Once folks recognized me as the driver, the mass of armed civilians split in two and five of their number. Three men and two women approached my truck. I recognized Heather, Mike’s sister and Pineknot Baldwin, but the other woman and the two men were unknown to me. Casey, without prompting, scooted over until her body pressed up against my side as Pineknot headed for the front passenger seat.
Heather claimed a seat in back, behind me, and the other woman slid into the middle spot. The last spot, the rear passenger bench seat, was taken by an older black man dressed in a faded pair of jeans and a mottled camouflage shirt. He gave me a friendly grin, and I finally recognized him from the meeting from the previous day. Fletcher was his last name, I thought. He ran a successful salvaging team that worked in the Coldspring area, if I was correct.
“Pineknot, Heather, Mr. Fletcher,” I greeted each in turn with a nod and a wave.
Fletcher pointed a thumb at the small lady seated next to him and introduced her as Sherry. She was in her mid to late thirties and had her graying blonde hair tied back in a French braid. No makeup, and her face had that even, tanned look of a person who spent a lot of time outdoors.
“Mac,” said Pineknot as I turned the wheel and began following Bill’s SUV, “how you been doing?”
Pineknot Baldwin was a perpetually friendly man, about my age but with an infectious grin that made him look a decade younger. He ran a fixit service in the Zone and was counted as one of the better mechanics in the Livingston Zone. And no, I didn’t know the origin of his nickname, but I’d never heard him referred to as anything else.
“Doing fair, Pineknot,” I replied easily, which was just a sign of the man’s overall nature. I usually didn’t have a lot to say to folks outside the compound, but he was friends with Ken and Patty and had helped us out with locating automotive parts over the past few months. As well as his mechanic services, Pineknot ran his parts warehouse out of an abandoned AutoZone located near the northern edge of the Zone.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Pineknot said, turning to Casey and tipping his cap in a respectful manner. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself at the meeting. Pineknot Baldwin, at your service.”
“Casey Parleski,” the young woman replied, and I could tell she was a little reticent with this stranger. Rightfully cautious, like all the ladies who managed to escape Beaumont.
Unexpectedly, the new person, Sherry, asked a question then. “I heard you came from Beaumont, Miss Parleski,” Sherry said, and I could tell she was choosing her words with care. “Can you tell me; do you know any Shadners from there? That was my maiden name. Shadner.” And then she spelled the name.
Casey lowered her face to look at the floorboards, not answering, but her headshake was enough. If any of Sherry’s people survived, Casey didn’t know them. Or if she did, they didn’t make it. I thought that was the end of the matter, but after a few minutes, Casey spoke up. “I didn’t know the family, ma’am. Nobody with that name made it to the Civic Center, though, so they might still be alive. Holding out somewhere.”
Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw Sherry wanted to ask more questions, but Fletcher placed a gloved hand gently on her shoulder. I couldn’t see his lips move, but I heard something, a soft whisper, not unkind, that stilled any further inquiry.
Thinking quickly, and clearly eager to change the subject, Heather spoke up for the first time.
“So, Mr. McCoy, do you have any advice about the changes we are seeing in the dead? I heard you worked with Dr. Singh on the latest round of experiments.”
I had to laugh at that, and I managed to make my tone self-deprecating and not mean when I replied honestly. “Ma’am, I didn’t do anything but gather up some specimens for the good doctor. Asking me is like asking something from the guy that delivered the bottled water to NASA. I can’t tell you how to build a rocket ship. I’ve seen the same things you guys have, though.”
Pineknot cleared his throat, subtly urging me to continue.
“Well, their memory has reportedly improved. I can’t comment on that, except indirectly. The second horde, the migrating one, we put down in Jasper turns out to have been a collection of dead coming from as far away as Sour Lake. A lot were from Beaumont, though.”
“How the heck do you know that?” Sherry asked, shock in her voice.
“Because the soldiers checked the men’s wallets,” Casey piped up, beating me to the punch.
“Yes, as Miss Parleski said, that is where they got the idea. Those zeds either followed Dr. Gooden or the rat bastards sent by Sandoval to bring them back.”
After that, I stopped talking for a little bit as maneuvering through a series of S-curves built into the road from abandoned cars commanded all my attention. These little slalom courses were our post-Apocalyptic versions of speed bumps, meant to throw off drivers unfamiliar with the roads between Livingston and across the lake to the smaller community of Onalaska. Pre-made ambush site, in essence.
This portion of the highway was very well patrolled and much of it was visible to members of both Safe Zones, but we still took the precautions. That gang from Huntsville might come back one day. Unlikely, but so was the idea the dead would rise.
“So what physical changes?” This one was from Pineknot, and Fletcher started answering before the words were out of the other man’s mouth.
“Faster and steadier on their feet,” he said, “and I heard they can turn door knobs.”
“Everybody needs to watch their ladders, too,” I supplied, and when Heather asked for clarification, I just hooked a thumb in Casey’s direction and let her tell the story. Which she did, and her dry delivery of how I’d shrieked like a little girl confronted by a large mouse had half the truck laughing. A quick glance told me Pineknot wasn’t one of them. Which struck me as unusual, since he was usually the first to crack a joke. I wanted to change the subject, but the road needed my attention more than my passengers at the moment.
“So they really are coming back,” the man finally said, and his voice made me think of sad tidings and empty graves. “We’ve been killing them, but they might be getting better after all.”
“No,” I declared strongly, my voice like a bullhorn in the truck’s cab. “They are not fucking coming back! That thinking is what nearly killed us all. They are flesh-eating corpses and nothing else. Dr. Singh has tested these things, and the only way they are getting better is so they can be more efficient predators. So, I don’t want to hear that kind of shit again. Our dead are lost to us, and you better get that shit squared away. They are not coming back!”
The First Wave killed and reanimated about a quarter of the world’s population, but the immediate reaction to this horror made the outbreak even worse. Instead of putting a bullet in their heads, some survivors tried to restrain their bloodthirsty relatives. Tying them up, or locking them in a closet. This resulted in more people getting bitten, and infected, and dying. Then getting up and repeating the process. Over and over.
I’d heard the whispers and the low-voiced discussions amongst the troops when they thought no one was listening. Before the First Wave, the United States had a population well north of three hundred million. Now, the uninfected amongst the Safe Zones and other secured areas might number as few as ten to twelve million. The whole country’s breathing population might fit comfortably in New York City. If it was not an irradiated hellhole.
Some places did better than others, of course. The amateur HAM radios passed information around and some places, most notably Montana and Wyoming, largely managed to eradicate their undead former citizens. A few small towns in Colorado were still hanging in there. A number of military bases, like our own Ft. Hood, managed to survive and though greatly depleted, could still project some strength to add the other zones. That is all in the western United States.
East of the Mississippi, though, the numbers of survivors remained mostly speculation. Between the radiation and the huge numbers of zombies spilling out of the cities, I held out little
hope for them. A few holdouts in Indiana and some hardcore survivalists in Tennessee all checked in regularly via radio, but other than that, it was all dark.
But I wasn’t thinking about those abstract numbers, or the unknown ranks of dead flowing out of the mausoleum cities. No, as always, I was thinking of my own dead.
“No, they are not coming back,” I repeated yet again, my voice softer this time. “If you believe in God, then their souls abide with him. If you believe in nothing, then they have returned to the earth and the elements that spawned them. What is left is a dead shell, and no matter how monkey clever they might get, those are not the people they once were.”
“They aren’t people,” Casey said solemnly. “When I had to kill the thing that used to be my dad, I knew that wasn’t him anymore. I’d like to think I helped his soul along to Heaven, just like Brad said.”
Based on some things she’d let slip, I figured that was her story, but everybody else in the truck’s cab got real fucking quiet after Casey’s announcement. We made the rest of the short drive to Onalaska in a thoughtful silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The heavily modified trailer featured bench seats clearly salvaged from a school bus, arranged back to back and running down the center of the box. Bolts affixed the benches to the plywood decking, and I could see where someone made an effort to reinforce the side walls with sheet steel welded into place. For weight considerations, no doubt, the sheets only extended up about five feet, but that was plenty to protect seated figures from any incoming light small arms fire.
Walking the length of the trailer, I noted narrow slits cut out of the steel every five feet or so, firing ports for the riders. A noble effort and well thought out, but not as good as Ken managed on our trucks or the Behemoth parked in the garage out back at the compound. Of course, Ken got to use all the cool tools and toys we salvaged for him, while Mike’s folks had to make do with what they had on hand.
“We’ll be taking the Ford,” I told Casey as we completed the cursory inspection.
“But that looks okay,” she protested, “and they even have a bathroom.”
Casey continued to protest quietly as we walked back toward our vehicle. I wasn’t slated as driver for any of Mike’s convoy, and I was thinking we could see where Bill might think we could do the most good in the Ford. That Casey would be riding with me was something I didn’t even think about.
“Did you even hear what I said? They have a bathroom. On board. No more having to stop and risk getting bit to use the bushes.”
Actually, with our hot-as-hell reinforced coveralls, snake proof boots and Kevlar gloves, I didn’t think a there was a zombie around who could get a bite through to us. Unless, of course, those coveralls were loose around your ankles when you had to squat to pee. That could be a problem, I granted.
Yes, some of the other team members wore heavier gear, firefighting and bunker gear, but in the spring heat I thought we would be less likely to succumb to heat stroke. If a horde got us, or even a pod, we were screwed, though. If they didn’t eat us, the pile would likely suffocate us anyway no matter how good our armor.
Pretending to ignore Casey, I opened the driver’s side door and looked down, withdrawing an old metal Folger’s can with a plastic lid on it. As Casey came around the side of the truck, I underhanded the coffee can to her and she instinctively caught it.
“What’s this?” she asked. “It’s empty.”
“Well, you were concerned. That’s our restroom facilities,” I replied with a deadpan delivery. Or was that bedpan? I couldn’t help the little sliver of humor that escaped. Sometimes, when no one is looking, I still managed to crack myself up.
“Oh, my god. That is sooooo gross,” she squealed, and immediately dropped the can.
We were standing around the fenced and gated yard the Onalaska Safe Zone used for storing and parking trucks and other cargo haulers. The same rules applied here as in Livingston regarding vehicles inside the perimeter, and though smaller in population than Livingston, this Safe Zone played host to a larger population of salvage teams. They were closer to the action, if you will. Crews went out almost every day in search of needed, or wanted, items.
Ignoring Casey for the moment, I tracked down Bill and explained my thoughts. “We’ll be trailblazing some,” I said, “and my truck can go places these big monsters can’t. Plus, that winch on the front isn’t just for show.”
Bill scratched his head as he thought on this, and I could see the gears spinning in his head. “All right, but I’ll need you up front, to scout the way. You up for that?”
I nodded. Yeah, I could do that. “I’ll need Casey with me to navigate, and maybe one more to give us some security.”
“Can she read a map? No offense, but she looks about twelve.”
I had to fight a chuckle. I thought the same thing about some of the twenty-somethings I saw every day, but Casey actually could read a map. Another thing her father taught her. Not for the first time, I wished her dad was here. He sounded like a heck of a guy.
“Yeah, she can,” I granted, “but she keeps coloring in the county lines with crayons. You know how kids are.”
“Actually, I don’t. Mayline and I never had any. But I get your point. You keep an eye on your apprentice, though.”
“Will do,” I agreed.
In the end, it was just the two of us in the Ford. Bill didn’t have any more bodies to spare, which was fine. We tuned into the radio and listened to Mickey’s broadcast as we headed out. I took the highway through Point Blank, as discussed, and skirted the lake shore as we gradually made our way south, sticking to the two-lane roads that alternated between rough asphalt and even rougher gravel.
“He’s really funny,” Casey finally said, after nearly a half hour of quiet driving. Other than calling out landmarks or warning of upcoming curves, it was the first thing she had to say.
“Yeah, he is,” I agreed. “You’re not still pissed about my little joke earlier, are you?”
Casey giggled at my unintended pun before answering. “No, not at all. It was pretty funny. Also, I think it might be physically impossible for me,” she said, and I could hear a little humor still in her voice. “Was like something my dad would say when we would go hunting. Stuck up off the ground in a deer blind for hours was booooring. Much rather be down in the woods stalking something.”
Well, if that was the case then she was going to purely hate exterminating. That was the definition of what I did, except for the constant shooting. Truth be told, I wasn’t much of a hunter, back before. No time, no matter how often my cousins tried to get me to head up country and join them for a weekend. Now they were all dead, near as I could tell, and now I hunted the dead. From a stand, though.
As we spoke, I never once took my eyes off the road. This was supposed to be a two-lane road but with the overgrown weeds eating away at the non-existent shoulders and the thick stands of trees lining the route, it was more like driving down a long tunnel of green. I imagined the big rigs back there were simply taking their half down the middle and straddling the down yellow line.
So even though I was looking, Casey’s young eyes caught it first as we rounded the curve. A pod of zeds, maybe fifteen strong, surrounding a motionless car parked in the middle of the road. Completely blocking our way.
Mike hadn’t come this way, so he wouldn’t have known about the roadblock, and anyway, from the looks of things, this was a recent event.
Grabbing the CB handle, I gave a terse update to the rest of the convoy. They were hanging back anyway, about a half mile to the rear, and for the moment they would take defensive positions. This was why we were scouting ahead, to prevent the trucks from getting stuck in a situation where they couldn’t turn around and might not be able to bull through. The homemade cow catchers attached to the front of those trucks might do the trick, but having gone untested, they just as easily might not. Instead, we were here.
“Grab the Z bag and let’s get to work,�
�� I said to Casey. “Time to kill some zombies.”
We had two loadouts, and the first was for the Colt M4s and the breather killing gear we already carried. They were interchangeable, but each was selected to optimize our work. The Z bags each held fifty loaded high-capacity magazines, two thousand rounds of boxed 22LR, and a pair of Ruger 10/22s strapped to the sides in hunting carrier rigs.
Throwing the truck into park, I surged out the door and swung the tossed pack across my back, then reached around to pull one of the little rifles free, chambering a round as smoothly as if I was on the range.
“Brace the barrel across the side of the door,” I said calmly, showing Casey what I meant. Using the fingers of my left hand, I laid them across the curved metal on top of the window frame to create a stable rest. This would prevent wobble and ensure more accurate shooting. A quick glance told me Casey had this down as she rapidly laid the barrel in her gloved hand and commenced firing.
“Watch the car,” I added unnecessarily, as it turned out. “There might be survivors inside.”
“Gotcha, grandpa,” she replied, already dropping zeds. The range was only a little under one hundred yards, but still impressive. The steady bang, bang, bang, was drawing the zombies away from the big old car and toward our parked position.
“Grandpa, huh,” I snorted, then began glassing the sides of the road as Casey took care of business. I could have helped Casey, but there looked to be less than twenty of the things and I was wary of a trap.
When the jaws of the trap snapped shut, I was still looking, but I never saw them coming. Suddenly, I felt a jerk as something latched on to my pack and yanked me off my feet. I fell back, arms windmilling, and my weight broke their grip as I slammed into the asphalt. Looking up, I saw a pair of First Wave zombies standing over me as I lay there on my back, out of position and vulnerable. Then, with a flash of stained, yellowed teeth like a vampire’s fangs, the two zombies fell on me.
Fight the Hunger: A Hunger Driven Novel Page 20
