by Dave Lund
“So people actually believe that?” asked Amber.
“Yup, tinfoil hats and all.”
Their conversation was interrupted when, all of a sudden, the Scout’s windshield was covered in an oily mist falling from the sky. Malachi pulled over and used water from his gallon jug to rinse the windshield off. He was surprised to find that the substance smelled slightly like sulfur.
Dodging more cars stopped in the roadway, Malachi started to reconsider his decision to try to split the route between Dallas and Fort Worth. Arlington and the surrounding area were in the way, never mind Coppell, Frisco, and a goodly number of other cities stacked one on top of another. Looking to the south, it was obvious there were a lot of things on fire, a lot of danger. Turning to Amber, he said, “Babe, this isn’t going to work, we’re going to have to go around. I say we go east, less to go through and less to come back through to get to Maypearl.”
“Sure, east sounds good,” she replied.
Malachi and Amber approached the intersection for FM 121, drove around a bad accident in the intersection, and turned east towards McKinney, Texas. The detour was uneventful; they saw a few people riding down the Farm-to-Market road on everything from an old Ford tractor to a small John Deere lawn mower. But as they got closer to McKinney, they were quickly put on high alert. Peering at the looming column of thick black smoke ahead, Amber said, “It’s like the whole town is on fire.”
Entering the city on Highway 75 and getting close to their exit, Malachi had to drive through the grass on the side of the highway to get around an accident that had the entire road blocked, while up above on the overpass, people milled around a tanker truck that was on fire. How they could stand the heat? Then one of them fell over the edge of the overpass to the pavement below, and he slammed on the brakes. “Holy shit!”
Amber anxiously peered out the window. “At least those other people are running to help him.”
Three people had run towards the fallen man from where they had been standing next to a darkened convenience store on the corner. They stopped abruptly when the man suddenly stood up, his right ankle shattered, the bones protruding from his lower leg. The three would-be rescuers stood paralyzed with fear as the crippled man stumbled in their direction with an otherworldly moan. Grabbing the shoulder of one, the man with the shattered leg took a big bite of flesh out of his rescuer-turned-victim’s neck. Blood sprayed from the large open wound, covering the pair in the warm crimson fluid. The good Samaritan collapsed to the pavement with a wet gurgle, as he could no longer scream with his neck severed, while his two friends ran away.
Malachi stepped out of his truck. Running towards the attacker, who now had ribbons of his victim’s flesh dangling from his wet bloody mouth, Malachi drew the XD .45 holstered on his right hip and fired two shots center mass. The man moaned and staggered towards Malachi, who fired two more rounds center mass before firing a fifth round aimed at his attacker’s head. The back of the man’s head exploded in a rainbow of blood and gore.
Malachi reached for the spare magazine on his belt with his left hand and deftly executed a tactical reload, all the while scanning for more threats. Amber screamed, and Malachi saw that the man who had had his throat ripped out had begun shuffling in his direction. Malachi raised his pistol and, taking no chances this time, fired a single head shot, felling the second man.
“Malachi, we’ve got to go, NOW!” screamed Amber.
Malachi ran towards the Scout, pistol still in hand. Amber was standing on the hood of the still-running truck, pistol out, firing rounds at an approaching group of about twenty people, all with grotesque wounds similar to the two that Malachi had just killed. Malachi closed the distance much faster than the shambling not-so-dead could, and Amber barely made it in the door before he shifted the truck in gear.
Malachi pounded the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, what the shit is going on?”
“I don’t know,” said Amber, “but that first guy should never have gotten up, and the second guy was dead from that huge bite wound, and, oh, I just don’t know.”
“Amber, we’ve got to haul ass, I can only hope that Bexar or Jack know something we don’t.”
They finally made it through the chaos that was McKinney, Texas, and out into the countryside, but with having to drive around abandoned vehicles in the road, and the general slow-going of an old Scout pulling a trailer, the sun soon loomed low on the horizon and it was apparent they wouldn’t make it to Maypearl that day.
Amber held her hand up to the horizon. “Three fingers left ‘til the sun drops, so about forty-five minutes of daylight.”
“I don’t know about you,” said Malachi, “but I don’t want to pop up the AT tent; I’d feel better if we drove through the night or found someplace more secure.” Amber nodded in agreement.
Just outside of Farmersville, Malachi found what they needed. A squat metal building with large overhead doors, it appeared to have belonged to some sort of earth-moving company, though he couldn’t tell what company because the small sign by the fence had been painted over to say, “Closed for the end of the world.” The paint was still wet. Malachi didn’t care, just as long as they found a safe place to hole up.
He stopped the Scout on the side of the road and extinguished the lights, but left the truck running. “I’m going over the fence to toss the emergency lever for the gate,” he said. “Pull the truck through and I’ll secure the gate behind us. And Amber, while I’m going over, cover me with the AR.”
Malachi jogged to the chain-link fence and climbed over. Amber stood on the driver’s side of the Scout, AR braced on the door frame, muzzle pointed towards the dark metal building. Malachi opened the metal cover for the electric gate, flipped the lever that clutched the electric motor, and slid open the gate. Amber drove the Scout and trailer into the yard and Malachi closed the gate, re-engaging the lever to secure it.
The sun had set, and with dusk the temperature started to fall as well. Amber exited the Scout and formed up with Malachi to clear the building and area so they could figure a way into the building.
It was eerily quiet, just like the days following 9/11 when there had been no air traffic in the sky, and it seemed that the whole world had stopped. Relying on their training, the couple used good tactics to cut the pie around the building’s corners—Amber with the long gun in front for immediate threats, Malachi holding onto her belt with his left hand, walking mostly backwards to give rear security. The southeast side of the building had an employee door that was propped slightly open with a brick. There was a butt can and a bench next to the door.
“Smoker’s door,” whispered Malachi. “Looks like they forgot to lock it up when they painted their new business sign.”
Malachi and Amber stacked on the door, Amber pulling on the end of the Vicker’s Blue Force sling to tighten it, and they waited, breathing quietly through their mouths. Listening for threats, listening so hard he began to hear his own heartbeat in his ears, Malachi whispered, “I love you,” in Amber’s ear, squeezing her shoulder with his left hand as they exploded forward and leapt through the door.
Last year Malachi and Amber had spent a week with Jim Smith at Spartan Tactical on his compound in Jacksboro. They had learned an incredible amount from the former Delta Operator, including the value of accuracy and smooth movement, but Jim also taught them how to clear rooms precisely and with lightning speed.
Amber pushed straight through the door, running the wall to the right; Malachi planted his foot in the doorframe and crossed over to the left, running the wall to the corner while sweeping back towards the middle.
“SHOW ME YOUR HANDS; SHOW ME YOUR HANDS NOW!” Amber had found someone, but Malachi had to finish clearing his area of responsibility, trusting his wife to be okay and to trust in her training. Three rapid shots erupted, echoing loudly in the metal building, followed by Amber yelling, “Clear!”
Malachi responded “Clear,” and walked over to Amber with his pistol in the SUL
position. Fifteen feet in front of Amber on the floor was a man in blue Dickies coveralls. A name tag identified him as “Flea.” Flea looked dead, but he also looked like he’d been that way long before being shot by Amber. There were two neat holes in the center of his chest, and a single hole just above the bridge of his nose. Black gunk spilled onto the floor from the hole in the back of his head.
Amber was still staring at the corpse in front of her. “It’s like he was a fucking zombie or something.”
“This is some crazy fucking day,” Malachi said, shaking his head.
He released the chains of the large overhead door and pulled it up. Amber went to get the Scout while Malachi grabbed Flea’s pant legs and dragged his body out the “smoker’s” door.
Less than five minutes later, the Scout and trailer were safely inside the large workshop, and Amber had lit their old trusty Coleman lantern. The lantern had belonged to Malachi’s father and had to be at least forty years old, but it still worked using white fuel and glowing mantles.
They tried to enjoy their light meal, but the carnage of the day had extinguished most of their appetite. Malachi cleaned up their dinner, and Amber took a multi-tool to the taillights of the Scout and removed the bulbs. The brake lights were a tactical liability, broadcasting their location to the world where electric light appeared to be a thing of the past.
Malachi looked at the black smudge on the floor where Flea had been killed for the second time, and took off his hat, remembering the morale patch velcroed on the front. He had found it on the Internet; it had a body in crosshairs and the words “Zombie Killer.” He removed the Velcro-backed patch and threw it onto the black stain. The patch wasn’t as funny anymore.
CHAPTER 6
South of Mexia, Texas
The sun was low on the horizon, and the drive was slow-going for Bexar and his family. A surprisingly large number of semi-trailer trucks were on Texas-14 when the EMP hit, leaving the southbound highway clogged with trucks. Bexar drove into the ditch around yet another accident blocking the small two-lane highway. He wasn’t sure why there were so many trucks on SH14; maybe some sort of advanced warning had come across the CB channels before his police dispatch had gotten the teletype? What Bexar wouldn’t give to be able to turn on the radio and get some updated news.
“Are you even listening to me?” Jessie asked loudly.
“Uh, yeah honey, go get a mani-pedi, you deserve one.”
“You dick, that’s not what I was talking about, but if you see a little Vietnamese guy with a nail file out here in Bumfuck Egypt during the end of the world, pull over so I can get one.”
Bexar laughed. “Okay, seriously, what were you saying?”
“I don’t think it would be smart to drive through the night, but I don’t want to pitch the tent; I don’t think it would be safe out here,” Jessie repeated.
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be able to find anywhere that will honor my Hilton Honors points, so where were you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed, “but we need to find somewhere safe.”
“Okay, we have about thirty minutes until sunset; let me figure out where we can circle the wagons.”
Bexar scanned the area around the highway, but in central Texas ranch country, there wasn’t much shelter to choose from—just a lot of open land, deer, cattle, single wide trailers, and probably a few meth labs. Slowing the truck, Bexar turned to Jessie. “What about that airport?”
“Babe, there’s a plane on fire at the end of the runway, I’m not so sure that would be a good place.”
“No,” he replied, “the other end, with the hangars. What if we break into one of the hangars, push the plane out, and pull the truck in. We would at least be hidden and have shelter. Besides, if a plane’s burning at the south end of the airport and no one cares, then surely no one will notice if we’re there for a night. And look at all that junk piled up next to the hangars. I seriously doubt anyone would notice us.” When Amber shrugged, Bexar made his decision.
He turned into the airport and took a right away from the FBO, driving past the large hangars and tie-downs to the open-ended T-hangars. One was empty, so he backed the truck into it.
Walking around the hangar, Bexar found a large blue tarp covering a partially disassembled aircraft in the tie-downs. He cut the tarp loose and brought it back to the hangar. Using some 550 parachute cord, he hung the tarp in front of the truck in the hangar, blocking the truck from view. The tarp wasn’t quite long enough to cover the entire opening, but he figured that the gap left between the top of the tarp and the hangar gave him a good vantage point from the gear rack of the truck to see out into the airport without being seen.
Jessie walked around the hangar to make sure the Jeep wasn’t visible and, satisfied with their safety for the night, took two large rocks and weighted the bottom of the tarp to keep it in place.
Surveying her work, she said “This will do honey, but I think we should keep a watch tonight. If you sleep first, I’ll trade out after a few hours.”
Bexar looked at the watch on his wrist. “Fine, you take first watch. Give me four hours and I’ll take the rest of the night. We can leave at sunrise … goddamnit!” he exclaimed.
“What?”
“My watch is dead. I really liked this watch.” Jessie had given Bexar the watch, a G-Shock Riseman, for his last birthday, and he loved it; he had wanted one for some time. Holding his hand up to the western sky, Bexar squinted and said, “Two fingers, only about thirty minutes left until sunset.”
Jessie gave Keeley a cereal bar while she warmed up some canned chili on their Coleman stove. After eating, Bexar took one of the big red jerry cans of gas down from the back of the Jeep and poured the whole can into the Jeep’s tank. They were going to have to find more fuel if they didn’t get to Maypearl soon. After laying Keeley down to sleep in the back seat of the Jeep, Bexar curled up on the ground with a woolen surplus Army blanket, and Jessie climbed on top of the roof rack with the AR for first watch.
“I love you Bexar, sleep fast,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 7
Air Force One
Agent McFarland knocked on the door to the President’s in-air office.
“Mr. President,” he announced, “we have lost communication with command at Denver. Current satellite imagery shows that most of Washington, D.C. is on fire, and there are swarms of reanimates moving throughout the destruction. Colonel Olive has informed us that we have approximately four hours of fuel remaining and then we will be forced to land.”
The strain showing in his face, the President replied, “Why can’t we refuel in-air again?”
“Sir, the last KC-135 over CONUS had to land to refuel, but Colonel Olive said that after the pilot advised that the approach for MacDill was overrun with reanimates, he hasn’t been able to raise the crew nor any of the other ground assets in the Air Mobility Command. He is suggesting we land at Groom Lake. We still have some communication with them, and we think it would be the best choice for your safety.”
“No!” The President was adamant. “We will not hide in the desert; tell the colonel that we’re going to Denver so we can reestablish contact with the VP, and try to take back control of my country.”
“Sir, I strongly suggest—”
“I don’t care what you suggest, tell Olive those are my orders,” the President said, dismissing him.
Outside of Mansfield, Texas
Jack and Sandra’s trip on TX-287 was taking much longer than they had possibly imagined. The roadway was a nearly impassible nightmare, and Jack was spending a lot of time driving around disabled vehicles and wrecks. He gave up staying in the southbound lanes, traversing the median if he needed to clear an impasse. The only living people they had seen in the past two hours were a handful of people fleeing on bicycles to the north; the other dozen or so they had seen were dead in the road. All of them had bite marks and head wounds, and all were being picked apart by large turkey vultures.
/> They passed a burning gas station, and Jack looked down at the gas gauge on his FJ. “We’ve burned about half a tank, after using the gas in our jerry cans, and I’m not sure what we’ll be able to find for gas.” Gunfire rang out in the near distance. “I think we’d better find a safe spot to hole up for the night. We’re not going to make it ‘til tomorrow, and I don’t want to drive through the night, it just wouldn’t be safe.”
Their son Will sat quietly in the back seat, staring out the window at all the death and destruction. Although he wasn’t able to fully comprehend what was going on, he knew that something was really wrong, and that his parents were scared.
Jack drove for another half-hour, finally reaching the first turn towards Maypearl. As they passed an RV park, a naked man ran by a large fifth-wheel RV, three undead shambling after him.
Soon Jack saw a row of industrial buildings on his left, with no cars in the parking lot. “Let’s see if we can get any of those overhead doors open, then we can park and hide in the building for the night. I think it would be a lot safer that way.”
All of the rollup doors were locked, but Jack found an unlocked door at the back of the building beside a picnic table and a butt-can for cigarettes. Walking into the building, Jack reached out and flipped the light switch next to the door by habit; when nothing happened, he looked around sheepishly, glad no one had seen him trying the light switch. He pulled open the first overhead door and Sandra backed the FJ into the space.
“Too bad we don’t need a new countertop,” she said, “those granite pieces would look real nice.”
“Yeah they would, but I don’t know when we’ll get to go back to even enjoy our kitchen, if ever,” Jack mused.
