Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 3): Salvation

by Scott, Joshua Jared

  Inside the valley, we have several farms with the areas allocated to growing crops fenced off. Most of the livestock is now kept elsewhere, but there are barns and pens for dairy cattle, chickens, and horses. The town proper was constructed in the rear of the valley with cabins placed in nice orderly lines. The roads running between these consist of a thick gravel base overlaid with flat stones. And, to everyone’s joy, the cabins all have wood floors. Finally, there’s a large brewery that crafts a low alcohol beer. Because fermentation helps eliminate bacteria, this is actually safer to drink than most of the available water.

  Behind the town, we have a small rise – the sides of the valley are composed of two long, steep hills – upon which the citadel sits. This fortification has walls sixteen feet high and eight wide with battlements on top. Like the outer valley wall, they are composed of two layers of stone with dirt, rubble, and concrete filling the center. At each corner is a tower which juts forward of the wall itself. The gatehouse is in the center of the front wall and has two sets of wood doors and a portcullis covered in sheets of metal, again tin. The towers and gatehouse are two stories high at twenty four feet and also have battlements.

  Okay, I’ll admit it. Yes, I will. We went and built a real castle. I just couldn’t help myself. After living in the concrete hive everyone insisted on calling “the castle” back in Nebraska, the concept was locked within my mind. Now, heavy weapons can blast through our walls in short order, but small arms will have little effect. It also provides decent cover and well placed firing platforms. Additionally, the place can hold a tremendous amount of supplies. As to zombies, I doubt they would ever get into the valley in the first place. If they did, the citadel would stop them cold. Finally, being able to look at those tall, thick walls did wonders for morale, and that is every bit as important as its defensive value.

  Within the citadel is a single house. This belongs to me and my wife, Briana; my adopted daughter, Mary; my natural born son, Asher; and as often as not Lizzy who spends an inordinate amount of time visiting. We also have a hall for official meetings, the primary armory, storehouses for food and granaries, a hospital, and cisterns. Most of the water storage is actually underground in the town, but it would be foolish not to keep as much as we can inside the walls.

  There are also two caves in the valley, both of which are located close to the citadel. The first consists of a single, large chamber. We leveled the floor so it could be used for storage, and the entrance has been walled off with a door installed. In contrast, the second cave is long and winding, coming to a dead end deep underground. It contains petroglyphs carved into the stone, and we have yet to figure out who made them or why. It seems most of the historians familiar with such topics are now dead. Annoying. This has also been secured in order to keep curious children out.

  And last but not least, we have our generators. There are a lot of them, and the entire valley has been wired for electricity. There are a few powered by gas, with the supply tanks partly buried and fenced off. However, the majority of our needs are met by a collection of wind turbines, fuel being too precious to waste. Attempts were made at using solar panels, but the things weren’t working, not enough consistent sunlight. As to the tiny power station, this was installed by the military, and the technicians who run it are mostly from the islands.

  Second final thing, here is the breakdown of our populations halfway through the fourth year, prior to the transfer of women and children from Yellowstone to the Black Hills.

  Black Hills

  Men 341

  Women 710

  Children 12 & Under 391

  Total 1,442

  Yellowstone

  Men 295

  Women 517

  Children 12 & Under 293

  Total 1,105

  A large number of the twelve and under children are infants or toddlers. The winters were long, and, face facts, there isn’t much else to do.

  Chapter I

  “Oh, we’re going for a drive, going for a drive, doo dah, doo dah.” Mary was having a grand time singing off key, while simultaneously holding the portable radio in one hand and the steering wheel in the other.

  “Don’t wreck,” I cautioned, watching in my rear view mirror as she drifted over the double yellow line.

  “I won’t,” she replied. “I’m an excellent driver, better than you even.”

  We were on our way to Yellowstone to get a look at the situation on the ground and to discuss our preparations concerning the prophet and his raiders. It appeared the fighting would begin soon. As always, I was driving my highly modified, extremely rugged, spectacular Jeep Wrangler. Mary had taken Lizzy’s nice, but still vastly inferior, Jeep Grand Cherokee. Riding with her were the twins, Tara and Dale Zablocki.

  Briana had remained at the citadel with our son, Asher, managing day to day affairs along with getting the four hundred women, children, and infirm whom Yellowstone had transferred our way organized. She’d done the same previously, back when the Ranching Collective in Wyoming had begun dumping their non-combatants on us. There should be no difficulties getting the entire group settled and comfortable.

  Lizzy had stayed to help, not that she was going to contribute much. My chubby friend spent most of her time focused on defense. The valley where the majority lived was well protected, as were those used for farming or ranching. However, my efforts to secure the region as a whole were anything but complete, and much more could be done. Fortunately, we possessed both the equipment and manpower necessary, even if volunteers for the worst tasks were hard to come by.

  “This is a long, long, long, long way to travel,” commented Mary.

  “I know. But, there are zombies all over southern Wyoming, and the raiders have scouts crisscrossing the state. Since we don’t want to waste time fighting, or be ambushed and killed, it’s best we swing into Montana before cutting west.”

  She snorted. “I bet the raiders have people north of the park too. You know they’re going to do that.”

  Mary was likely correct. The airplanes we used to keep an eye on the roads had already spotted several small groups in the general vicinity, but those nearest Yellowstone tended to head straight for the forested areas at maximum speed. They wanted whatever concealment they could get, which made sense, and as a result we had no idea how many were present or where they might be hiding.

  “Since we’re going to be met outside the park and guided in, I’m not overly worried about an attack. Our group is going to be too big for any scouting party to target, assuming they even see us.”

  “We should have flown,” she countered. “It would have been way faster and easier. Maybe we would have gotten lucky and been able to burn a few. That’s always fun.”

  Fun? Sometimes I worry about the girl.

  We had finally developed a system allowing us to strike from above. Initially, the Ranching Collective tried to take advantage of their monopoly on aircraft by mounting guns on a large commercial chopper. The results were mixed. Yes, the gunners could, and did, shoot a significant number of raiders. However, the helicopter lacked armor and had difficulty maintaining its position while firing. It was shot up the first time they used it and shot down the second. Likewise, the first attempt to drop a bomb accomplished nothing but catch the plane on fire. It was a miracle the pilot managed to land and get out in time.

  “I’m sure they really found it frustrating,” said Mary, with a malicious giggle, “having a little bitty Cessna take em out.”

  After much trial and error, we managed to mount a small tank to the underside of several planes. The pilot only had to line up in front of his target, reference the height / speed chart, and push the button at the appropriate time. The canister would then release and plummet to the ground, where it exploded on contact. What we used was not napalm, nor was it a proper military weapon. These were homemade, constructed by our resident demolition expert, Carlson, a Vietnam vet who loved blowing things up. Our airborne attacks are one reason the raiders shifte
d tactics. Gone are the days when they rode forth, hundreds strong, as a single group.

  While we still had two dozen such bombs in our inventory, there was a good chance they would be relegated to the dust bin. You see, we were now in possession of three military choppers. The Cobra is my personal favorite. It can fly three hundred miles at a hundred fifty an hour and easily top ten thousand feet. That last point is especially nice since we were already at a rather high elevation. The pair we took are armed with twin multi-barrel miniguns. They also have rockets, big ones that are nearly three inches in diameter. The folk over in Yellowstone only have a single Cobra, but theirs is a modernized version with a 20mm gatling cannon, rockets, and four TOW Missiles.

  There are also some Pave Hawks. The variants we are using were originally designed for combat search and rescue. They have a rescue hoist with a two hundred foot cable capable of lifting six hundred pounds or Lizzy. All right, that was mean. I admit it. However, the woman has not slimmed down. Even with all the hiking and marching and strenuous manual labor, Lizzy still finds the time to stuff her face with enough food to offset any burned calories. I haven’t asked, but I’m beginning to think she wants to be overweight.

  I’m digressing into psychological speculation, not good. At any rate, these helicopters normally carry a crew of six – we use a smaller crew of three ourselves – and a dozen troops. They are capable of moving at speeds in excess of two hundred miles an hour and can travel over three fifty using just their internal tanks. The things can go higher than the Cobras too, up to fourteen thousand feet. Their armaments are not as impressive, but they do sport a pair of miniguns. We have one. Yellowstone has three.

  The other helicopters we recovered at Ellsworth Air Force Base had been sent west to the islands, along with the fixed wing planes, for use by the military. If I’d known they would not be available for the upcoming war, I would have argued against their removal. But, to be fair, I had no idea countries or groups of survivors, whatever the case actually was, were going to start lobbing nuclear warheads at one another. Regardless, what we kept is more than enough for our needs, not to mention we are somewhat lacking in properly trained pilots.

  We have thoroughly tested the craft, doing our best to keep their existence a secret. We don’t want the raiders to know how strong we are. The things have brutal maintenance requirements as well. The machinists and techs seem to spend forever keeping them running, so, for the most part, we leave them grounded.

  “Problem.” Mary’s voice crackled over the radio. She sounded worried.

  “What is it?”

  “I think the engine just went kablooee.”

  She slowed and came to a stop, climbing out of the Jeep. Shifting into reverse, I backed up and joined her.

  “What happened?”

  The petite blonde – although now sixteen, Mary remains every bit as slender as when she was thirteen – shrugged her shoulders. “I heard a crack and grinding, and it just stopped.”

  Dale opened the hood, and both he and his sister peered inside.

  “Engine block broke,” announced Tara, a few seconds later.

  “Ah, damn.” So much for Lizzy’s Grand Cherokee. She was going to be pissed. “Okay, let’s start moving the gear you’re carrying to mine.”

  This sort of event was why we almost always took two vehicles when traveling any significant distance. Getting stranded was such a bad thing.

  “I don’t think we can fit it all.” Mary opened one of the side doors on my Wrangler. “You’re pretty loaded already, and we have to fit inside too.”

  That was certainly true.

  “All right, take it all out, everything from both. We can load mine with the gear we need most – weapons and emergency supplies are priority – and put the rest in the Grand Cherokee. We’ll collect it later when we get a chance.”

  Dale retrieved his rifle and shot a zombie. It had shambled out from behind a toppled billboard.

  “More are coming,” observed Tara.

  “We’re only ten miles south of Billings,” I said. “We should try to get this done fast.”

  The route we had chosen was to follow US Highway 212 toward Billings, bypass the city by hopping on some agricultural roads, and then take the highway the rest of the way to Yellowstone.

  “I count one, two, uh, let’s see, six…”

  Dale shot another.

  “Make that five,” corrected Mary.

  “Dale, scoot forward a ways. Tara, you got the other side. Mary and I will move the gear.”

  The twins hurried off.

  “Why do I have to do the hard part?” protested Mary.

  “Because this is best all around. Come on. If we get this done fast, we may arrive in time for dinner.”

  “Well, proper food is better than rations, and being guests we might even get a special treat.” That seemed to cheer her up.

  * * *

  “You know, I think our town is nicer.”

  “Definitely,” I agreed, keeping my voice low so no one would overhear. No sense offending our neighbors. “They do seem to be a lot less organized.”

  Mary nodded. “That’s cause you like to plan and then plan some more, being crazy that way.”

  “Briana helps.”

  “Nope.” She took a seat atop a large boulder. “You do the planning. She just makes it happen.”

  “I… That’s not entirely somewhat true.”

  The teenager pointed at a clump of cabins. “See how they put them? They don’t even have roads or anything, just smushed grass and dirt where people walk. I bet that gets real muddy when it rains.”

  “Probably.”

  The people in Yellowstone National Park, like us, had constructed hundreds of cabins but with two key differences. First, they favored single room buildings while ours tended to have two or three. Even more obvious was that our town was well planned with an ordered grid of streets. Our friends seem to have placed their homes all willy nilly. I couldn’t see anything indicating a pattern, or logic for that matter.

  “Not as safe either,” she continued. “They don’t have cliffs and giant stone walls surrounding everything.”

  “Safe enough,” I countered. “They are miles from the roads, and the terrain is pretty rugged. Just finding them would be hard, and as long as they aren’t surprised, the people could move to one of their other settlements before the raiders fought their way in. They have a lot of flexibility. More than us, I think.”

  “Our town is still nicer.” Mary frowned. “So, what are we going to do about the raiders? You know yet?”

  Tara answered for me. “We shoot them in the head.”

  Her brother nodded.

  “It’ll be a little more complicated than that, but basically, yes, we do want to kill them, all of them.”

  There was a tiny minority who somehow believed we could work things out and come to a peaceful resolution. This group of delusional men and women were almost all recent arrivals, survivors we had discovered over the intervening months or technicians flown in from the islands. Those with the misfortune to have lived through the prior war with the raiders and the soldiers who had studied the prophet’s tactics and behavior in painstaking detail were more inclined to adopt a policy of genocide.

  Genocide. Unfortunately, it would not be that easy. I was going to kill the prophet given the chance, and I was going to kill anyone who rode with him. Yet, those monsters were traveling with their families, including hundreds of children. What was to be their fate? And how would they react, both long and short term, when we did get around to slaughtering their parents? It was complicated, and I had no good answers.

  “When’s the meeting starting?” asked Mary.

  “Supposed to be later tonight. As soon as the guide gets back, we’re going off again to visit the last bit of the park that’s relevant to the discussions. They wanted us to see the area we would likely be fighting in before talking strategy.”

  * * *

  “Ideas?”
Captain Briggs looked around the room.

  “I don’t like the layout,” I offered. “If we operate out of the settlements, even just the one closest to where the raiders are supposed to be gathering, our supply line is going to suck. We should leave the villages out of it completely and just build a base near the edge of the park.”

  “We already have cabins for storage and trails between all our little towns,” commented an older man. I didn’t know him. “Everything needed is right here.”

  “Not relevant. We’re all used to hiking through the wilderness, so we don’t need the trails, best if we don’t draw attention to them in the first place. I really think we should keep the settlements out of the fight, if at all possible. If we end up in a stalemate or the prior peace somehow continues, then the people you sent our way are going to return. They will be a whole lot safer and all around better off if the raiders don’t know where they are living, and the odds they will find out go up big time if we are going back and forth all the time for gear or supplies. And, like I said, they are too far away from where we intend on doing the fighting to make going back and forth feasible. I suppose we could let the raiders come closer before…”

  “Best to fight on their ground,” interrupted Briggs. “We have more room to maneuver and temporarily withdraw, should that prove necessary or beneficial. And, just to be perfectly clear, we are not going to receive any support from outside unless the situation becomes dire. The last transmission I received said there is substantial movement of the living in parts of Asia and Europe previously believed lost. They might have been surviving in bunkers or hardened facilities and just now surfaced. They are also likely responsible or somehow involved with the attacks there. Because the government lacks the resources to operate on multiple fronts, the fight around Yellowstone is being left to the locals.”