by Dave Lund
The only thing that Jack missed was the handmade cots they used to have. With the ground cloth down and the tent set up, Jack and Sandra quietly and quickly put their night’s supplies in the tent, but readied their truck for departure if they needed to flee. They would both feel safer once the others made it.
Sandra took Will inside the tent, setting up their small camping table and cranking up the old green Coleman stove. After all the stress and exertion of the day, they needed a good meal tonight, especially since she wasn’t sure when they might have another chance to cook a good meal.
Jack gathered up the group’s homemade proximity alarms. This was a device that held a ten-gauge shotgun round that they loaded without any shot, only with the powder. A length of high-tension fishing filament and a small spring were used to create a trip wire that set off the shotgun cartridge noisemaker. It was simple, required no batteries or high technology, and worked well. The group had loaded one hundred shells for the trip alarms and sealed them in an ammo can in the cache. Jack set out six of the devices in a loose circle about two hundred feet from their camp, on the more obvious approach routes. For each device, he took a stick of camo face paint and ran the end of the stick down the fishing line for camouflage, making it look more like a small vine than a trip wire.
Milford, Texas
After escaping the zombie horde in Mertens, Bexar hadn’t slowed down much until they’d nearly reached the Milford city limits. The town was empty and on fire; it appeared that only ghosts remained. He didn’t know why it seemed like everything caught fire after the end of the world, but he did know that clearly there weren’t enough living people left to fight the fires.
It was with no small relief that Bexar found that FM 308 crossed over the I-35 and not under it. The Interstate was littered with stalled vehicles, accidents, and hundreds of people milling about between the cars and accidents. At a second glance, they realized that none of those people were alive—I-35 was a tomb of the undead.
“Holy shit!” cried Jessie, “look at that, honey, we need to get out of here.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more, Jess,” said Bexar as he let out the clutch and started across the bridge. He guessed they were only about forty-five minutes away from Maypearl with only about two hours of daylight left. They had to make it to the group tonight. He hoped the group was there.
CHAPTER 15
Interstate 20, south of Dallas, Texas
Malachi and Amber made good time, but just before reaching I-45 Malachi stopped the Scout so he could put more gas in the tank. This would be the third jerry can of gas Malachi had used for the trip. As he got out of the truck, he noticed a sign notifying the public that this was a prison area and not to pick up hitchhikers. In this day and age, who actually picks up hitchhikers anymore? Malachi thought to himself as he pulled the gas can off the rack. Only two cans of gas left and then we’ll be in trouble, he thought, but then he realized they had passed thousands of cars abandoned on the road, all with gas in their tanks. It wasn’t looting if it was for survival.
While fueling the Scout, Malachi scanned the area around him for a suitable candidate to steal gas from. As luck would have it, across the median was a full-ton Ford truck with a long trailer full of lawn equipment. Most of that equipment ran on regular gas and not two-cycle anymore, especially the professional-grade gear. There were even four large red plastic gas cans on the trailer, held down by a bungee cord.
“Hey, I’m going across the median to get the gas cans from that lawn crew trailer,” he called to Amber.
“Ok babe, I’ll hold cover here.”
Malachi ran across the median and found two of the four gas cans full. Two ten-gallon gas cans were better than no gas, so unfastening the bungee cord, he pulled each can out of the trailer and began the walk back to his Scout. The farmer’s walk with a gas can in each hand was laborious, but completely worth it. He was about twenty feet away from the Scout when he heard Amber scream, followed by the loud crack of a rifle shot. Amber fell to the ground, her AR-15 clattering to the concrete.
Malachi ran the rest of the distance, the gas cans still in hand.
“Babe, can you hear me? Amber? FUCK!”
Amber was unconscious and bleeding badly. She had been ambushed by an unseen sniper; who and why he didn’t know, and quite frankly didn’t care at this point. He needed to get his wife out of here and to safety.
Malachi scooped Amber up and put her on the bench seat, sliding her across to the passenger side. Another rifle round punched through the windshield of the Scout and into the empty driver’s seat. Malachi pushed the gas cans into the back of the Scout, picked up the AR Amber had dropped, and jumped into the driver’s seat just as another round punched through the shattered windshield, barely missing his head. He had felt the bullet pass right by his ear. Putting the Scout in gear and accelerating as fast as the old truck would go, Malachi swerved back and forth, hoping to avoid any more shots.
No more shots hit the truck and after about five miles of fast driving, he stopped the truck to check on Amber. She was still unconscious and bleeding, but she was breathing and had a pulse. Her breathing was shallow and her pulse weak. Malachi grabbed the trauma kit out of the back seat of the Scout, found the EMS shears and cut off Amber’s blood-drenched shirt. The rifle round had entered just above her left breast and exited out her back, shattering her left shoulder blade. The entry wound was large, nearly the size of his pinky finger. Malachi placed a QuikClot sponge in the larger exit wound and a tampon in the entry wound. He then positioned a large amount of gauze on both wounds and wrapped Amber’s chest in medical tape.
He had to get to the group for help, although he wasn’t sure what sort of help they would be able to provide— without a surgeon and a hospital, there really wasn’t much anyone could do. His wife would somehow either live, or she would die.
“Stay with me baby,” he pleaded, “I need you to hang with me. I can’t lose you.”
CHAPTER 16
Maypearl, Texas
About an hour after sunset, the Reed family turned onto Main Street in the little town of Maypearl. They were almost at the cache site, but first they had to get through their last obstacle, the town.
The town’s cafe was fully engulfed in flames. A crowd of about fifty people stood shuffling to and fro in front of it, except it was obvious that these people were no longer alive—they were the undead; their only purpose was to hunt the living. Bexar had quickly learned his first lesson of the new world order, and took the first road to the left. As he drove away from the burning building and the throng of undead, he hoped that the fire would be enough of a distraction so they wouldn’t follow him.
Bexar drove through the small town, taking the side streets to meet back up with FM 66, the Farm-to-Market road that became Main Street once you entered Maypearl. They were so close to the cache site that he couldn’t risk having the terrifying, undead mob follow them. Although the group’s survival location was secluded, it wasn’t fortified and wasn’t easily defended. They had bet their safety on being hidden and out of the way, not even considering that the dead would rise and walk the earth.
Less than ten minutes later, anxiously watching for any sign of trailing undead, Bexar pulled the truck up to the hidden gate at the entrance of the group cache site.
Cache Site near Maypearl, Texas
Jack heard a vehicle out on the main road stop briefly, then continue up the dirt road towards him and his family. Drawing his pistol, he took a concealed position near some brush. Hopefully Sandra had also heard the approaching vehicle and would practice good noise discipline. It was too late to warn her, but Jack was confident she would react correctly. They had discussed situations and tactics like these before, but Jack was never really sure how much of it his wife took seriously. Now that TEOTWAWKI—The End Of The World As We Know It—was here, they needed those skills to stay alive.
Relief washed over Jack as he saw the old familiar Jeep Wagoneer approach t
he camp; Bexar had made it to the cache. Not wanting to startle Bexar and risk being shot, Jack stood slowly, holding his hands above his head while moving out from his cover. The Jeep was dark, with the lights off, but the hazard lights flashed once to acknowledge Jack. Leading the way, Jack walked with the Jeep and the Reed family back to the camp.
After hugs all around, and comments about how each other’s kids were getting so big, Bexar and Jack set out retrieving the Reed family’s items out of the water tank cache.
“Dude, am I glad to see you,” said Bexar. “I wasn’t sure if you and Sandra got my text since everything went dark right after that. Was the drive from Arlington hard?”
“We just got here a few hours ago, and the drive was surprisingly hard for how close we were,” replied Jack. “We had to overnight it out in the wild. Have you seen them? Have you seen the dead walking?”
“Fuck dude, I don’t know what that’s about!” exclaimed Bexar. “I don’t know how it happened, but Dispatch broadcast an alert, and Command wanted everyone to respond back to the station, but it felt wrong, it felt really wrong, so I sent the text and hauled ass back home.”
“Good thing you did,” said Jack. “Have you heard from Malachi?”
“No, I got no reply from either of you. How about you?”
“Nope, nothing. DFW is pretty much on fire; we saw a lot of aircraft that had fallen out of the sky between Love Field and Dallas Fort Worth International; that’s a lot of destruction. Malachi would have had to go through it, but maybe he was able to get around it. What do you think, an EMP event?”
Bexar grimly nodded his head. “Looks like it, my phone, everything, even my watch died. Did you see those planes go over after everything went dark?”
“Yeah, sort of looks like the chemtrail nutters were right on those.”
Bexar climbed down into the base of the cache site tank and in short order had lifted his family’s gear up to Jack, including a canvas wall tent nearly identical to Jack’s. The tent was erected and positioned such that, along with the vehicles, it would provide a blind for their cooking fire. It was like a family camping trip, but the games and happiness were replaced with worry and dread.
Wilmer, Texas
Malachi was driving as fast as he could without crashing the Scout and trailer. Amber’s breathing had become even more shallow, her skin clammy and pale. She was slowly dying, and Malachi knew it. He had to get to the cache site and hope the others would be able to help him.
In just a few short hours the world had changed drastically; any emergency help he could have depended on had vanished from existence. Malachi figured if he could keep this pace up, he should arrive at the cache site in about ninety minutes.
“Hang on baby, I’m getting us there, I’m getting help, but you’ve got to stay with me.”
Malachi reached over and patted her hand. It felt very cold, but it moved a little, so he knew there was still hope. He continued holding her hand while speeding down the dirt road, thankful there weren’t any disabled cars on this road. Amber moved her hand again, and Malachi looked at his wife. To his shock her eyes were dim and milky, her skin already turning greenish-gray. A moan erupted from the very core of the woman that had once been his wife, and as it escalated into a bloodcurdling scream, Amber lunged at him, tearing a large chunk of flesh from his forearm with her teeth.
“WHAT THE FUCK AMBER!? AMBER–WHAT THE FUCK!?” screamed Malachi in pain and disbelief.
He slammed on the brakes, nearly causing the trailer to come around the rig. By now his brain had absorbed the realization that Amber was obviously not alive. Opening the driver’s door, Malachi fell out of the Scout to the asphalt below. Amber thrashed through the interior, following her husband onto the roadway.
He tried to draw the pistol on his right hip, but couldn’t get his right hand to work—Amber had severed the tendons and muscles in his forearm. Grabbing his belt with his left hand, he jerked it hard to the left, bringing the holster and pistol within reach of his left hand. Awkwardly drawing the pistol and having to rotate the grip by squeezing the pistol with his left hand, Malachi raised the XD Compact, focused on the front sight, and squeezed the trigger. Amber’s skull exploded backward, spraying the side of the Scout with bone and brain matter. Malachi collapsed onto the road and sobbed.
CHAPTER 17
Cache Site near Maypearl, Texas
As the sun’s edge disappeared below the western horizon, Jack and Bexar had finished the night watch rotation, each sitting watch for four hours. Sandra would start tonight’s watch, ending in the morning with Bexar, who was also responsible for stoking the fire’s coals and starting the morning’s coffee.
Because of the added security, the group decided to use a fire and conserve the Coleman white gas. With the children put to bed and sleeping, the four friends wanted to stay up and chat, but the incredible stress of their cross-Texas trip and the strain of the night watch rotation took their toll, and all but Sandra went to their tents for the night.
About two hours after the last blue light of dusk had slipped past the horizon, Sandra heard a vehicle approaching. It stopped out of sight in the distance, and then resumed driving towards their camp. Just before the headlights appeared around the trees, Sandra quickly and quietly woke the others. Wearing only what they had worn to bed, the group quickly dispersed into a hasty L-shaped ambush and waited for the approaching threat.
The vehicle drove over one of the trip-wire alarms, firing a blank shotgun shell, the sound echoing into the night. Immediately the vehicle stopped, and extinguished the headlights. A door opened and closed in the darkness.
Jack and Bexar, holding the front line, shone their rifle-mounted Surefire lights on the vehicle; it was Malachi driving the Scout. He was very pale and covered in blood; his right arm was bandaged, and blood could be seen seeping through the bandage.
Extinguishing the weapon lights and lowering the muzzles, Bexar and Jack called out to Malachi and walked up to him. Bexar tried to give Malachi a hug, but before he could Malachi fell to the ground, crying.
Jessie and Sandra had come out of the woods on the passenger side of the Scout to find the vehicle empty, but there was a body wrapped in a camouflage poncho on top of the AT Chase trailer.
Choking, Malachi sobbed, “She got shot. There was a sniper where we had stopped on the south side of Dallas. It was something big, hit her in the shoulder and blew out the entire back of her shoulder blade. I tried to help her, but it was too much. Just too much blood, I was trying to hold her hand and talk to her, but it was too much.” Then, holding up his right arm, bandage soaked through with blood, his right hand dangling lifeless, he said “She bit me!”
“Wait,” said Bexar, “your wound is from where she bit you?”
“Yeah, I can’t fucking believe it. She tried to come after me so I had to kill her.”
“Was Amber bit?”
“No, just shot. Fuck! Does that mean I’m going to die? I’m going to be one of them?”
“I don’t know,” said Bexar. “Let’s hope not, but we need to get your wound cleaned up and some water in you, you look like shit. In the morning we’ll dig a grave for Amber.”
Jessie helped Malachi over to the dwindling fire between the tents. Sandra retrieved the group’s trauma bag from the cache and began tending to Malachi’s grotesque wound.
CHAPTER 18
Denver International Airport, Colorado
Approaching the first pieces of wreckage scattered over the runway, Cliff soon encountered several of the undead wandering about out in the open. Attached to the end of his short barrel FN-P90 was a Gemtech suppressor; although it wouldn’t make his rifle a silent whisper like in the movies, under cover of the loud popping sounds from the burning wreckage, the rifle report shouldn’t be noticed. The sun was starting to set, and he needed to secure shelter if he was going to survive a Colorado winter night.
It was peculiar to Cliff, not moving from cover to cover with quick movements. Alth
ough the threat he faced was from the undead, not armed enemy combatants, he still walked in a tactical crouch out of habit, rolling his feet heel-to-toe to keep the muzzle of his rifle level while moving. Ten years ago, during his training at The Farm, Cliff had smiled to himself when his instructors were teaching them that technique—Cliff had mastered the movement as a freshman member of the marching band at John Marshall High in Rochester, Minnesota.
Rifle up, eyes open, controlled breathing through his nose, Cliff was within thirty yards of the first undead. The reticle of his Trijicon ACOG in line with his first target, steadily breathing out, Cliff gently squeezed the trigger and was satisfied to see the undead’s head explode away from his shot. Driving his rifle to the right, the next shot was lined up and fired. Moving closer to the dozen or so undead remaining, Cliff saw he had been wrong; they had noticed the rifle’s report, their heads snapping towards Cliff.
