Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within

by James N. Cook

  Rather than open the door, I stood outside with my ear pressed against it and listened. Nothing happened. I knocked softly a couple of times, just loud enough to be heard inside and waited again. Nothing. No moans, no scrapes, nothing being knocked over, no sound at all. I let out a breath and swung the door open.

  The darkness inside was a palpable thing, impervious to the dim light of the half-moon overhead. I grabbed a flashlight from my belt and shined it around. The small building was empty except for dusty racks of wiring, sheathing, and various electrical components, and a bank of long-dead meters against the far wall. The dust that covered everything inside was thick, and cobwebs hung from between walls, corners of the ceiling, and shelves. If I was going to sleep here tonight, and not get eaten alive by spiders and God knows what else, I was going to have to do a little cleaning.

  I found a narrow length of aluminum pipe in the piles of junk surrounding the building and crafted a makeshift broom out of cedar boughs and creeper vines. Bed, Bath and Beyond never would have sold it, but for what I needed, it would work just fine.

  After knocking down the cobwebs, brushing away the worst of the dust, and sweeping the collective detritus out the door, I spent a few minutes sneezing quietly before laying out my small bedroll. It had been less than an hour since I’d roped down from the helicopter, but it felt like much longer and the tension was beginning to wear on my nerves. When I shut the door and threw the deadbolt, I blew out a sigh of relief. The walls around me were thick and solid, and as long as I didn’t make too much noise, it was unlikely the infected would find me here. Good enough for the moment.

  Out of habit, I clicked on my flashlight, removed the red lens cover, and took a more careful look around. There were a few things here—spools of copper wire, tools, climbing pegs the size of railroad spikes, etc.—that might have been worth scavenging if I were anywhere near civilization. But out here alone, they were worthless.

  With nothing else to do, I rummaged in my pack until I found a palm-size lantern that, rather than being battery-powered, could be charged by rotating a small hand crank for a couple of minutes. It worked well, but turning the crank was surprisingly hard work. My arm was burning by the time I was done.

  After charging it, I used a section of copper wire to hang it from a metal strut in the ceiling, and laid all my weapons and equipment out on my bedroll for a quick inspection.

  When determining what to bring along for this mission, I had applied a couple of litmus tests to each item before deciding on it:

  First: Is it the kind of thing that a survivor, who stays alive by staying mobile, would be willing to carry? Mobility meant traveling light. Ounces, pounds, pain, and so on.

  Second: If it is light enough to carry over long distances, what purpose does it serve? Will it help me obtain food, water, shelter, or protection? Could it provide more than one of these things?

  From there, I had to prioritize. An Outbreak survivor’s first priority is, above all else, weapons. The infected are everywhere, but they are only half as dangerous as living people who might take exception to one’s continued existence. Not to mention packs of wild dogs, increasingly aggressive wolves and coyotes, predators escaped from zoos that now flourished in the prey-rich vastness of North America, and a host of other dangers. Anyone traveling alone through the wastelands was going to have to defend himself on a daily basis. If said individual did not have a weapon on hand when the walkers (or whatever) showed up, he was dead. End of story.

  Next to that, dehydration and starvation were distant runners-up.

  The most important thing to consider when choosing my weapons was authenticity. I was playing the part of the nomad. To avoid suspicion, my gear needed to fit that persona. Drawing on my own considerable experience as a scavenger, I knew well what kinds of hardware a wandering survivor might expect to scavenge, and I had planned accordingly.

  Before the Outbreak, .22 long rifle was the most inexpensive and abundantly available caliber of ammunition in the United States. Millions of households had some kind of firearm chambered for it and, in most cases, plenty of ammunition as well. The cartridges typically came in boxes of between one-hundred to five-hundred rounds and, due to their small size and relatively low weight, one could carry literally thousands of rounds in a backpack without taking on an unbearable amount of strain. At ranges out to fifty yards, a good .22 rifle can kill a walker with only one or two shots and, if one exercises proper marksmanship, they can be equally as deadly to game animals and even living people.

  All of that being said, any survivor who had engaged in a firefight and lived to tell the story would also understand the undeniable value of good old-fashioned firepower. A .22 can kill a man, but it won’t stop him in his tracks like many of the larger calibers, which means that a wounded enemy could still shoot back before succumbing to his wounds. Because of this fact, any survivor worth his salt is going to want to have something with a little more oomph in his arsenal. Additionally, said survivor would also want a backup weapon, and some kind of hand-held bludgeon or heavy blade.

  For a primary weapon, I chose one of the most common rifles in existence—the Ruger 10-22. It is simple, lightweight, reliable and, most importantly, ubiquitous. Go to any town in America, search enough houses and, sooner or later, you’ll find one of these things.

  The one laying on my bedroll had a scuffed and scratched black polymer stock, a low power scope, and a quartet of 25-round magazines, all loaded and ready to go. The rifle, like all the rest of my equipment, had been acquired courtesy of Steve and his access to the U.S. Army’s vast trade network. It’s amazing what a little instant coffee and toilet paper will buy these days.

  Although it would have been great to bring along my M-6, the technologically advanced rifle was rare even before the Outbreak, and it would have been a dead giveaway once I made contact with the Legion. What I needed was something more common, and easier to explain how I came to possess it. I could have picked from a variety of different weapons, but for the last few years I had relied heavily on the AR-15 assault rifle platform and, to be plainly honest, I’d grown used to it. It is reliable, accurate, easy to shoot, and standard .223 ammo isn’t terribly heavy. I didn’t see any point in fixing something that wasn’t broken.

  Luckily, even during a period in pre-Outbreak history when firearms sales were declining nationwide, the AR-15 was one of the most popular rifles on the market. Gun dealers sold millions of them and, much like the 10-22, if one searched long and hard enough, he could find an AR-15 just about anywhere in the country. Furthermore, because the ammo used by AR-15s was fairly expensive, gun owners tended to buy it in bulk to save money. Which means that if you find an AR, you’ll probably also find plenty of ammo to go along with it. All of this made it easy to explain why I would have a civilian semi-automatic version of the M-4 carbine in my kit.

  Manufactured by Smith & Wesson, it was inexpensive, widely popular, and a number of law enforcement agencies had even used it as a patrol rifle. The weapon was bare bones, boasting only iron sights and an adjustable stock. But it was in good operating condition, and I had three full magazines for it and a hundred spare rounds. It gave me a lot of firepower, but without a suppressor to reduce the loud report, I would have to save it for emergencies only. For all their other useful qualities, unsuppressed ARs are really freaking loud.

  For secondary weapons, I had two pistols; one chambered for .22, and the other in nine-millimeter. The .22 was my old Sig Sauer Mosquito (sans suppressor), and the nine-mil was a venerable CZ-75. And just in case I ran out of ammo, I also carried a short handled woodcutting ax and a two-foot crowbar with athletic tape wrapped around the shaft for a better grip. In addition to being fine melee weapons against the undead, axes and crowbars had a multitude of other uses that made them indispensable to any survivor’s toolkit.

  The rest of my gear consisted of a small pack with a built-in water bladder, a couple of canteens, zip-ties, batteries, para-cord, fishing line, Z
iplock bags, over-the-counter painkillers, a hunting knife, a multi-tool, and several different fire-starting kits. What little food I carried consisted mainly of smoked meat, a few small bundles of wild edibles native to the region, and a container of vegetable shortening. Exactly the kinds of things one would expect a longtime survivor to have.

  My clothes looked like something I might have scavenged from an abandoned sporting goods store, and my web gear could have been pilfered from any number of dead soldiers whose corpses lay strewn about the Eastern Seaboard—a reminder of the brave but ultimately futile struggle that claimed their lives.

  After looking everything over for the umpteenth time, I stowed all my gear back where it belonged, made sure all my guns were loaded, placed the CZ close at hand, and settled down into my bedroll. There were a hundred worries racing around in my head threatening to keep me up all night, so I sorted them out, put them in little stacks, and filed them away for future reference. That’s the key to keeping your cool in bad situations. Compartmentalize. Prioritize. Make a list of tasks, and carry them out one at a time.

  My first task was to get some sleep. After that, move toward my next destination, and try not to get myself killed. Lather, rinse, repeat. It was what came after that had my guts twisted in a knot.

  I shoved that thought back into its box, shut my eyes, and slept.

  Chapter 14

  Hatchet Man

  Waking up in pitch-black darkness is never fun.

  At first, you’re confused. Then there is a second of panic as you bat feebly at the imaginary monsters lurking in the black just in front of your face. Finally, the pistons of memory begin to fire, and you remember what the heck you’re doing wrapped up in a sleeping bag on a cold cement floor. My hand fumbled around the edge of the bedroll until the cold metal of my flashlight touched my palm. I flicked it on.

  The interior of the utility shed was exactly as it had been the day before, albeit a bit warmer. Surmising that the sun was already up, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was just after nine in the morning—much later than I had hoped to get started.

  Dammit. As Wil Anderson would have put it, I was burnin’ daylight.

  I rolled up my bed, ate a quick breakfast of venison jerky and crushed cattail root, chewed a little chicory to get my blood flowing, and got myself ready to move out. The M-4 went strapped to my back, but still within reach if I needed it. The CZ went into a cross-draw holster on my chest, and the Sig rode on the back of my right hip. The 10-22 I carried in my hands. My other weapons dangled from my belt.

  With everything ready to go, I moved to the door and put an ear against it. Nearly a full minute passed. Nothing. I turned the handle on the deadbolt, sliding it back slowly until it stopped. I eased the door open to peek outside, ready to slam it shut again if I spotted any walkers. The brightness of the morning sky made my eyes water after being in the gloomy shed for so long. I grabbed the pair of polarized ski goggles hanging from my neck and slipped them on to dial down the glare. Peering out again, I scanned the field as I gradually pulled the door back but didn’t see anything.

  I almost stepped outside, but then hesitated, realizing that from where I stood I couldn’t see very much. What if I had been spotted when I roped down from the chopper? What if someone was out there lying in wait? Anxiety quickened my pulse. I stood in the doorway for a long minute debating what to do.

  Enough of this foolishness. An old, familiar voice in my head whispered. You can’t account for every possibility under the sun. Keep your head on a swivel, your gun at the ready, and get yourself moving. Time’s a wastin’.

  Steeling myself with a deep breath, I stepped outside and diligently scanned around the shed, walking close to the walls and cutting the pie on each corner before stepping around it. Nothing but a few trees, a burned out building or two, and farm equipment that looked like it had been abandoned since long before the Outbreak. Pale brown grass stretched into the distance under a clear sky.

  Turning my attention from sight to hearing, I closed my eyes and listened. Birds chirped. Leaves rustled. Small rodents skittered through the grass looking for seeds. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  My confidence began to return, filling my chest up like water on a dry sponge. I chuckled at my own paranoia. “Hell. I’m probably the most dangerous thing out here,” I muttered.

  It was a dumb thing to do, putting a sentence like that out there into the universe. I should have known it would come back to bite me in the ass.

  *****

  The first few miles went under my feet without incident. I set an easy pace, kept my eyes moving, and stopped frequently to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Every once in a while I spotted movement in the trees—a swaying limb where there was no wind, a rustle of foliage, a shadow passing between trunks—but whatever it was, it was staying out of sight. It was too stealthy and moved too fast to be a person, but beyond that, I had no clue what it was.

  And I sure as hell wasn’t going in after it.

  I would have to keep an eye out, but with a hundred yards of open ground separating me from the forest, I wasn’t worried about being taken by surprise. I kept moving.

  Consulting my compass, I felt confident that I was on course. My destination was an abandoned industrial park that Grayson Morrow had identified as a Legion base of operations. He knew it well, as it was the place where he had been captured and held prisoner.

  The terrain around me was mostly flat, which made for easy travel; by the time I stopped for lunch, the first waypoint on my journey was within sight. It was too small to warrant a stoplight, or even a name for that matter. But I guess you could have called it a town. There was a small collection of houses and a trailer park across a set of railroad tracks from a rundown strip mall, a farm-equipment repair facility, and a rusting grain hopper. Although everything looked like it had been abandoned since the Outbreak, I still had a feeling that there were a few infected kicking around somewhere. In places like this, there always were.

  Ordinarily, I would have avoided this place entirely unless I was in desperate need of supplies. And even then, I would not have come alone. Taking on a town full of infected without help is just next door to suicide, but I had to do it. There was something here that I needed.

  During his time with the Legion, Grayson Morrow had secretly drawn a map of the encampment where he had been imprisoned that detailed the disposition of troops, supplies, and nearby equipment. Not long after drawing it, he had actually managed to escape and had fled north toward his home state of Indiana.

  He didn’t make it very far.

  Hunting down escapees is one of the Legion’s favorite pastimes. They tracked Morrow to the little community ahead of me, where they eventually captured him. Morrow had known he was caught, and what his punishment was going to be, and he didn’t want the raiders to find the map on him. If they had, they would have killed him after they had their fun with him. As for what they did to him, well … it’s probably best left unmentioned.

  I shook my head to clear it of dark thoughts and darker anger, peered through the Ruger’s scope, and started looking for the best way to approach the strip mall.

  I spotted an old irrigation ditch that ran along a gradual slope in the landscape that would hide me while I snuck in from the west. It was probably an unnecessary precaution—it didn’t really stand to reason that there would be anyone still living here—but I hadn’t stayed alive this long by being stupid.

  Staying low, I followed the crease in the terrain and approached at an angle that would make it tough for anyone looking out a window or from a rooftop to see me. As I got closer, I heard birds flitting and chirping through broken panes of shattered windows, and the intermittent moans of infected.

  The walkers hunger for birds the same as they do any other animal, but even with their rot-addled brains, they still manage to figure out that they can’t catch the swift little creatures. Or maybe it’s just that there are always other birds around to catch their
attention. Either way, when walkers see birds, they moan at them. But not much else.

  Oddly, as soon as the sun goes down, this behavior stops. During this time, the infected only make noise when they are near larger, ground-based prey. No one knows why. It’s just another one of the many mysteries surrounding the walking dead.

  I soon reached the small cluster of buildings near the railroad tracks that were once businesses but were now just broken shells. There was a trailer park ahead of me and, farther down the road, an assemblage of small brick-walled houses. The trailers looked like something out of a low-budget horror movie, with crumbling porches, broken windows, and stained aluminum siding. Their insulation had been ripped out by wind, rain, and water damage, and lay strewn around the overgrown yards like orange and yellow confetti. The houses beyond didn’t look to be in much better shape.

  Reaching the strip mall, I poked my head around the corner and did a quick scan. The trailer park was directly across from me, and in front of it was a single crumbling road running parallel to the railroad tracks. The moaning I heard was coming from the storefronts to my left, where the community’s former residents wandered aimlessly, groaning and bumping into one another. They all gazed upward, staring disconsolately at a contingent of barn swallows that had taken up residence in the nearby rooftops.

  On any other day, I might have found the situation sad, and vaguely humorous in a fucked-up kind of way. But not this time. The infected were right in front of the building where Morrow had stashed his map and, in order to get it, I had to get past them. If Gabe had been with me, it wouldn’t have been a problem. But alone, it was a gigantic pain in my ass. I ducked back around the corner and weighed my options.