Rachael fought against the gate attached to her limb in order to enter the room. It caught on the door jamb, tripping her. The zombie found itself enveloped by a blanket she had made when alive. The afghan became a stretchy net of yarn, and the more she fought against it the more tangled she became. Her fingers stuck out through the holes as she fruitlessly tried to free herself.
The handmade blanket strained as the corpse tried to grab Simon when he rolled it over. The needle proved harder to push in behind her ear. He required more force, putting all of his weight down on the button-like end to still her.
Today, Brass finds his family wrapped in plastic in the master bedroom, where he had moved them after contending with Rachael. “Hey, ladies,” he greets them sadly from the foot of the bed they have laying on for almost an entire year. “I’m home.”
When he and the people of Rubicon started to burn the bodies of those turned, he couldn’t bring himself to add his girls to the pyre. He always imagined he’d join them eventually, and he almost did that day.
“Sorry I haven’t been around much,” he says. “The store’s been busier than ever.”
That day, after he placed Rachael and Emily on the king-sized mattress, he put a razor blade against his wrist. As it bit into skin, wanting to go deeper, he tried to build the courage to follow through. It wasn’t the pain or the blood that stayed his hand. It was the not knowing. He wasn’t sure if he would come back if he committed suicide this way. Never a gun man, it was the first time in his life he wished he owned one.
He dropped the small blade to the bathroom floor where it bounced out of sight, as if disappointed. Simon had no idea how he was going to exit this world, but he’d think about it after solving an irritating question that kept popping into his head: How did it get in?
An investigation downstairs turned up that day’s paper, dotted with red where blood had soaked into the newsprint. The boy that delivered it was terrible at his job. More often than not, the periodical only made it halfway up a person’s walk.
Maybe Rachael went out to get it, Simon deduced from the smear of red on the front door. The front door was cracked open, and these signs of a struggle suggested to him that she wasn’t alone when she entered. The hutch he once set his keys upon when coming home, before Emily was born and everything had to be baby-proofed, was knocked askew. The groove it wore into the carpet from years of settlement was exposed.
Puddles and streaks of blood led into the dining room, where Rachael attempted to escape the zombie that got into the house. It overpowered her in there and feasted upon her until it heard Emily upstairs.
Simon wanted to join his girls, but he needed a definitive means. He needed a gun and had no idea where to get one. The local gun store was still locked up, he had no doubt. The police would have enough going on, and weren’t likely to give him one, and probably wouldn’t want to come home with him to carry out the act. The next best thing waited back at his market in the store room--a nail gun.
He made the commute back to his store, noticing many more zombies roaming. After speeding through the lot and around the store, he opened up for the second time that day. He had forgotten all about young Gavin as he searched the back room for his nail gun.
A sound distracted Simon as he dug through boxes of tools and supplies. Something moved, then Gavin appeared from the shadows, dead and hungry, reaching for him. He could only double his efforts in his quest for the weapon.
The second Simon set his hand on the nail gun, he swung it up and aimed its business end at the young slacker. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened. Not certain if the battery pack was dead or not, he had no time to try again. Simon slipped out of Gavin’s grasp as the bag boy lunged for him. The deceased employee landed on the boxes of supplies, and the stacks collapsed on top of him as Simon exited once again with the tool and its charger. During the return trip, even more of his living dead neighbors were out. Slack faces he once knew turned their attention on him as he drove home.
He dressed for bed, though the sun had just come up not that long ago. His watch went in its usual spot on the nightstand after his work clothes went into the hamper, as opposed to a pile on the floor that drove Rachael nuts. She was still wrapped in her afghan as he slid into bed next to her, spooning the curve of her body. His hand found Emily where she lay in front of her mother, then he brought the nail gun to his head.
The tool had plenty of charge left in it, but he had forgotten that it wouldn’t fire until the tip was depressed against a work surface. He made sure to hold it tightly to his temple. “I’ll see you soon, ladies,” he told them, and closed his eyes.
Click. He squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. Click. Click. Click. He felt robbed, his serenity stolen.
Grumbling, he crawled out of bed and fumbled with the tool, but could not remember how to open it. He didn’t want to be in this world any longer than necessary. Not without Rachael and Emily. They were the only things he liked about it. When life got bad, he could always count on them to make everything seem all right.
After prying the nail drum off, he screamed when he found it empty. He’d have to make the trip back to the store if he wanted to kill himself. “Un-fucking-believable!”
Desperate to end his life, he started to giggle. The situation was laughable, and soon tears rolled down his cheeks. He laughed all the way back to his black Riviera and all the way back to his beloved store that he couldn’t wait to be rid of. The streets were filled with shambling locals, and it looked as if the entire population of Rubicon was lost, until a blood curdling scream brought his attention to the far end of the parking lot, stopping him from making the turn around the market and the plywood enclosure the demolition men had erected.
The dead crowded around his car as he gazed past their ravaged bodies. In the distance, a small band of zombies chased a little girl.
He altered his course, running down the zombies that clawed at his windows and smeared them with blood. He pushed the old Riv harder than it had ever been pushed to get to the girl. She was dressed for school, her heavy backpack weighing her down as she retreated from the dead. Terrified and crying, she ran into the alley between stores, unaware that it was a dead end.
Simon reduced the mob by running them over, sending a few flying several yards. He flung himself across the bench seat to open the passenger side door, but still she timidly cowered away.
“It’s all right,” he said. Once upon a time he knew every face in Ruby, but over the years of decline he had practically become a stranger in his own town. “I’m not one of them. Come with me.”
She entered the old two-door, but just as he was about to speed off, the car died.
The lot was filling up with the dead and Simon couldn’t resurrect his trusted auto. He turned the key a few times to no avail. They had to move before the zombies got too close.
The girl faithfully followed him as he led her toward a gap in the walking dead, away from his market. He slid the hefty bag off her shoulders and gripped it by the straps, unable to believe the weight of it and the fact she had to carry it every day. He now had a weapon.
His market was once the center of Rubicon’s retail hub, and it shared the parking lot with other businesses that were likewise in decline from competition and the ease of shopping online. Many places came and went, but one remained despite having to change with the times and upgrade its wares to compete--the video store.
Moving around the pillbox building, Simon led the girl to the entrance. They stopped in the glass vestibule where patrons could drop off their rentals at all hours. The girl looked nervous as the dead rounded the corner after them, but Simon simply shushed her. They were virtually invisible as long as the dead didn’t look too closely. The sunlight on the glass caused a glare that kept them shrouded.
The horde passed by, and Simon viewed the zombies in great detail. Some were people he knew, people that would say hello upon passing, offer a kind smile. Their faces were lifeless and wit
hout emotion, those that still had faces. Almost all of them wore a grizzly wound, ravaged areas of blood and meat that were proof positive they belonged to the fold.
After the parade of horror trailed off, Simon decided to try and get himself and the girl into the video store. The bolt was visible through a gap in the frame, but Simon couldn’t guess how to bypass it. He decided breaking one of the panes was their best option. It took several attempts before he finally made a crack, and he used the girl’s bag to finish the job.
Simon and his late wife never took to the new ways of watching movies. They always rented from this store, so he knew the place well. Though he was sure there would be no danger within the thick shadows cast by the half-mast shades, he proceeded to lead the girl with caution. From the front, he took her down a diagonal aisle that lead to a small room where video games were displayed.
The weak light from the partially shaded windows reflected off of television screens set up to demonstrate the different entertainment systems. It wasn’t until he had her in the safety of this area that he dared to speak, “What’s your name?”
“Alice.”
“Hello, Alice, my name is Simon.”
“Like Simon Says?”
“Yes, exactly like Simon says,” he told her. “Simon says, stay here. I need to check that it’s safe. I’ll be right back. I’ll bring you a treat. What’ll you have?”
Simon Brass kept to the near pitch black back wall and headed around to the side windows. He wanted to see the town, and what he and Alice were up against. All thoughts of ending his life had to be put on hold. He had to live now that he had met the little girl, because someone had to protect and provide for her. She was the first of many.
As Simon stood among the sun-faded titles, he realized it was a category he and Rachael loved--horror.
It was Rachael who insisted on renting at least one scary movie they could watch together under one of her homemade blankets, keeping each other warm and safe, with a large tub of popcorn on their laps. He spotted one of their favorite sub-genres--the living dead movies. In almost all of them, people failed to survive after being bitten. He had always wondered why these survivors didn’t use armor, but figured that would take the danger element out of the film.
Across the street from their location was the local Harley shop. This was where he donned his first protective garment, the advent of armor.
Coming back to the present, Brass peels himself out of his thick pads and leather, becoming Simon once again. He is ready to join his family at last, comforted in the knowledge his people are in good hands and his work is done.
He never saw himself as a hero, never wanted to be a leader. He is an inventor, the creator of a marvelous mechanism of survival. A well-oiled machine that in the hands of the right operator will continue to thrive indefinitely. Abby is that person, not him. Not anymore. Today Simon becomes ‘that guy.’ The one who refuses to leave. He knows his protégé will get his people to safety, integrate into the new way of life down south without compromising too much.
The second day after the plague was when Simon Brass located and fired a gun for the first time in his life, and today he fires one last round.
11
It was always ‘we,’ never ‘I,’ Abby thinks.
Brass had never taken credit for Ruby, though all within gave it to him, but he considered the place a team triumph. Abby thinks of the last thing Brass said to him before the convoy departed. Advice on how to acclimate to the new situation, ‘Remember these are our people, our guns, our animals. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Don’t stop for anything. You can always go back for anyone that falls behind. Get the majority to safety.’
Abby can’t dwell on Brass too long. He hasn’t the time to mourn. They have just passed Harrington and are entering uncertain ground. Only a few of the soldiers from Rubicon have travelled outside of their staked territory before, but this is different. They won’t be returning. It feels like being adrift on the ocean with no idea what they may be heading into. They’ve been on the road for the better part of the day, stopping only to fuel the thirsty machines and swap out weary drivers.
The men and women of Ruby must keep a watchful eye. Not only do they suspect the new breed of dead has taken out the northernmost outpost and could possibly be on their trail, but there are pirates about.
Unlike Brass and all those embracing the Ruby way, these are gluttonous folks that have gotten a taste for lawlessness and act on any dark impulse or perverse passion that enters their minds. The men and women who serve the greater good of Rubicon never kill a fellow survivor unless they are left absolutely no choice. They simply displace them. Some questioned this in the past, warning that the likeminded bands may find one another and form a much larger ‘id army.’
“Abby, we lost contact with our recon car,” Lady Luck says. They are so close to their goal, have traveled so far without incident, but getting there without a single snag would be asking too much.
Abby is topside, and he leans on the rails of the heavily armed tour bus to scan ahead of them. Through a set of binoculars, he searches for the jeep they had sent out ahead to scout. All he can find is the smoldering undercarriage.
“Keep it tight!” he commands all drivers over his radio. “All eyes on the lookout!”
The sight of the wreckage they pass tells Abby that the ruffians have also located military weapons, or have been able to improvise their own.
“The road ahead is blocked,” Lady Luck says. “The bulls want to know if we’re plowing through.”
“It was clear when we came this way,” Carla adds.
“It may be booby trapped,” Abby says, and he doesn’t want to risk stranding the train out here. “Blow it away.”
The discharge of the tanks’s primary weapons shakes the ground all the way to the back of the convoy. The blast clears the area for the bulls to crush a path through the debris.
“I’m hoping they only meant to stop you guys on your return trip,” Abby says without apology. “And weren’t expecting this much firepower.”
The convoy slows as the vehicles are forced to constrict their formation to pass through the wreckage left by their artillery. The air is tense as men and women look down their barrels and through scopes. They know if they are hit here it’ll come from the sides. Up ahead is the perfect spot for an ambush. Large rest areas flank the highway on either side and are joined by an overpass that contains a chain burger joint. Whoever took out the scout could hide anywhere among the pumps and buildings, or even above them.
Abby has the tanks take aim on the suspended restaurant after they pass under it, then the armored vehicles open the distance between themselves to allow the rest to get through as quickly as possible. As imposing as they are, the long caravan is an awfully tempting target, possibly worth the risk for the guns and food.
Once the tanks are positioned to the sides, the rest get the go-ahead to speed through. The move may force the hands of the bandits, should they become fearful of losing their quarry, or they may bow out with the cannons aimed at them point blank.
A rocket is launched that strikes the iron hide of one of the bulls. Its effect is minimal, but the tank can’t return fire until all the vehicles are clear of the overpass. The machine guns reciprocate instead, roaring into action with devastating salvos that cut through the fast food restaurant’s windows. Others in the convoy have the on and off ramps covered, ready to fire on anything that moves.
Teeth gritted tightly, Abby begs the non-combatants to hurry up so he can neutralize the threat. The Gunship and the twin tanks bringing up the rear pass underneath as another rocket is fired from above, striking one of their semis.
“Fuckers!” Abby says. “Take it down!”
Deafening blasts from the tanks precede the explosive result. The fast food place falls across the road, along with whoever dared to fire upon them. The semi sustaining the enemy’s attack is injured, running on flattened tires and weaving from side
to side. The Gunship rides up to take its place as protector of the school buses when it lags behind, burdened by the load it hauls.
Gunfire flies at them from all sides. The bandits are like hyenas trying to isolate an injured gazelle from a herd. The Rubies return fire, and the disregard for human life shown them.
“Get the driver!” Abby calls over all channels, to anyone capable of saving the man behind the wheel. “Let ’em have the truck.”
Carla and Oz drop to the lower section of the bus and head to the door. They ride alongside the defunct semi, which struggles to stay on the road, and they beckon for the driver to jump. He unfastens his seat belt and maintains control one handed while creeping to the passenger side door.
The driver takes a leap of faith, diving into the Gunship while his truck gets left behind. He is caught and pulled into the bus. The bandits fire from the sides of the road, as if to let the convoy know that the truck is theirs now. Rubies track them by their muzzle flashes, unleashing short salvos in return.
The abandoned truck comes to a wobbly stop as the rest of the pack continues forward. Abby had hoped it would have been enough for the raiders, but another rocket is sent after them. A warning not to turn around or linger too long where they are not welcome. It strikes one of the buses at the heart of the herd.
The propelled explosive was meant for the Gunship, but it veered off course mid-air and found the rear wheel well of one of their non-combatant transports. The long tail end drags, making sparks as the front wheels work hard to keep up with the surrounding vehicles.
“Slow the pack,” Abby says. “We need to get them off.”
The gunners spare no rounds covering the rescue operation. They’re out for blood now. The emergency door of the bus is used to evacuate the men, women, and children that Brock Rottom helps off the handicapped transport. He had been asked to ride with the civilians to help keep up their morale.
Carla receives the people and helps them onto the Gunship while the war rages on around them. About to get the last of them out, Brock crumples to the ground. He’s been hit.
Life Among The Dead (Book 3): A Bittersweet Victory Page 25
