wrestler’s twitching corpse. She came in more flat, having jumped towards him. Still, a thirty-five foot swan drive onto hard ground was not something you easily shook off. Bones crunched on her impact as well. Though after a second she looked up at him and grunted, one arm reached for him. It was the only one still connected by a spinal cord. She coughed blood from lungs punctured by multiple broken ribs.
She only managed to reach out towards him before another landed on her, this one face first like Roddy. Neither of them moved.
Andrew swore and retreated away from the area. The last thing he wanted was enough of the deranged bastards to jump out so that they started surviving. It wasn’t until then that he looked around and really noticed the time of the day. It was considerably earlier than he remembered it being when he had ‘landed’ the plane. But how was that possible? He glanced down at his watch and realized. It had been almost twenty-two hours since he hit the ground.
He put a hand to his head and probed the injury. It hurt like hell, but didn’t have that squishy feeling of a fracture. He also doubted he would have been up to a jump out the window and rappel if he’d had a skull fracture. “The other passengers,” he said, remembering all the people he’d left in the aft galley storage.
