Year of the Dead

by Jack J. Lee

  Art and his kids were understandably devastated. Unfortunately, Art could not grieve in peace. Half the men in our ward house were either seriously injured or dead. We had started out the night with 405 people. Now, thirty-four men and one woman were dead. Three women had broken arms. Eighteen men had fractured arms or legs. Art’s son Peter had a broken arm. Jim and two others had fairly minor abdominal wounds that spared their intestines. Ten men had multiple severe wounds and spinal injuries. While we were trying to get organized, seven of these men died, bringing the total number of dead to 41. Art was our only doctor. He forced himself to look after the injured. He splinted fractures and stitched up wounds. He gave enough morphine to the three severely injured men to allow them to sleep.

  While the wounded were being taken care of, Mark, Frank, Hiram, and a couple other men climbed on our roof and brought down four vampire bodies. I heard Hiram say to Mark that it looked like the AR-15 rounds had been completely useless. Only the heavier, stronger rounds from the hunting rifles seemed effective. Mark was clearly a planner. He had brought replacement light bulbs for the halogen lamps the vampires had taken out. Most of the lamps just needed new bulbs. When the halogen lamps were turned on, the vampires’ flesh evaporated until just the skeletons were left.

  Mark gave another speech. There were no jokes or references to the Constitution this time. He spoke simply, in a quiet voice. He told us someone or something was responsible for the zombies and vampires. He pointed out most of the women and children had been spared, while the men had been preferentially killed. This was what farmers and ranchers did to domesticated livestock—keep the number of males limited while taking care of breeding females and young. He promised us we would find those responsible and we would teach them we were not food. He told us the ward members who had died tonight had not died in vain; they had died to teach us how to defend ourselves. The next time we battled vampires, we would have more rifles and trained men.

  He promised us we would be safe. He told us from this day on, we were no longer separate individuals; we were a community united in one cause. There were no longer any divisions of religion, class, or race. We were all Americans. We had a duty to all those who had died to make sure whoever was responsible for this travesty would not succeed. We would not let this stand. There were no cheers or applause after this speech. We stood in silence around him. I had tears in my eyes, and I wasn’t the only one.

  When Mark had killed the last vampire, he had been holding the only working light left in the gym. That light had acted like a spotlight in the dark. We had all seen him kill the last vampire. That vampire that had probably killed twenty of our people in less than five minutes had been put down by this man with one blow. Mark had not gotten into a fight with it; he had executed it. The vampire hadn’t had a chance. Mark Jones wasn’t the same man he’d been just a few hours ago. He looked tired. His suit was no longer immaculate; it was splattered with blood. Until the vampire attack, he had been just a voice on a telephone, and then a modern-day pied piper who led zombies from our enclosure and gave a great patriotic speech. He’d been exciting and entertaining but had never seemed quite real. He’d looked like and acted like a character in a movie. We all knew him now. He would keep his promises. He would keep us safe. He would give us vengeance. I needed vengeance.

  Chapter 31: Jim Wright, October 10th to November 1st, Year 1

  I lucked out. If the vamp had clawed me half an inch deeper, I would have died in a haze of morphine, like the poor bastard George Parker. Without a modern hospital with an operating room and an ICU, he had no chance of living. I heard Dr. Bingham talking to George’s wife. He gave her the choice of letting him die slowly in agony over a few weeks while the infection in his guts slowly ate him alive, or keeping George sedated to the point of comfort, which would probably cause him to die from an overdose in a matter of days. It was a pretty easy choice.

  I needed 23 stitches to put my belly back together. It’s been about three weeks since the vampire attack and its better. It still hurt like hell but now I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out every time I sit up or cough.

  The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result every time. Insanity is what I do. I went on a mission when I was 19. Mormons call young missionaries “elders”; I know it doesn’t make sense to call 19-year-old men elders, but that’s what Mormons do. Missions last for two years. While on missions, elders live like Roman Catholic priests. We are totally celibate; this includes masturbation. Mormon’s aren’t like old-time Catholics. We don’t believe touching ourselves leads to blindness or hair growth on our palms; we just believe that it’s important to be entirely focused on God while on a mission. I can imagine that some missionaries masturbate. It’s not like there are cameras on us or anybody watching. It’s an honor thing but most missionaries probably don’t. I didn’t. You don’t volunteer to spend two years knocking on strangers’ doors and getting abused because you don’t believe in God or the importance of what you are doing.

  You know why Mormons get married so young? What would you do if you hadn’t touched yourself for two years and the only way to have sex was to get married?

  So a year after I got back from my mission, I married Simone because I was horny. She was a really great girl and a wonderful friend. We had no chemistry at all. Sex with her sucked but I didn’t learn that until after we were married. You can’t logically figure out who you’re compatible with sexually until you try it. We could hang out all day, have good conversations, and share a lot in common, but neither one of us could understand what the big deal was with sex. To be blunt, masturbation was better for both of us. Except for the sex part, marriage wasn’t bad. I was really comfortable with Simone.

  If we’d been able to have kids, or if I didn’t stop going to church, we’d probably still be married. But Simone never got pregnant, even after a couple of really expensive fertility treatments. When I was younger I really believed in God and Church. I don’t know what happened. It wasn’t like I felt I was being mistreated or I suddenly came to the conclusion that the church’s teachings were wrong. I just lost interest.

  A Mormon who is actively living by the tenets of his or her faith had a “temple recommend.” This means you can go into a Mormon temple. You can be LDS, but if you don’t have a temple recommend, you can’t go into a temple. Part of requirements of having a temple recommend is tithing ten percent of your income to the church. It’s one thing to tithe when you believe, and another when you don’t. My lack of interest in staying in the church and tithing was the last straw for my wife. Since my divorce, I’ve been moving from one bad relationship to another. I have a bad habit of not ever making the first move with women. The last three women I hooked up with had come on to me first. I don’t know why but the women who hit on me are usually in relationships. They basically just use me as a booty call. The only good thing about these relationships is the sex has been great.

  I’m a pretty smart guy. I’m a really good programmer. I understand guys. Women are a complete mystery to me. I have absolutely no idea why they do what they do. I don’t know why they are attracted to me; I’m always surprised when one comes on to me. I don’t know why my relationships fail. The only woman I ever understood was my ex-wife but she and I had absolutely no chemistry. Back before I knew how good sex could be, I was ok with my marriage. I know now that I’m better off single. For me, being in a relationship is a lot like driving blind. I know it’s going to end badly. I just don’t know when.

  My troubles started the night of the vampire attack. Two vampires had broken into the gym. Cheryl, Art Bingham’s daughter, had made quite an impression on me. So when I saw a vampire head in her direction, I did something stupid. If I had taken the time to think, I probably would not have done it. I stepped in front of her and tried to hit the vamp with the butt of my rifle. I got clawed in the belly for my troubles. Cheryl saw this and now she thinks I saved her life. I didn’t eve
n feel the wound until all the vamps were dead. I just stood in front of Cheryl, waving my useless empty rifle, asking to be killed. If Mark and Hiram hadn’t lured the two vampires to them with their lights, I would have died. On my best day I couldn’t have done what those guys did. Give me my .300-Win Mag and a half-mile and I’ll take on as many vampires as you want, but there is no way I will ever willingly get into arm’s distance with one ever again.

  After the vamps were killed, Cheryl saw her mom was down and she ran over to her. I saw Ryan had his throat ripped out, and I was walking over to his body when I felt the most horrendous pain I have ever felt in my life. The next thing I remember was waking up with stitches in my belly. Cheryl was at my bedside. She was still grieving for her mother, but she wanted to thank the guy who’d saved her life.

  Cheryl thinks I’m this incredibly heroic guy that put his body willingly, as opposed to stupidly, in front of her and, to boot, kept standing there to defend her, even with a gut wound. After the EMP, all normal ways to waste time were gone. There were no more TVs, computers, or game consoles. I’ve never been much of a reader. I had a beautiful girl wanting to spend time with me, so I spent time with her.

  I’m eleven years older than Cheryl. When I got married she was ten years old. I thought she was just being nice to an old man. I’m too old for her. I was just enjoying the view. Next thing I know, she’s kissing me. What does a guy do when a beautiful blond kisses him and calls him a hero? I kissed back. Here I am again in a relationship with a Mormon girl, but this time she’s eleven years younger than me and even more religious than my ex-wife.

  I have no idea where it’s going to go between Cheryl and me. I know it sounds strange, but I’m almost glad I have this belly wound. I haven’t been able to physically handle anything but a few kisses. I’ve been spending almost all my free time talking to her. I was hoping familiarity would breed contempt and either she or I would lose interest. I hadn’t realized how much fun it would be to spend time with her. You would think that with her mother’s death, she would be down and depressed. She was grieving; she had loved her mother but she refused to stop living because of her grief. She is totally opposite from me in every way. I’m analytical, even-keeled, and quiet. She is spontaneous, moody, and infectiously funny. I’m thinking I’m starting to fall for her. Man, I can’t believe I’m starting this ride again. I don’t do well when I’m in love because I have really bad judgment and I’m a stupid, stupid man.

  A lot has happened since the vampire attacks. We had to clear out new zombies that had been attracted by gunshots. We had fewer able-bodied men but there were also fewer zombies. Things were tense at night at first, but after a week of no attacks it got easier for everyone to sleep.

  Mark made it clear to all of us that if we were going to survive; we had to take care of the following things:

  1. Security/shelter

  2. Water supply

  3. Food supply

  4. Heat/power

  All these things were essential and all of them had to be done at once. Mark really surprised me. I thought he would turn himself into a dictator. He easily could have. He was the only guy who had a plan and he had saved everyone. People wanted him to be a dictator; it was easier than having to think on their own. He convinced everyone it was essential to have leadership and a chain-of-command to run things. As an unelected representative of the Federal Government, he said his powers were, and should be, limited.

  At Mark’s insistence, we held elections on October 18th for the positions of mayor, four city councilmen, and a judge. The mayor’s job would be full time. The positions of counselors and judge, at least at first, would be part-time positions. The mayor would have a term of four years and all the rest would be two-year terms. We only had 400 people. It seemed to me and to a lot of other folks that it was a lot of government positions for not a lot of citizens, but Mark told us that in the very near future we would have thousands of citizens and it would be best to have the government up and running as soon as possible. Well, he had been right about everything else, so we went along. He suggested Art Bingham for mayor, and John Black, Helen Hanson, Sam Tucker, and Hank Miller for counselors. He recommended Lee Singer for judge. It wasn’t lost on me that John and Helen weren’t Mormon and all the rest were. Mark was making sure there were both Mormons and non-Mormons in leadership positions.

  Mark could do no wrong. No one ran against any of his picks; they won in a land-slide. In an extremely choreographed way after the elections, Art Bingham, the new mayor, announced that Director Jones would continue to work as the Federal Director of Emergency Services, but he would also have a local position as the director of our militia. The militia position was an appointed one and at any time the Mayor of Salt Lake City could dismiss Director Jones from this position.

  Mark told everyone that as the only representative of the Federal Government, he had the power to print money and collect taxes. At first I thought he had gone crazy but it didn’t take long to figure out why he had done this. Since the 11th, cash, gold, and jewelry had become useless because there was so much available everywhere. All you had to do was to kill female zombies of a certain age to get as many diamond and gold rings as you wanted. You could walk into any store and break open the cash register and get as much cash as you wanted. So many people had died there was an over abundance of things. The only thing of value now was labor. We needed people to go out in zombie- and vampire-infested neighborhoods to forage for useful items. We needed crews to build the infrastructure to supply reliable water and power. In a perfect world, everyone would work for the greater good without need for a specific reward, but we didn’t live in a perfect world. Every attempt in history to make Communism work has failed. When the LDS Church was formed, they tried communism. It was called the United Order. Everyone who joined the church gave all their possessions to the church and then was supposed to share things equally; it didn’t work. In Israel following WWII, they tried kibbutzim, where everything was shared in common; the kibbutzim now allow private property. People need to be motivated to work and the most effective motivation is money.

  Mark solved the problem of not having a viable currency by taking a permanent ink pen and signing his name on paper money. As soon as his name was on the bill, it was legal tender. He put up a chalk board up in the main gymnasium and listed everything that needed to be done, and asked people to give proposals and bids for these jobs to Mayor Bingham. High on the list of jobs that needed doing was getting running water and power back up again. Next was getting groups of foragers to go out and gather useful supplies, and last in importance was reinforcing houses so people could go back to living on their own again. A 10% sales tax was instituted to raise revenue for the local government and a 10% income tax was instituted to raise revenue for the Federal.

  The militia basically became the foraging group for the entire community. Hiram was promoted to Sergeant Major, the highest-ranked noncommissioned officer of the militia. The task was too dangerous for most people to be willing to do this for a private company. As always, when a job is too hard or difficult for a private company to step in, the government filled the gaps. If I hadn’t been wounded, I’m sure I would have been forced by peer pressure to be in the militia. Yeah, it was a volunteer force, but when every single person you know looks at you a certain way if you don’t join, you join. I’m too good of a shot with a rifle to be allowed to sit on the sidelines.

  I’ve been fascinated by rifles all my life. I’ve loaded my own bullets for as long as I can remember. I’ve been doing some simple gunsmithing on my rifles for years. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I started concentrating on air rifles. Air rifles work great but we didn’t have enough of them around to arm everyone. Regular rifles are the best way to take out zombies and vampires, but the noise of gun-fire attracted too many zombies. With a silencer, the noise would no longer be an issue. I wasn’t fit to go out and kill zombies but I could make silencers.

  I approa
ched Mark with my idea and he instructed me to actually start a business to make silenced rifles. First, I had to come up with a bid and a proposal for my company that would be accepted by Art, and then I had to get a loan from Mark. I had a metal drill press and a metal lathe at my house that I hadn’t used for a couple of years. The EMP had blown out the breakers. Helen Hansen was able to figure out a way to get them up and running again; she re-wired them and put in homemade breakers. For now, computer-assisted design was completely out of the question but basic tools like drill presses, lathes, and welding tools could be made to work again. My shop was set up in the ward house. Sam Tucker, one of the new counselors, had owned a machine shop that made one-of-a-kind metal objects for other companies. He hadn’t worked on guns before, but had thirty years’ experience in making metal prototypes. I offered him a job. He told me he wanted to be a full partner. I agreed. With my knowledge of guns and his knowledge of metal working, the two of us made one competent gunsmith.

  It’s not that difficult to make a silencer. The correct term for a silencer is a suppressor since it doesn’t actually silence the bullet but instead decreases or suppresses the sound. A suppressor on a rifle works in much the same way a muffler on a car works.