The tires wobbled, a reminder that my focus needed to be on the matter at hand. I made the turn and remembered the dreadful hill that the coming part of the street sported. Thus far the stretch was free of any undead predators. It made me feel uneasy to not see them because I was quite sure some of them saw me. If I kept up the pace, I knew that I would be long gone before any of them would even make it to the street.
Control your breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I was exhausted already. My thoughts chanted encouragement. Knowing Sarah and the kids counted every minute of my absence pushed me harder. Lactic acid turned my legs into molten fire. Perspiration lathered my skin beneath my armored layers.
Fuck your legs! You will not wear yourself out five minutes into this damn ride.
The hillcrest was half a block away yet it felt like I was staring miles upward at the summit of Mt. Everest.
My pedaling slowed as the ground leveled. I wobbled to a stop and stopped for a moment to catch my breath. The second I did, fog coated the clear safety glasses I had put on to keep the wind and any infected splatter out of my eyes. I pulled them off and another splash of unusual color grabbed my attention. Just to my left the concrete was marred with a rust-colored puddle. It was then that I became acutely aware of the metallic stink. Every inch of the road between the puddle and the shoulder had some kind of indicator that atrocities had occurred here in the weeks prior: handprints, drag marks, gore globs with strands of hair and even a tooth. That spot was a masterful tapestry of blood spatter I hadn’t seen the likes of since I’d left Richmond city limits.
Before I could feel the full effect of nausea, I heard something shuffling. I pulled my stare away from the horror collage on the street towards the yard on the far side of it. Fist-sized pebbles lined a barrier around a center island of cacti. A cactus seemed even more out of place in this environment than the bright garland of flowers I passed minutes before. The tallest plant shook from something moving behind it. Two fingers were missing from the hand that pulled up on the spiky wall. I winced seeing the two-inch spines vanish inside the flesh. It hobbled out using the piercing plant as a crutch, looking like it had been grated across this porcupine surface.
“Jesus Christ…” I said aloud and the shredded creature instantly recognized how close it was to its favorite food.
I’d seen them in bad shape before, but it had been weeks since I was forced out in the open with one like that. Part of the healing process was willing my brain to recall the infected as a featureless evil. Sleep was much easier to find when the zombies were reduced to being ‘monsters’ rather than the horrid caricatures of the people that they were before the Reaper virus ravaged their bodies. Every one that I’ve encountered was unique in their own tragic way like rotting snowflakes.
The dead man close to where I stood was no exception; his leg closest to the cactus was mostly exposed to the elements after the pant leg had been torn off up to the pocket dangling past the fray. Mottled black veins ceased in abrupt patches where it was missing large portions of flesh on the thigh. A slab of its calf hung down exposing white underneath. It bared its teeth with an excited sound that came out as a mixture of a gurgle and a growl. Fortunately, none of his undead brethren were close enough to hear. He excitedly grunted as if I would accept his invitation to brunch.
“Sorry, Mr. Cactus,” I said to the beast while tipping my helmet in a mocking way. “You can’t eat me today. I have something to take care of at the post office. My house is that way, though, so I can’t have you hobbling down the hill. If I see you head that way once I ride off then I’ll come back to mount your fucking head on that spiky branch.”
A wet slurp could be heard over his growling when he pried his hand from the crucifying spines. He waved both arms towards me to fulfill his side of the morbid banter.
“Calm down, Ugly! Feel free to follow me and we can talk about it later.” I was wasting time and I knew it. I dreaded the mission at hand so intensely that I was willing to stand here mocking a corpse wiggling atop a random cactus patch. At least it provided enough of a break to catch my breath. I tipped my helmet again then rode off. Mr. Cactus wailed until the hillcrest was behind me.
0806 hours:
Half a block after the path leveled I made a right turn at a four-way stop, then the main road that leads down to Hull Street was within eyeshot. A mental overview of the path I needed to take looped through my mind. The rush of thoughts increased right along with my ground speed. My arm pulsed underneath the gauntlets as my blood pressure raised to dangerous highs.
I took the turn as fast I could without becoming a victim of centrifugal force. Had I performed such a maneuver before the world ended onto a busy street it would have certainly been suicidal. The thought caused me to snicker knowing that everything I did could be viewed as teasing suicide in the past and partially in the present. The long stretch of a downhill that lead to Hull Street was still. A few cars were parked irregularly on opposite shoulders with several more lined up motionless at the intersecting stoplight for Hull Street. Finally. I was due for a fucking break.
The jagged off-road patterned tread of my front tire fit perfectly within the double yellow line. It was oddly hypnotizing to see the edges of the tire blurred through consistent motion also bordered by yellow bars. Bitter winds viciously nipped at the exposed portions of my face, making the urge to turn away hard to resist. The paranoid fear of losing my focus was nearly as painful as the cold on my face. I turned my head slightly seeking reprieve; it made a navy blue ahead become my new focus as the bike continued to barrel towards my primary objective.
It was pulled over slightly askew on the right shoulder with its rear tire on a jack; the donut spare was propped against the bumper. Silently coasting on approach I imagined the van in the normal hustle-and-bustle routine it must have constantly been an integral part of, before the collapse. I pictured the family driving along when they got a flat; shit happens, we’ve all been there. It almost looked like the world had paused for a stock photo to be taken. Everyone say ‘cheeeese’ while dad changes the tire.
My imagined scenario turned tragic once I noticed the blood smears around the pavement towards the front bumper. The corpse that all of the stains led to was so desiccated that I couldn’t tell who, or what, it was. Ravages of time and beastly hunger concealed who the body was in life. I was honestly thankful for it. A mosaic of footprints through the dried up spilled life told me how the story ended.
I zipped through the intersection with Hull Street feeling very vulnerable in the open space. It would have been useful to survey the drug store or gas station across the street since either could have been a source for supplies, but the area was too exposed. We inevitably would have to do a supply run in the future. I’d make sure that I had another set of eyes to watch my back when that time arrived.
The main entrance to the post office was three quarters of a mile from the intersection. A ‘smash-and-grab’ style break in at the main entrance would have been risky and noisy, so I took a chance in trying to find a place in the border fence to sneak in. Just west of the postal property was an old bowling alley. As an early Hull Street fixture, the alley pre-dated most everything else in the area. It was designed to have an entrance road then a parking lot that was far removed from road traffic. I took the gamble that the parking lot would border the rear of the post office. Assuming a fence separated them it would be easy enough to make a stealthy entrance to the property. Even if I had to make some noise to get in I would have time to assess the surroundings for my next move.
Random car clusters dotted both sides of the road. A few corpses gathered towards the turn lane to the main entrance of my final target. The infected seem to go into standby, of sorts, while there wasn’t something around that was worthy of their attention. I saw it before in the city; they sort of froze with their heads cocked at irregular positions while their putrid mouths opened and closed, snapping at the air. The group ahead wasn’t idle. In
fact, they looked almost excited. Something else had them stirred up. I flew across the median into the bowling alley lot with an uneasy feeling that the plan wouldn’t go exactly as I had hoped.
A steady grinding sound of bike tread on asphalt was the only sound in the immediate vicinity. All that moved in and around the bowling alley was an orange cat that ran from the side of the building to the woods on the opposite side. It was the first time I had seen an animal since the pandemic started. In the trip from the city to the house I’m sure there were animals that could see me. Anything shaped like a human wasn’t exactly the hospitable master it once was. With dwindling food supplies the pets should fear all humans, dead or alive.
“Good luck, kitty.” It looked back for a split second before disappearing into the tree line to the west.
Chain-link fence was visible through the sparsely filled tree line to the east. The trees thinned some at the very back of the lot, enabling me to make out the barbed wire topper of the barrier. My guess that the properties directly shared a border was spot on. I rode as far back as the pavement covered before dismounting the bike. The postal fence was at least twenty feet past the curb. Richly green-colored holly trees made a natural fence between where I stood and the border. I was thankful for the multiple layers and improvised armor as I powered through the thorny branches to the chain-link. A few times I felt the tug of a branch catching the barrel of the rifle protruding from between my back and the tightly strapped pack. The filling of trees was so thick that I barely got the bike through.
Once my gloves gripped the wire I had only inches of clearance to prop the bicycle. Spiny leaves raked across my exposed cheek when I turned to pull the bolt cutters out of my pack. What little exposed skin I had was numb from the chilly air. My hands shook; the experience was nerve-wracking. Apocalypse or not, I’d never broken into a government facility before. I was also terrified that the noisy path I took through the branches would draw attention to my entrance. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be anything moving on the other side of the fence.
Each metallic snap made by the bolt cutters as they clipped through the chain-link sounded as loud as gunshots to my paranoid ears. At first, I glanced around frantically to make sure I was still alone. Then I knew paranoia wasted my time. If anything had followed me into the lot, I was better off crossing the fence. Crawling back through the tree line would have cost me any lead that I might have on a pursuer. I refocused the energy to cut faster until the slit was large enough to squeeze the bike through. It went through first to avoid any loud entanglement. I succeeded in slipping it past only to have it nearly topple over on the other side. My wrist ached as I gripped the back wheel desperately trying to keep the bike quietly balanced until I passed through.
Finally at my target, I set the green bicycle down quietly then used a length of white Para-cord to tie the entrance closed. It wasn’t exactly an unassuming patch job of the hole, but it would have to do for the short time I planned to be there. Since I really wasn’t sure where I was going I decided it would be best to walk the bike. I stationed it on my left to keep my weapon hand free. The postal lot looked empty. However, I was anxious as hell so I slid the Kukri out of its scabbard into my right fist. Guttural growls and barks from the reapers I saw towards the front entrance echoed enough to raise the tension. Something definitely had them excited because that was not their idle behavior.
I cautiously walked through the empty lot to a line of mail trucks that were all backed into an overhang area that must be a loading bay. My mind raced with what to do next. I was not some kind of master criminal so ‘hot wiring’ a vehicle was a laughable notion. There had to be a key box somewhere but it wouldn’t be very accessible for obvious reasons. A long sigh escaped my chapped lips. I’d have to break in.”
Chapter 12 – Still Human
0840 hours:
By then the sun risen high enough in the sky to illuminate the shaded area that was formed by the loading bay. I lifted the bike to the tailgate-level platform then tucked it in a corner facing out in the event I needed to speed away. I peeled my pack off, propping it against the wheel to help keep the bike from falling over. I knew it was best to only bring what I needed inside to keep myself nimble.
The bolt cutters were tucked into my belt to reserve my hands for the crowbar and the Kukri. All the extra weight on the belt pulled down enough that I was worried about my pants falling down in the middle of battle. I wasn’t dying with my pants down.
A vertical sliding warehouse door was centered in the platform with a solid steel door to the left side. Would it have killed them to build a window in here?
Cold from the surface of the warehouse door sent a bit of a shock through my system when I put my ear against it to listen inside. No matter how hard I tried to listen, all I could hear was the drumming of my pulse. The handle on the bottom of the door didn’t look like it was enough to be the primary source to pull it up and down. I was sure it was just there in the event the motor control froze up or power went out. I grabbed hold then lifted with my knees, causing pain to radiate in areas I forgot were still recovering.
In search of a ‘Plan B’, I shifted to the door on the left side. First I jiggled the knob to see if I could catch a break, which, of course, I couldn’t. It took a second to get the mini crowbar into a notch that I could use to start prying. For several minutes I wiggled and pushed the tool to no avail. The door was reinforced, so I needed to try a lot harder and make a lot more noise to get anywhere past it. I stepped back, dripping in sweat and feeling complete and utter dread about the thought of having to fight my way through the main entrance.
Then the door flew open. It startled me enough to drop the crowbar with a clatter louder than church bells after mass. I instinctively yanked the Kukri free and extended it for a strike at whatever was coming. At the same time a dirty figure leaped out from the darkness on the other side. I immediately swung towards the creature, not fully registering the fact that this zombie was wielding a baseball bat.
“WAIT!” he shouted at me. “I’M STILL HUMAN!”
Time slowed, as it often seems to do in our most tragic or intense moments. The blade glistened through the air towards him. I stepped back enough to have it slice harmlessly through the air between us. A few more steps separated us as I pulled it back up to the ready position.
His bat was coated in a layer of gore at its end. Dirt, grease, and an array of battle splatter soiled the blue button up shirt tucked into faded blue jeans that were equally filthy. The rightfully defensive stance that he emerged with shrank a bit as he spoke up again.
“It’s alright, brother. I’m not one of them…” he trailed off then eyed the rifle barrel on my back and the Kukri in my raised fist. “Put the sword down, you don’t need to kill me.”
I lowered the blade down to waist level. “That remains to be seen.” The worried expression on his face indicated that my response obviously wasn’t what he hoped to hear. “I’m not here to kill you. Put the bat down then I’ll put this away. After neither of us is holding a weapon on the other we can talk.”
He hesitated before slowly setting the contagion-coated weapon against the thin strip of wall between the two doors. Our eye contact broke for only a second when he spotted my bike and pack against the far wall. “No problem, brother.” After I re-sheathed my weapon he asked, “So… you rode that bike here?”
“Don’t worry about that. Who are you?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?! After all, you were breaking into my warehouse.” As true as his statement was, I didn’t waver. A moment passed then he shrugged with concession. “Fine. I’m Ian McAllister. Most people just call me McAllister.”
“You work here?”
“Yeah man. My official title is ‘Fleet Manager’ but that’s just a nice government title for mechanic.”
I knew then that I’d found the answer to how I was going to get a truck out of here. “Alright, McAllister, my name is Nathan. Sorry for bein
g such a dick but under the circumstances I hope you can forgive me.”
He extended a hand forward. “Don’t sweat it, not too many friendly people out there these days so I don’t blame you.” I accepted his gesture and gave him a firm handshake. The mutual contact relaxed his posture somewhat. “Nice to meet you, Nathan.”
Drumming from the front of the building increased to crescendo for a second. We both flinched at the sound. I imagined one of the zombies pummeling the FedEx drop box out of frustrated hunger. Motioning my head towards the door Ian emerged from I said, “Likewise. Is it safe inside so we can talk?”
0900 hours:
We sat inside an office occupied by a few file cabinets and an assortment of tools on pegboard hooks. He offered me a rolling desk chair then pulled one of the rolling file cabinets out as a stool to sit across from me. I balanced the rifle against the wall next to my chair; the Kukri remained sheathed uncomfortably at my side. There was something about the way he moved that made me suspicious. A weight was on his shoulders and it showed. In all honestly, I knew I couldn’t jump to conclusions because I probably moved in a similar manner.
Trust became such a peculiar trait in the apocalypse. The consequences of misplacing or violating it would literally consume you. Good people could change so easily when evil was rampant and ravenous. Trusting another while the dead walked might be like handing some stranger ammunition that could be used against you. The last time I opened up to a new person in this way, our budding friendship ended with my blade in his gut. This time around I was dangerously close to home while putting my cards on the table and surrounded by unknowns. Trust was the last thing I wanted to give, but the alternative left me with little recourse.
(Book 2)What Remains Page 10
