Battlefield Z Outcast Zombie

by Chris Lowry

  Two feet was good.

  Eighteen inches was borderline intimate, unless we were in the act of getting intimate or sharing secret plans to storm the castle.

  Putting the crossed arms on your chest against my biceps and bumping to establish some sort of apex dominance slid right over into the “this is making me very uncomfortable and angry” territory.

  “You don’t know me,” I tried not to growl.

  Failed.

  I should have said, “Don’t make me angry. You won’t like me when I’m angry.”

  That probably would have failed too.

  The driver snarled a grin and bumped me with his arms.

  He was built like a middle weight golden gloves contender, ropy muscle and redneck tan. Trucker hat pushed back on a receding hairline, yellow teeth overlarge in his mouth.

  He bumped again.

  This time I didn’t move and he bounced off me.

  Ponytail watched with beady keen eyes.

  “You going to let him get away with that?” he taunted his buddy.

  The driver dropped his arms and a fist snaked out in a sucker punch.

  I pushed into his chest instead of trying to duck away, took the meat of his bicep against my arm instead of his knuckles on my jaw and popped an uppercut that punched the button on his chin.

  He made a chirping sound as his big teeth clacked together and dropped like a mannequin overturned to the asphalt.

  Ponytail shouted.

  It was wordless and loud, and pointless, a warning. Maybe he thought it would scare me, or the noise would shock me as he ran the short ten feet between us.

  Maybe he hoped I would freeze like a rabbit in headlights, stand there and wait for him to punch me.

  I’m not sure what he was thinking.

  And I didn’t care.

  He ran in close, fast on his feet.

  I sidestepped his swing, grabbed his pony tail and twirled. His momentum carried him in a short arc that ended when his face met the side of the van.

  I’m not a physics guy, but something about force, mass and acceleration made a loud bonk and Ponytail plopped to the ground five feet from his buddy. He twitched a little as blood pooled from his crunched nose to the gutter.

  I looked up and caught Phil watching me with calculating eyes. His face was impassive, neither impressed nor dismayed.

  Like studying a film, I thought.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  I stepped away from the two unconscious bodies and tensed up, ready for another fight.

  “What did you do?” Phil repeated and shook his head.

  “Come with me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  With him meant back to the house where he left me on the sidewalk and kept walking.

  I didn’t know where he was going, but the jumbled thoughts in my head told me it couldn’t be good.

  I needed to get in front of Mag’s people, get the question out, and get a few of them to follow me back.

  Then I’d get my kids and get gone.

  I was thinking about how to steal a car to make the trip faster as I approached the door.

  Car hopping had become harder the longer we went past Z day, or zero day.

  The people left were scavengers first, and so all of the items of value were rapidly being depleted, cars chief among them.

  That didn’t mean they weren’t there, just ones that ran and had gas were harder to find.

  I thought the houses in Livingston would be stripped of essentials, unless they were occupied, so branching out in a different direction might yield better results.

  I knocked on the door.

  Too bad I couldn’t just force march the group fifty miles back to the compound.

  Peg opened the door.

  “I would say something about cats and dragging,” she smirked. “But good Lord.”

  Then she was on me, wrapped her arms around my shoulders and holding me as tears streamed down her face.

  “Who is it?”

  Brain stepped in the hallway from the back and sprinted up to the front door, grabbing us both and smiling so big, I thought his cheeks might break.

  Or that might have been me.

  “You found us,” they said. “How did you find us?”

  I let them lead me into the kitchen in the back. The house was older, broken into smaller rooms with high ceilings and shallow spaces.

  The décor was a hodgepodge of practicality. Items borrowed, stolen and acquired from other homes by the look of the scheme, and all serving a purpose.

  Couches made up as beds. Pallets on the floor folded neat. Camp chairs in the corners.

  “Wait,” said Brian.

  The tone of his voice brought a halt to our reunion.

  “Who brought you here?” he continued.

  “Phil.”

  He and Peg exchanged looks.

  “I’ll be back,” he said and rushed out of the room.

  I heard the front door open and close and stared at Peg until she shifted from foot to foot.

  “What’s going on?”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but the front door squeaked open.

  “It’s me,” Brian announced.

  “That was fast.”

  “We don’t have much time,” he huffed as he tried to catch his breath. “Step out here.”

  I followed him back to the wide front porch, but Peg stayed behind in the kitchen.

  “Big house for just the two of you.”

  He nodded and watched the street instead of me.

  “There were more of us there for a while,” he said.

  “And now.”

  “And now sometimes it’s just us.”

  “Things are confusing here,” Brian put his hand on my arm.

  “Why did you leave Fort Jasper?”

  He glanced around to make sure that we were alone and then whispered under his breath.

  “We didn't have a choice. The guy in charge of this place, he's not like anyone we've met before. He's different.”

  “Different how?”

  Brian didn't get the chance to tell me. Phil strolled up with a big plastic grin plastered on his face.

  “You two look very chummy,” he said.

  “We go way back,” Brian answered. “He was part of our group from before.”

  Brian said it in a way that made me think he was trying to make an excuse for me.

  Not in a bad way, not like he was trying to excuse a bad behavior, or a relative from the country who just doesn't know how to fit in at a fancy dinner. It felt more like a mafioso request to extend protection.

  I raised my eyebrow and a question, and he gave a tiny little fractional nod of his head.

  Not now. Maybe later.

  “Where are the others,” I asked

  “Peg is inside,” he darted his eyes in Phil's Direction. “Byron and Hannah are out with a patrol.”

  “There were more than just the five of you at Fort Jasper.”

  "The day after you left, a couple of guys in a van show up and tell us we should join them. We politely declined."

  "I met them."

  "That was you?"

  "They were being buttholes."

  "And you were pissed."

  I nodded my head.

  "Yeah, I was pissed."

  "What did you do?"

  "What did you hear?"

  "You picked one up and twirled him around by his ponytail like one of those metal balls the Olympic guys throw."

  "I don't think his feet came off the ground."

  “Almost,” said Phil as he laughed.

  Brian snickered.

  "Much."

  "You know, this is how legends are made."

  "People lying. Too much exaggeration."

  "Exactly."

  "Could you guys make me taller? And with a massive Johnson."

  "I'll get right on that."

  He snickered again at the double entendre and punched me in the shoulder.


  "Damn I missed you."

  "I missed you too."

  "Your kids?"

  I nodded.

  "Here?"

  I shook my head.

  "They're at another city. Being held."

  "What is it with you and crazy people?"

  "It's luck, right."

  "You're like a magnet for the mad."

  "It's my face," I pointed to the scars. "It pisses some people off."

  "A lot of people," he looked at me out of the corner of his eyes. "Could be you're asking for it."

  "Never."

  "You do tend to get involved."

  "Like here? We were walking through the woods and got ambushed. She traded for favors."

  "You could have just found a cabin and spent the rest of the apocalypse there."

  "I was hunting for you guys."

  He shrugged.

  "I'm glad you found us, but it's still trouble.

  "Did they make you an offer you couldn't refuse?"

  I did it in my best Godfather voice, which pretty much sounded like my Irish accent and my Ausie accent or maybe a mixture of all three.

  "Something like that. One of them knew Anna."

  "She's here."

  It wasn't a statement.

  Phil put his arm around my shoulders and steered me away from Brian.

  “You know there's someone here who wants to meet you. He has been itching to say hello. You two can catch up later.”

  I didn't turn around to look but I could feel Brian's eyes boring into the back of my head as he followed us uninvited.

  He was trying to send me a telepathic message.

  Or some sort of electrical signal through the airwaves that I was supposed to pick up on and automatically know exactly what was going on, what the situation was.

  But my receptors were off because I didn't have a clue as to what he meant.

  Where were the other people? There were sixty or seventy people in that camp when I left.

  Yes, I was mostly worried about my core group, the second family.

  Where was Anna?

  Where was Hannah?

  Why were Byron and Hanna out on patrol? What were they looking for? How long have they been here?

  Phil walked me down one of the residential streets, older houses lining the cracked sidewalks.

  Homes built in the time when front porches were still popular and deep enough to offer shade during a sunny afternoon.

  In California, they called them craftsman style, but in the south, they were just called Southern Homes.

  Big wide porches that stretched from wall to wall under a shadowed Eve.

  I saw a flash of white moving in one of the shadows and a ghost stepped out into the sunlight.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Anna. I didn't realize how much I missed her. My heart sped up and my breath hitched at the sight of her.

  I smiled.

  Her lip quivered.

  Giant swollen tears spilled over the edge of her eyes and she took a step toward me.

  "You," she breathed.

  The man next to her grabbed her arm and held her back. She froze.

  Rage blossomed in my gut.

  It must have shown.

  Brian put a hand on my forearm.

  "Wait," he said.

  Good advice. Borderline great. Except for the caveman inside me raging like a bull in a cage.

  It bought a second though.

  That's all Phil needed.

  He put himself in the path between us.

  Not the smartest move.

  But it worked.

  "Looks like a little history here," he said, eyes traveling from me to Anna and the man beside her.

  "You could say that."

  "He could say whatever he wants."

  As far as schoolyard chants went, it wasn't great.

  It didn't have to be.

  He was marking his territory. And challenging me.

  "Mitch," Phil held up a hand. "Now would be a good time to go check the hives."

  Mitch looked like he wanted to argue. He opened his mouth to say something. Closed it. Propped it open again.

  He gripped Anna by the hand and pulled her after him.

  She didn't protest.

  She didn't stop staring at me either.

  "We have a lot to tell you," said Brian from next to me.

  "Start talking."

  "When we got here-"

  He started and stopped. I gave him a moment to gather his thoughts.

  I knew he was trying to think of the best way to explain it. Not dumb it down, but give me just enough fast facts to make a quick decision.

  More people should be like that.

  It’s why I trust my gut so much, my instinct.

  People ignore millions of years of evolution that allowed them to be here today, in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, because they’re trying to think of the right thing to say.

  Gut reactions exist for a reason.

  Personally, I read so much, train so much, study so much or at least I did before the zombies showed up, that when given information, I can assimilate it and act on it fast.

  Like the Borg that way.

  But most people hem and haw on making a decision because they are afraid of making the wrong choice.

  Brian was trying to decide what choice to make.

  It could be because he was afraid my reaction would have consequences, either for them or for me.

  Or he was afraid I would finally decide to be done with the whole group thing, go get the kids and continue on without them.

  I watched his eyes calculate, his mind rolling through a catalog of possibilities.

  Then he opened his mouth.

  "There are two camps in here," said Brian.

  "Have's and have not's?"

  "More like the getters and takers."

  "Which one are we?"

  He eyed me with one eyebrow up and I felt like he was holding something back. Was everyone inside these walls keeping secrets?

  "We get," he said.

  "Who takes?"

  "You remember the guy with the ponytail?"

  I wiped my hand on my pants.

  "Still got his grease on my hands."

  "His brother."

  "The Mayor," I guessed.

  "Sounds like a wrestler, right? Like one of those WWE guys from the mid-90's."

  I hoped not.

  I'd found an ex NFL player in the last town and Mags turned him loose to do a little dance on my ribcage and face. Wrestlers were big boys.

  I didn't feel like facing another one.

  "Is he?"

  "A wrestler or a mayor?"

  "Either? Both?"

  "Neither," said Brian. "Though I guess technically, he's a leader by title."

  "And taking."

  "There is that. He takes whatever he wants."

  "I'm not going to like this guy."

  "No," Brian shook his head. "And therein lies the rub."

  "Did you get a word a day calendar?" I joked.

  But he wasn't biting.

  "He's bad news."

  "We've met worse."

  His head kept shaking.

  "Not like this. Okay, maybe your buddy the General. But this guy is cruel, just for the sake of being cruel. He has this whole town under his thumb."

  Sounded like the Mayor needed a hammer to his thumb. His toes too.

  "He's got a gang with him," Brian continued.

  "So, did the General."

  The truth was that came out sounding a lot tougher than I meant for it to be. Brian had been through a lot with me. He knew the odds we'd faced and come out ahead, and he had seen just how thin that margin was.

  Yeah, we were here now. I was here now.

  But I was lucky. A lot.

  Brian knew I wasn’t a tough guy. Or maybe I was tough if you counted stubborn.

  When he cringed, it meant we weren't alone.

  Someone was watching.


  And though my luck held out in a lot of fights and got me out of tight scrapes, that old Irishman and his stupid law took a gander at my talk and decided to have one of those man plans, God laughs moments.

  Cause the Mayor happened to be behind us as I said it.

  And it did sound tough.

  Almost as tough as the six guys who flanked him.

  "You feeling lucky punk?" the Mayor asked with a sneer.

  Great.

  The guy could quote Dirty Harry.

  Under different circumstances, we probably would have had some laughs over beer.

  Too bad I was going to have to kill him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I had to put my whole kill the mayor plan on hold.

  Turned out, he had plans for me too.

  Phil flanked the long lanky man and I couldn’t help but feel like a surreal Dorothy escorted by a couple of brainless square crows as we walked down the street.

  Phil was quiet.

  The Mayor was quiet.

  Until we stopped in front of another house, this one a tiny cracker box bungalow from just after World War II.

  “I need you to stay here for the night,” the Mayor said. “I’m not happy about what you did to my brother.”

  I thought about the fate of the third poker and tensed up.

  “I need to think on this,” the Mayor continued. “Normally, I’d- “

  He drew his thumb across his throat and made a snick sound that lasted several seconds.

  “But Phil has graciously intervened on your behalf. I don’t know why, maybe it’s because you make him laugh. Phil’s funny that way, aren’t you Phil.”

  The Admin just nodded.

  Maybe he was funny that way. Or maybe Phil was thinking about what I said and saving me to do some dirty work later.

  “Thanks,” I said to both of them.

  It cost nothing to be polite, and I guess they hadn’t heard much of that since the fall because the manners took them by surprise.

  I could see it on their faces.

  “You may be right Phil,” the Mayor shot a quick glance over his shoulder and then back at me.

  “But I may be right too. Did you have to break his nose?”

  He was talking about his brother.

  “He could have looked up.”

  The Mayor nodded.

  “Guess you don’t feel sorry about that?”

  I’d been in several earthquakes in California before. It’s a weird feeling, the ground moving unbidden under your feet, like the world shifting around you.