Human Extinction Level Loss (Book 3): Liberation

by McClimon, Philip A.

  Next to Jacob, Tommy played with the binoculars. He had not said a word since last night. Beverly knew he had shut down, that he wasn’t processing. She hated Jacob, not for what he said, but for the way he said it. She remembered some of the training her husband had received from the Police Chaplain, about how to break the news to the families of the fallen. Telling someone their loved one was dead was like handing them a boulder. You did it slowly, passing it on with care and deliberation. It was good advice and what she was trying to do with Tommy. What you didn’t do was throw it at them. That would only crush them under the weight of it. What Jacob had done made her furious, made her want to get away from him. The fact that she felt trapped only added to her frustration. They couldn’t strike out on their own, the threat was too real. She had tried to steal Jacob’s Jeep, but he had thwarted that and probably would again. Then what, back to being zip-tied in the Jeep, if they were lucky? She felt powerless and it was a feeling she hated, almost as much as the emptiness that spread through her soul. Jacob said he was heading West, and he was, but all she could do was wait while he tried to silence his demons, one shot at a time. One of those shots rang out and scraped at her already raw nerves. She pulled her knees tighter as Tommy scanned the valley, trying to locate the fallen.

  “Which one did you get, Sheriff Miller?” he asked, keeping the binoculars pressed to his eyes. “Tell me which one you are going for so I can see it.”

  Beside him, Jacob did not acknowledge Tommy. He put a line through a name, then went back to staring through the scope. Tommy lowered the binoculars and looked over at Jacob to see if he had heard him. When he got no response he too went back to scanning the horde. Beverly looked down at her son.

  “Tommy, come over here, son. You don’t need to see what’s down there,” she said.

  Tommy lowered the binoculars and looked at his mother, rolling his eyes.

  “They’re just zombies, mom,” he said, turning back to the valley. He looked through the binoculars and scanned the horde.

  Beverly wiped a tear from her eye, having not the strength to make her son obey her.

  The progress of the horde below seemed to match the slow march of the sun as it moved across the heavens. Still, all Beverly could do was wait, wait and hope that what Tommy said was true.

  Above them, the sun began its descent. Below them, the horde began to thin. Jacob had not taken another shot and the intervening hours midst the warm breezes had eaten away at her resolve. Beverly lay on her back and dozed. It was not a shot from Jacob’s rifle that brought her back, but the sharp intake of breath from Tommy. It was the sound a mother responds to, no matter how asleep she is. Beverly opened her eyes and sat up. She looked over at Tommy and saw that he was frozen still. He seemed to stare at nothing in particular, the binoculars neither to his face or set down, held only in the intervening space between. Beverly was not even sure she heard what she did. She looked over at Jacob for some kind of confirmation, but he only stared through his scope and waited. She brought her gaze back to Tommy. He was breathing. His breath was not the gentle respiration of a resting ten year old, but the rapid hyperventilation of someone afraid, someone who was only just now realizing their life had come apart. She watched in rapt horror as Tommy shook, struggling to get the strap of the binoculars from around his neck.

  “Tommy, baby-” Beverly began, but her words cut short. Tommy freed himself from the strap and shoved the binoculars away. He got to his feet and turned, but did not come to her, did not look at her, did not see anything but the blinding vision below. Beverly reached out for him as he passed her, but he broke from her grasp and ran. Beverly jumped to her feet and pursued. Sensing the disturbance, Jacob looked away from his scope and watched the two go.

  Beverly was afraid that Tommy had run into the woods, would keep running and become lost in the trees. She came up short as she saw him. He leaned against the side of the Cherokee, his face buried in the crook of his arm, the wailing and tears flowing freely. Beverly raced up to her son and grabbed him. She spun him around and clutched him to her. Sensing his mother, Tommy threw his arms around his mother’s neck and buried his face in her shoulder. Beverly stroked her son’s hair and rocked him.

  “Tell me what you saw, baby. What was in the valley below, please…”

  Tommy’s breaths came in gasps. He raised his head and through tear filled eyes gave witness to the truth he wanted desperately to deny.

  “Daddy wasn’t lucky, mom! My daddy wasn’t lucky!”

  Fourteen

  Night settled upon them and no one spoke. Each moved in the solitude of their own mind. Beverly kept an eye on Tommy, but he would not look at her. When Jacob presented their cans of stew, he did not eat. Beverly too found that she had no appetite. Only Jacob ate, off to the side, by himself. When the time came for the nightly broadcast, Beverly had hoped it would be a brief respite from Tommy’s emotional exile. It was not to be. Knowing that there was no chance his father would hear it, left Tommy disinterested in the prospect of a future that the messages offered. When it was too dark to do anything else they tried to sleep, but sleep did not come. Tommy lay in his blanket, his back to his mother. Beverly caressed his hair and tried to comfort him. Tommy had tried to close his eyes, but when he did, he only saw his father, so he kept them open, staring into the black void of the night.

  The next morning Beverly was on a mission. She had resolved she would do what she must to get Jacob to take them to Colorado. When she woke and saw that Tommy had not moved, only continued to stare out into nothing, she knew that they must get off the road, away from the endless pursuit of death. If Tommy was going to have any chance at all it would have to be in a place where there was some hope for the future, not out here trying to silence the past. To that end she was willing to beg.

  “Please… I know that what you are doing… that your work is important to you, but I must get my son to Colorado. He can’t be out here… surrounded by all… all of this…”

  Jacob, who had his back to Beverly and was checking his gear in the Cherokee, turned and faced her. His face showed the struggle between stoic resolve and compassion. He opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by the soft insistent voice of Tommy.

  “We can’t go to Colorado. Not until we free my Dad.”

  Jacob looked up and Beverly turned, both fixing their gaze on the small figure standing before them.

  “That’s what you are doing, isn’t it Sheriff Miller? Freeing them? Making it so they aren’t zombies anymore?” Tommy said.

  Beverly’s heart was breaking. She had to get Tommy somewhere stable. It wasn’t only the road, it was Jacob. He was a man trapped in his own hellish misery. He felt compelled to cling to the Dead, to devote himself to them, maybe out of guilt, she wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was that she could not allow her son to sink into that morass, but as she stood looking into the pleading eyes of her son, she knew that the decision was taken out of her hands. Jacob’s words only highlighted her futility.

  “The next vantage point is four hours. We leave in ten minutes.”

  Beverly sighed and her shoulders slumped. Tommy turned and began to roll his sleeping bag.

  It was Jacob’s least favorite vantage point. The window of opportunity was small on account of the town. Perched on a spot high above in the hills, Jacob set up and settled in. The spot overlooked a two lane road that led into Centerville Township. The horde was funneled into the road which ran between a series of hills. Between the hills was nestled the town of Centerville. Behind him, a railroad track curved into the distance, then swung back through the town. As the horde would pass, He had just a scant few moments to locate his target before they would become obstructed by houses, buildings, and interlacing streets.

  Jacob lay prostrate, his rifle in position, scope on the road. Beside him, his ledger was opened to the back page, a blank page. A pen rested there. Without taking his eye from the scope, Jacob gave Tommy instructions.

  “Write your
father’s name on the page. It’s important that you do it… that you have a record… so that later you will know and have no doubt.”

  Tommy took his eyes from the binoculars and looked at Jacob. Jacob kept his position. Tommy reached over and took the pen in his hand. At the top of the page, in his best handwriting, slow and careful, Tommy wrote,

  Officer Mark Sanders

  Tommy looked at the name for several seconds, then made a decision. Next to the name he wrote,

  My Dad

  Tommy placed the pen back on the page and slid the book back to Jacob. He picked up the binoculars and, together with Jacob, kept unflinching vigil on the stretch of road leading into town. Beverly stood with her back to them. She stared down the long stretch of railroad tracks with her arms wrapped around her, feeling a chill despite the warmness of the day.

  The horde appeared an hour later. It covered the width of the road. Those on the extreme edges collided and careened off the steep embankments of the hills on either side. Some stumbled and fell in gullies, only to rise and shuffle forward. They filled the vision of both scope and binoculars.

  “Call out to me when you see him,” Jacob said.

  Tommy, unflinching in his survey, answered.

  “I will.”

  The day wore on and Jacob had taken two shots. Two more names from his own book. Always Jacob flipped back to the last page, the name Officer Mark Sanders uncrossed.

  Finally, the rearguard of the horde began to appear, stragglers, made so by the marks of their initiation, too damaged and worn down by the constant friction of decaying flesh and asphalt. Still Tommy scanned, his hope sinking even as cold panic began to rise that he might not see his father, might not be given the opportunity to sing out, might not get to free his father from the walking death. His own mind and body began to become an enemy. Having kept focus for so many hours, he grew tired. His eyes played tricks on him.

  Was that him?! No, wrong color shirt. What about him? No, my Dad never wore those pants…

  Tommy lowered the binoculars for just a second, rubbed his dry, weary eyes. Beside him, unflinching, Jacob gave his warning.

  “Keep your vigil.”

  Tommy placed the binoculars back to his eyes and scanned. He moved down the road and followed a small pack.

  No… No… No… Wait! There!

  Tommy got to his knees and leaned forward as if a couple more inches would give him a better view.

  “There he is, Sheriff Miller! There’s my Dad!” Tommy yelled.

  Beside him Jacob was calm.

  “Describe him. What is he wearing?” he said.

  “The red tee shirt and cargo pants! There!” Tommy yelled.

  Beverly clung to herself even tighter and turned towards them. She waited for the shot to ring out, the shot that would release her husband from a walking nightmare and her son from Death’s hold, the shot that would allow them both to move on. The seconds ticked by and no shot came.

  Beside Jacob, Tommy lowered the binoculars. He began to holler.

  “You missed him! You didn’t free him! My Dad!”

  The fear and desperation in Tommy’s voice were too much for Beverly, she turned and seized her son, pressing him to her breast. His body spasmed as he wailed against her.

  Across from her, Jacob calmly rose. Walking to the rear of the Cherokee, he broke down his rifle and stowed it. He retrieved his body armor and began to strap it on. Bracers, vest, leather jacket, fingerless gloves, shin guards and knee pads.

  Beverly looked at him, confused.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  Jacob did not look over at her. He grabbed his Ruger Mark I and screwed on the suppressor. Laying it on the tailgate, he retrieved four magazines and began to stuff them into the pockets of his leather jacket. Satisfied, he grabbed a full face black motorcycle helmet and put it on. Jacob leaned in and grabbed two final items, a bottle, and a coil of rope with wooden handles affixed to either end. This he put his arm through and hung off his shoulder. The label on the bottle read Deer Urine Spray. He applied it liberally over all his clothes. Without saying a word, he tossed the bottle in the back of the Jeep. He went to the driver’s side and leaned in, pulling the keys from the ignition.

  Sensing something was happening, Tommy stopped crying and looked up at Jacob as he approached. Beverly and Tommy both fixed their eyes upon him as he stood there, holding out the keys to the Cherokee. Their noses crinkled as the foul smell of the Deer Urine scent hit them.

  “If I don’t come back…” he said.

  Beverly reached up and took the keys from Jacob. Before she could say a word, Jacob flipped the dark face shield of the helmet down, turned and started down the tracks toward Centerville.

  Fifteen

  …Just Go!

  …You’ve got the keys! Drive!

  …You’ve got to do what you have to, Tommy will understand!

  But one look at her son and she knew in an instant that he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t understand and he wouldn’t get over it. There was even a chance that he wouldn’t forgive her.

  As if reading her mind, Tommy mouthed the words, “No, Mom…”

  Beverly released her white knuckle grip on the keys, the tension in her body relaxed.

  Jacob walked, shadowing the horde as it moved through the center of town. This was not his kind of work. It wasn’t practical, wasn’t efficient.

  It wasn’t safe.

  From his vantage points above the horde, he could see them, through the scope, differentiate the mass from those he felt a debt. He knew he had to get ahead of them, but going around them wasn’t the way to do it. It would take too long. The deer urine would mask his scent, make him appear as something besides a meal, but it didn’t mean he could stroll along with them like it was a Thanksgiving Day parade. He knew Tommy’s Dad was in the rear and he hoped that in the bottle neck that was the town, he had remained so. Still, he wouldn’t know until he was practically among them.

  Jacob crouched behind a Dumpster in the back of Bubba’s Big Chicken Diner. The deer urine mixed with the smell of garbage and he felt confident that, for the moment, he was undetectable. Once inside the town limits and with the rear of the horde in sight, he had cut down a side street looking for a place to watch them. He glanced down the alley. Through the gap between the walls of two buildings, he watched as the horde shuffled by. Where he was now was not a place to take his target. Once he located it, he could anticipate where his best chance might be. To do that he knew he had to get higher.

  Jacob sprung from behind the Dumpster and crept to an access ladder fastened to the wall across and down from the Dumpster. The horde was close. If they noticed him, and if even just a few funneled down the alley, the rest would sense it. He would be surrounded and cut off. The shuffling and moaning of the horde gave him some cover, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Jacob tucked the Ruger into his jacket and began to climb.

  He moved to the edge of the building and looked over at the horde below.

  Red shirt… Cargo pants…

  Jacob let the words echo in his mind as he searched. Finally, as the horde continued to move past, he saw him. Jacob tracked his gait, trying to determine where his path would take him, what building might he stray close to, in what darkened recess could he seize what was once Mark Sanders and…

  The thing that was Mark Sanders shuffled slow, loping gradually to the left. Jacob tracked him and then looked across the street and three blocks up. A flower shop, dark and empty sat facing the street. A large gaping hole was in the front of the building where plate glass would have been. The glass lay shattered on the sidewalk in front. Jacob knew he would have one chance and he would have to be fast. He eased away from the ledge and back down the ladder.

  He sat in the shadows of a demolished vacuum cleaner repair shop and stared out the open door. The flower shop was directly across from him. The muscles in his legs were taut like a spring and he was ready to pounce. He had wanted to cross the street, t
o wait for Tommy’s father in the shadows on the other side. His confidence failed him on two fronts: the first, that Tommy’s father would stray close enough for him to simply reach out and grab, and the second, that he would be able to cross the flowing current of the horde undetected. Should they sense him crossing and attack, he would not stand a chance. So he waited. He kept his face shield down. While it did much to block out the sound of the Dead, it did little to mitigate the smell, theirs or his. The Decay mixed with the scent of deer urine threatened to roll his stomach, but he held on. He had done two things to prepare. In front of him was a vacuum cleaner lying on its side, wheels pointed towards the street. Propped up against the wall to his left was a piece of glass. He had wiped it clean enough to dimly reflect the store behind him. To let something sneak up on him was to die of foolishness and Jacob Miller was not going to be foolish.

  The moments ticked by until the thing that was Tommy Sanders’ father stumbled into view. Jacob uncoiled the length of rope from his shoulder and gripped the handles in each hand. He moved those hands down to the vacuum cleaner and shoved it in one motion out into the path of Tommy’s father. The object went unheeded and the shuffler tripped and fell to the ground. Those around it gave no notice as they dragged themselves past their fallen comrade, their raspy wheezing and groaning not lifting an octave in alert. Jacob strengthened the grip on the rope’s wooden handles. As the shuffler began to push itself up and rise, Jacob Miller leaped from the shadows and ran into the street.