by Steve Kuhn
Cutty’s voice was low and almost growly. He spoke slowly. “Anybody move… an’ I’ma get ta cuttin’ bitches up.”
Both of them dropped their weapons simultaneously. Whether it was out of submission or fear, we’ll never know. My money’s on both.
The lead kid went into full-on gut-spillin’ mode like the fat kid in The Goonies. “Look, man… we’re just kids… We played video games and shit… We didn’t even know what was going on… We’re not killers or nuthin’. We got a place in the woods. You can have it… Just don’t kill us, man. Please don’t kill us,” he pleaded.
I had to chuckle. I took note of the video-game reference, as did Cutty.
Cutty chimed in, still growling, “Dis ain’t no game, cuz… Ain’t no comin’ back. An’ ma man ‘cross da street got you sighted in nice an’ sweet.”
I shot a glance over my shoulder and could see Junior behind his rifle across the street. The silly fucker was waving at me and grinning. He gave me a thumbs-up with his tongue out. He obviously wasn’t privy to the tension in the room.
I nodded my approval and took over the conversation. I figured, All right, these are gamers. These are my people. Figured I’d start with some small talk.
“First person shooters or RPGs?” I asked them both.
The lead kid looked confused at my change of subject and was like, “Both… I’m a shooter man, myself. Gary plays RPGs.”
Nice. The lingo was working out. “Gary, huh? All right. And your name?” I continued asking.
Lead kid said, “Wyatt… I’m Wyatt. Look man, you’re not gonna kill us, are you? Those things are bad enough. We should like team up and shit. We’re good, man. We won’t be no trouble.”
I decided to wave Cutty off for the time being, and both kids sighed their relief as his blades lifted. “Look,” I said, “I’m gonna tell Cutty to chill out for a sec, but be warned… he’s our tank… our melee guy. He’s not much for guns and shit, but he’s an endgame dual wielder, and those machetes are like plus-twelve critical hitters. Junior, our sniper back there, is our mage—maxed destruction stats if you get my drift.”
Gary gulped audibly. I finished with, “I suggest you don’t fuck around with these two because, I promise you, there will be no respawn… We’re talkin’ permadeath.”
Wyatt nodded his understanding and asked me, “And what do you do?”
I replied, “I’m Dext… and I’m a runner.”
I looked at Gary and winked. “I’m like the thief in the group,” I added as I relieved them of their pistols and picked up the rifles.
We grabbed the last of the provisions we needed, bottle of booze included, and allowed them to keep their packs on as a measure of good faith. Cutty had Wyatt help him gas up the plow while I sorted Gary and myself in the dump bed. Junior kept watch, as always.
There wasn’t a lamebrain in sight, but I feared that was gonna change soon. After all that was sorted, it was me, Junior, and Gary in the dump bed and Cutty and Wyatt up front. Wyatt was gonna be kind enough to show us to their safe spot.
Entry 10
We should have walked. Hell, it was only a mile up the road to the spot where we pulled off to the side. Would’ve saved us the fuel, but whatever.
Gary spent the ride curled in an upright fetal position and watched every move Junior made. Can’t say I blame him. Junior had a definite aura of ‘I’m not all there upstairs’ about him. Frankly, I don’t know Junior that well, but I know he’s an all-right guy. I kinda liked the leverage it was giving us with the kids anyway.
We hopped out of the dump bed as Cutty and Wyatt exited the cab. Everyone took a second to sort their gear, leaving nothing behind save for the four fuel cans, which we hid under the truck. I knew it wouldn’t stop anyone determined enough, but it was more for peace of mind.
Junior made a quick scan of the area where we would enter the woods via a small game trail, with his scope. He gave us a nod as he slung his rifle back over his shoulder, held up six fingers, then pointed slightly right. I sighed in frustration. I was tired and hungry and definitely didn’t feel like doing this again. I just wanted to sleep… safely.
We moved as quietly as possible, but our gear and weapons made this constant clicking sound that was just unavoidable. When we were within thirty yards or so of the small group of stenches, we all hunkered down to formulate our plan. They had to be dispatched because of the risk of being followed into the woods. I wasn’t taking that chance for all the money in the wor—Who am I kidding? Money is worthless. Let’s just say, I wasn’t gonna do it.
Wyatt spoke up first and whispered, “Gimme a gun, man. We got this”
Junior replied, “I ain’t never kicked a fresh turd on a hot day.” I can only assume that meant, “No.”
Cutty looked at me to make the call. I hated this type of shit. I weighed the options briefly and decided I’d rather be shot than eaten. I figured Junior could keep Gary at gunpoint, and we’d give Wyatt his rifle back for the time being.
Looking at Wyatt, I calmly explained that Junior would be more than happy to make a mess of his friend if he decided to be an asshole, and the matter was settled.
Christ, we looked like a backyard football team as we sketched out our plans in the dirt. With Junior tied up watching Gary, not to mention our own backs, they’d stay put. Wyatt and Cutty would flank the geeks, and I’d play bait. I was gonna approach and grab their attention, hopefully getting them to follow me in some sort of line. Then I’d work my way back to Junior. Wyatt said he was a decent shot, so he’d pick them off, and Cutty would take out any stragglers or any who changed their course to follow the gunfire.
I handed Gary’s rifle to Junior, and he slung it over his back while I armed myself. Tucking the pistol from the downed soldier in my gym bag, I noted that the two pistols I had taken off Gary and Wyatt were the exact same make as my new one. Those I tucked in my waistband behind my back. I always wonder if I’ll shoot myself in the ass one day doing that.
Cutty drew his blades and could not do a better job of looking badass.
I nodded a wary approval to Wyatt as I gave him his rifle, and he pulled a fresh mag out of a side pouch on his backpack, tucking it in his own waistband.
Cutty pulled me closer by the shirt and said, “If it gets bad, you scurry yo’ li’l ass to ol’ Cutty, an’ I’ll see to it you good.”
We were triangulated nicely as I made my move.
They wasted no time in coming after me as Wyatt took his first shots. He dropped two right off, but the noise had us well fucked. Four left. No sweat. I’ve seen Cutty take out two with no problem whatsoever, but I didn’t count on what I saw next.
Behind Junior and Gary, out of the darkness of the tree line, twenty or more were gaining ground. Where the fuck did they come from?
I shouted a warning to Junior, who spun on his heels. Gary was screaming for a weapon, and there wasn’t time to even consider an alternative. Junior took two shots, but they were rushed, and he missed terribly.
As Gary and Junior broke into a run towards Cutty and Wyatt, Junior passed Gary his rifle. I veered off course and made my way to Cutty as well.
Cutty did what Cutty does best and went at the four stragglers flailing wildly. By the time I had raced five steps, he had cut the first two off at their knees and was laying into the final pair. Decapitating one in a single stroke, he split the other’s melon with that signature downward chop thing of his.
When I reached them, we fell back another fifteen yards or so to put some distance between us and the legless crawlers. Wyatt stepped up slightly to cover Gary and Junior’s approach. It wasn’t military precision or anything, but I have to say we handled the situation quite effectively with Gary and Wyatt’s help. I drew both pistols as Junior and Gary reached our position, and we faced the incoming horde, twenty-five yards and closing. There we were… like a fake-ass A-Team, all lined up.
It’s times like this that thoughts of ammo supply and strategy just fly right out the w
indow. When your back’s to the wall, so to speak, and you’re knee deep in shit staring death right in the face with your Alamo crumbling down around you… I dunno… there’s just a ‘Fuck it’ sort of mentality. We unloaded—loud as fuck. We were standing there, practically strangers to one another, screaming like first-grade bitches, mowin’ down geeks.
In hindsight, it was pretty fuckin’ awesome, but we’ve got a lot to learn. When it was all said and done, Cutty finished the crawlers and the decapitated head, which was still snapping like a pissed-off turtle. While we were all catching our breaths and gathering our wits, he was continuously ensuring none of them got up. As he passed from body to body, I could just hear him hacking away at heads, crunching them like eggshells in a trash bag.
Once we were sorted, it was clear it’d be best to leave Gary and Wyatt armed. We followed them into the woods for about a hundred and fifty yards and only came across two more roamers, but Cutty made short work of them. Wyatt noted that there was way more of them than usual and admitted that without our little crew, they would have been toast.
When we reached our destination, I was less than impressed with their ‘stronghold.’
We stood at the bottom of a thirty-foot-tall tree and looked up. There it was—a motherfucking tree fort? Son of a bitch! Well, beggars can’t be choosers.
It’s not all bad up here, though. We pulled the ladder up, so it’s safe. It’s roomy enough. It’s up high. I suppose it meets my criteria.
Time to get drunk…
Entry 11
The tree house was fairly typical. It was sturdy as hell with a decent floor and roof. I wouldn’t be surprised if the roof leaked a little, but since the rain passed over the other night, it hadn’t even been cloudy. There was a little second-hand coffee table in the middle, and we got some candles lit as we readied our bedrolls. I chuckled silently to myself at the ‘No Girls Allowed’ sign directly above the stack of nudie books stashed in the corner.
The boys already had their shit laid out, so Gary drew the hideous, 1970s, paisley curtains to hide our light. We’d been getting to know Gary and Wyatt as we passed the bottle around the room. Junior was thumbing through an old Hustler, and Cutty was cleaning and sharpening his machetes. I was naturally hesitant to share my hooch with underage kids, but the world had gone to shit, so I thought, Screw it. Everyone’s days seem to be numbered, so why not let them indulge a little… especially after tonight’s events. We can all use a drink.
I whipped up some food for us, and we chatted while we ate. Turns out Gary and Wyatt nearly missed the entire two-day period of the second wave. They were apparently holed up in Gary’s basement on a thirty-six-hour, online-gaming binge and only found out about the whole mess when they lost their connection. Gary told us that they came upstairs to bitch about the drop in service and saw his mom glued to the television. I’ll spare you the details, but they packed their shit and met up with Wyatt’s family at the very same market where our paths crossed. From there, they headed to the rescue station.
At first the rescue station was in good order. They had National Guardsmen and Red Cross officials coordinating triage and security. The perimeter was secured by patrols and a few posted snipers, and by this time, the military was already wise to shooting the undead in the head to drop them. It took longer than you might think for that little piece of info to trickle its way down to us common folks.
They were keeping the wounded in the classrooms in little, makeshift hospital setups, and the auditorium and gym areas were fast becoming crowded shelters. Wyatt told me I was correct in my assumption that most of the entire township had ended up there.
What they hadn’t planned for was when the bitten ones started to turn. It wasn’t an outside horde that brought down the station. It was killed from the inside. I wondered how the hell the military could let that happen, but it became clear as Gary and Wyatt continued their tale.
A few of the town’s people showed up armed. Unfortunately, they weren’t knowledgeable of how the plague worked. As soon as one of the women saw a guardsman put down her neo-husband, she started screaming and ranting that everyone had been directed to the station to be slaughtered by our own military.
You gotta understand that the majority of the stinks we see today are almost always half decayed and fucked up. A neo is a whole other ballgame. They look like you and I, just a little pale and sickly if they aren’t half devoured. So imagine someone has no idea of the situation, and they see a soldier gun down a loved one.
The riot began, and the civilians started shooting at the guardsmen, who, in turn, defended themselves, and by that point it was an absolute mess. The perimeter fell as the attention turned to re-establishing peace within. Deadheads inside were biting, and the gunfire brought in herds more while the perimeter was compromised… It was apparently pandemonium.
Gary and Wyatt, naïve as they were and separated from their families, armed themselves with weaponry from downed guardsmen and shot their way out. They’d been living and scavenging for the past two days, using this place as home base.
I keep wondering how long we’ll be able to stay here. We’re only a mile or so from the school, and our little firefight back near the road was sure to be heard by all those geeks. We’ll have to backtrack to the plow very carefully.
I can’t help noticing that Gary hasn’t taken his pack off yet. I figured we had come to an understanding back there, but he’s acting way sketchy. I think I’d feel better if they’d just get drunk and pass out so I don’t have to sleep with one eye open… again.
Probably better if Cutty, Junior, and I take off in the morning.
Entry 12
Well, ain’t this a bitch? Everyone is passed out, and I’ve taken inventory of everything we have.
The list is as follows: Junior’s got his rifle and about a box and a half of ammo left. He’s also got two cans of dip (gross) and an extra flannel shirt that he’s currently using as a blanket. Cutty travels light on weaponry, as I’ve mentioned, but he’s also been carrying his camping pack with the mini-stove, two small cans of propane, a Leatherman tool, and some other minor stuff including food and a few lighters.
I wish I had time to hit up some MREs at the school, but we did all right at the market.
I have my gym bag with the three pistols, my knife, our water, and the rest of the food. I didn’t have any extra ammo, so I snuck into Wyatt’s bag and grabbed an extra pistol mag. He’s got three or four rifle mags left, as well as a big ol’ Bowie knife, some dry goods, and four or five more pistol mags. That seemed like enough for him and Gary combined.
Gary, Gary, Gary… Why does Gary have nothing in his bag that seems useful? Why is there no ammo in Gary’s bag? And why the fuck is Gary’s bag filled with infant formula and baby food?
I’ll find out in a few short hours, that’s for sure. We’re gonna have a little chat about that over breakfast. For now, sleep.
Entry 13
This morning has been a game changer, to say the least. I was the last to wake up save for Cutty, who was still sleeping like a baby; well, if the baby in question has the ability to wake up at a moment’s notice and butcher you before you have a chance to run… Just sayin’. But I had another baby in mind.
The first thing I did was get everyone’s attention, and then I threw an empty can of beans at Cutty. I certainly didn’t want to be within an arm’s length when he awoke.
He jumped to consciousness snapping, “Got damn, man! Can a nigga get some sleep?”
I said flatly, “No. We got a problem.”
Once he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, I began the little convo. “Gary, Gary, Gary…,” I began as I gathered my thoughts. “You have something to tell us, don’t you?” I said, leveling my eyes to his. I held my pistol on my thigh, pointed idly in his direction.
Gary spoke with his lisp as he squirmed uncomfortably. “Scheriouschly? Me? No… what?”
Wyatt inched toward his rifle, but as he did, I tossed the other pist
ol to Junior and raised my eyebrows in Wyatt’s direction. Junior took the hint and addressed Wyatt with one of his backwoods euphemisms… something like, “Eeeeasy does it, princess. Reach for that stick, an’ I’ma gon’ pop you quicker’n a cherry on prom night.”
Wyatt relaxed and shot Gary a look. I continued, trying to sound as ominous as possible, “Gary, you’re a shitty liar. Who was with you guys when you made it to the station? Specifically, now… Don’t bullshit me.”
Wyatt spoke up in Gary’s defense, saying, “It was just our families, man. Why you actin’ like a dick anyway? I thought we were cool now.”
Cutty finally chimed in, asking me, “Yeah, cuz. I thought we had dis shit tightened up. What you on about?”
I gestured to Gary’s bag and suggested Cutty have a look inside. As Cutty reached for it, Gary snatched at it protectively. It took nothing more than a flinch from Cutty for Gary to let go of it. I was feeling well in control of the situation by that point.
Cutty flipped open the pack, and his brow furrowed sharply. He held up a jar of baby food and asked no one in particular, “Da fuck?”
Now, I gotta admit, I almost lost it when I saw that he randomly picked out pureed bananas, because Junior started in on him, cackling, “Hehe! Whassa matter, Cutty…? Lookin’ for a taste o’ home?” He slapped his knee. “Heehee! Cutty in a tree munchin’ on ‘nannas!”
It’s obvious that the situation was slightly over Junior’s head (shocker!), but that was the first time I saw Cutty completely ignore Junior’s shit and look me directly in the eyes.
The room fell silent, and I nodded. I returned my attention to Wyatt and laid my gun on the floor, addressing him with a lighter tone. “Wyatt. That’s obviously not for you. I need you guys to level with me.”
