by Dave Lund
After breaking into the truck, he opened the hood and found a dusty old 350 sitting between the fenders. It was carbureted and appeared to have an old points ignition. It only took a few minutes to hotwire the truck, and although he was greatly relieved to have a running vehicle, he was annoyed to see it only had about a quarter of a tank of gas. Assuming a twenty-five gallon tank and that the truck might get ten miles per gallon, he calculated that he would have just enough gas to get stranded again.
A half-hour later he had finished siphoning gas from patrol cars into the newly stolen truck, and now, with a full tank of gas, he was ready to get back on the road. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find anything to fill up with extra gas, so he would have to scavenge for gas sooner than later.
During all the noise and commotion of getting the truck ready to leave, Cliff saw movement in the windows of the dark police station, and none of it looked good. It was quite obvious that the building was a tomb for the undead. Using the electric gate’s manual override, he turned back onto I-70 and pointed west.
CHAPTER 31
Glenwood Springs, Colorado
Driving west on a dirt road away from the police station where Cliff had procured his “new” truck, he had a nagging feeling that he had missed something, which finally materialized into a solid thought: If that troop had been attacked by a zombie, then killed by the same, where was that zombie?
After he had crashed the Volkswagen van, he had seen a number of zombies, but not in nearly enough numbers. In fact, since running for his life at Denver International Airport, he hadn’t seen nearly enough zombies. The thought was interrupted by the end of the dirt road. To his left was the river, and to his right was a low chain-link fence, put in place to keep animals off the highway. Without thinking, he had driven north instead of backtracking the way he had come. After some quick work with his SOG multi-tool, the fence was cut away from its poles and Cliff drove out over it.
Finally back on the road with a working vehicle, he stuck to the wrong side of the road since there were fewer abandoned cars on this side of the center barrier. He kept the speedometer hovering near fifty-five miles per hour so he could conserve fuel. His focus was on survival, not shaving a few hours off his arrival time.
The worst possible scenario would be that he found Groom Lake in the same condition as the base at DIA, dark and overrun by the undead. It would be easier if he could set up some communication links; if Groom Lake was down, there were only a few other locations he could retreat to. He knew he could take an excursion to one of the secret supply caches that the U.S. military had set up throughout the country, but there weren’t any close by; most were spread out near the coast to supply a military resistance in case of invasion, or for the more likely scenario of civil uprising.
If Groom Lake turned out to be a complete loss he’d have to make a new plan, but hopefully he could still get some supplies from the underground facility. There were other similar secret bases throughout the U.S., about a dozen of them, but Groom Lake was a known rendezvous point for key leadership in the military, separate from the civilian bunker at DIA. It was also where most of the Yama Strain research was being conducted. If a vaccine existed, that’s where it would be.
Comanche, Texas
Bexar walked for nearly an hour before reaching a point on the railroad tracks where he felt he was far enough into town to safely flank the roadblock. He made his way through the brush on his belly, low crawling slowly out of the rail bed and into a slightly overgrown pasture.
He was an avid reader of military history, including his all-time favorite, “Force Recon Diary, 1969,” but he was no military man. He hadn’t had the field training of those Marines in Vietnam, and he didn’t really know how to move stealthily through an open field. His training was good, but it was all very specialized in the tradecraft of being a police officer. The majority of his training time was spent in the saddle of his police motorcycle, making his way through endless mazes of orange cones to hone his technical motorcycle riding skills. Now he wished he would have spent more time seeking out training in field craft.
His plan was to get about one hundred yards from the roadblock, if possible. If he was close enough, he might be able to see who he was dealing with, and hear what was being said. He knew he could accurately engage the threats with his rifle if he needed to.
The route looked clear, so Bexar began picking his way through the pasture, which was full of scrap and trash, as well as brush. There was a very fine line between ending up on American Pickers and Extreme Hoarders, and whoever owned this land had well-crossed the line, but the junk was useful because it gave him some cover as he moved methodically from scrap pile to scrap pile.
Climbing quickly and quietly over a fence, he sprinted to the back of a building that abutted the hoarder field. It looked like the back of a gas station, and there was a work truck parked on the side of the building. In the bed of the truck was a ladder, and he crouch-walked to the truck to retrieve the ladder. He wanted to get on the roof of the gas station to recon the roadblock. Unfortunately, the ladder turned out to be an eight-foot step ladder, and the roof was about twelve feet high, but with a little extra effort he was able to pull himself onto the roof top and low crawl to a large air conditioning unit. He had no illusion that the sheet metal construction of the AC unit would stop a bullet, but it would give him some cover while he got his bearings.
Peering over the edge of the AC unit, Bexar realized he was a little closer to the roadblock than he had wanted. He was only about seventy-five yards away, but he had a little elevation on the roadblock, and could actually see over the semi-truck and the other vehicles down the road to where Jack and the caravan were located. The roadblock was slightly to his left, and he could see three men lying in ambush. He hadn’t brought a mirror or something shiny to flash towards Jack to let him know he was in position, so he would have to wait for Jack to make the first move.
Twenty minutes later, Jack slowly drove the FJ towards the roadblock, stopping about fifty yards from the semi-truck. Using the vehicle for cover, Jack called out to the men at the roadblock, “I’m representing my group and want to speak with you. All we want from you is to be allowed to safely pass so we can continue our journey. None of us are infected. We mean you no harm; we won’t stop, we only want to pass through your town.”
The reply came quickly. “You can go, but there’s a toll—your vehicles, your food, and your ammo for safe passage. You can keep whatever else you can carry.”
“No!” exclaimed Jack. “That’s a death sentence! We’re not giving you our vehicles or anything else, we just want to move past!”
“You don’t get it, asshole,” Jack heard from the roadblock. “That’s not a request; we’re taking your food, your ammo, your vehicles, and anything else we want. If you’re lucky, we’ll give you the women back when we’re done with them!”
From Bexar’s perch he saw two more townsmen emerge from the house across the street. One of the men was armed with a large rifle, the other a short shotgun. The man with the rifle lay prone, taking position behind the rifle aimed at Jack.
Bexar and Jack’s original plan had been that Bexar was supposed to signal with a single shot if something was wrong, but if he did that Jack would be killed when the rifleman opened fire, so instead he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and squeezed the trigger on his AR. The reticle of his site rested comfortably just over the top of the rifleman’s head as his trigger broke to the rear. The rifleman’s head in his site exploded in a red mist. Shifting slightly, Bexar lined up the shot to the man with the shotgun, firing a round through the bottom of his jaw. A follow-up shot finished the kill, and the two men lay dead in the street of Comanche.
Jack dove behind the FJ when the firing started, eventually pointing his AR towards the threat. Bexar continued breathing steadily, driving his muzzle towards each new threat. Seconds after the firing had started, all of the men at the roadblock lay dead in the street of their t
own. Bexar had fired a total of ten rounds, Jack fifteen.
Bexar moved quickly to the back side of the gas station, climbed down the ladder, and continued his run towards Jack. This time he didn’t run back through the hoarder field, but straight towards the roadblock and Jack. Jack was in the FJ, rifle pointed forward through the open window to engage any threats during Bexar’s retreat. Diving inside, Bexar yelled “GO,” and they were off to collect their families in the other vehicles.
“Holy shit balls, that was intense,” said Jack. “Were you on the gas station roof?”
“Yeah, on the left,” replied Bexar. “The first guy was laid out behind a big rifle, the second guy was the sweeper. Damn, that was nuts.”
“What now?” asked Jack. “Do you think we should try to drive through the town?”
“No,” said Bexar, shaking his head. “Damnit, I think we need to find a spot to hunker down for a bit, see if they have any vehicles and try to chase after us.”
“Okay fine,” said Jack, “but where do we do that?”
“I don’t know. I say we turn back and haul ass; we can hide or set an ambush for anyone after us. We have about three hours ‘til sunset, if we can get hidden and safe, then maybe we can figure out if we can go through the town, or maybe there’s a reasonable detour that doesn’t take us through anything big, or burn too much fuel.”
The group retreated, backtracking on Highway 36. A few miles from the shootout, Bexar slowed and turned his truck into an open cattle pasture gate, and the group followed him into the field. Bexar climbed out of his truck and closed the gate, securing it with a small length of 550 cord. Once behind the closed gate, which provided a little safety from the wandering undead assuming the fence was intact, the group drove across the pasture to a small stock pond. The pond was surrounded by some trees, which should help to conceal them from the road.
After their hasty retreat from the group cache site in Maypearl, Jack decided it would be best to leave the tent packed for the night, and once again a watch schedule was agreed upon. As Jack took the first security watch, Bexar unpacked his old Coleman stove to cook a few cans of chili for their dinner.
Jessie struggled to get Keeley to eat so she would sleep for the night, but being a toddler, she absolutely refused to eat any of the rations from their go-bags. Will, on the other hand, found his place in the trees, and climbed the one closest to their home for the night while waiting for the chili.
Much like the wagon trains that crossed the west before them, the group pulled their vehicles in a loose circle with the bedrolls placed between them. The children were in the middle of the adults, who were in the middle of the vehicles. If someone, living or undead, attacked, their circled “wagons” would hopefully give them some protection. After dinner, Jessie relieved Jack from security watch, while Bexar and Sandra cleaned all their rifles before going to bed. Jack sat in his truck, looking through the GPS. He had to find a route around that damned little town.
Interstate 70, Colorado
Cliff made good time. In two hours he had made it through Parachute and was just outside of Grand Junction. The abandoned vehicles on the Interstate had been sparser than he’d expected, which made the driving not too difficult except for the blanket of fresh snow from the previous night. No society meant no road crews, which meant no snow plows and no salt on the bridges.
The truck’s gas tank was down by half, and he needed to stop and find fuel and shelter. The sun was starting to get low on the horizon. If he could also find some food and water, that would be a nice bonus, but he knew at least he had two stripped-down MREs in his bug-out bag. If he could find another small airport like the one he’d stayed at the night before, he’d be happy.
Driving closer to Grand Junction, he came upon a small blue sign indicating an airport located off the exit. It took very little time to follow the signs to the airport, but unlike the previous night, this was no small airport. It must have been quite busy before the EMPs hit, and busy meant people, people who were probably undead now. That wasn’t going to work.
Scanning the area for other options, he saw a small Shell gas station and a Holiday Inn. As much fun as a night in a Holiday Inn might be, a hotel full of undead sounded like a horrible way to die. The gas station would have to be his choice for the night; most gas stations have a front and back door, as well as roof access from a back room. Maybe he’d be lucky and the gas station wouldn’t have been ransacked, leaving him some gas cans, food, and water.
Road trip food always upset his stomach, but he had an undying love for an unnaturally produced, beef-stick-with-cheese food product sold by the pair in a vacuum formed package. Next, the Holiday Inn—he needed some blankets and a pillow.
Cliff parked the big Chevy truck at the side of the building so he could maintain some sort of tactics. He wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in the hotel was dead, but he didn’t want to be surprised by someone who wasn’t.
Approaching the hotel with his rifle up, he took a quick peek around the corner, checked the area around the convenience store, and scanned the glass front. The store was in extreme disarray, but it looked like there was still some stock on the shelves. The windows and glass doors were intact, which was a good sign. Moving quickly in a tactical crouch, he reached the front doors and found them unlocked. Pulling one open, he was struck by the pungent and overwhelming smell of rotting death. He took a deep breath before stepping into the gas station.
The front aisles were clear of bodies, dead or otherwise. Behind the counter he found the source of the smell—a blonde woman who appeared to have been dead for a couple of days lay crumpled on the floor. She had a small semi-auto pistol in her hand, the slide locked back over an empty chamber, and there were bite marks visible all over her body. She had shot herself in the head. She must have known what she would become. The bite marks were bloody, so he knew she’d been bitten before she killed herself. Once the heart stops, blood stops pumping, except to drain out of a low spot. He hoped that whoever bit the clerk had left, but he knew it was probably in the gas station somewhere.
Cliff cleared the rest of the store, including the storeroom and back office. Finding no one else, he let out a deep sigh and pulled open the front of the beer cooler. Just as he grabbed a six-pack of Sawtooth Ale, a hand reached through the beer bottles from the back of the cooler and latched onto his hand, sending the beer crashing to the floor. The hand was half-rotten and blackened, with bone showing through chunks of missing flesh.
Cliff’s free hand dropped to his pistol, and he thumbed on the X300 light as he brought it up. He could see the dead orbs of a zombie’s eyes looking back at him through the cooler. The undead creature moaned while trying to pull him into the cooler. Cliff fired three times and the zombie’s grip fell free.
He couldn’t believe he hadn’t checked the walk-in cooler. Checking his arm and hand, he didn’t see any scratches that had broken his skin, so he grabbed another six-pack of Left Hand beer and shut the door. With an arm full of bags from the stockroom, he began “shopping.” Placing the bags by the store’s front door, he took the beer, a windshield scraper, a jug of freeze-rated windshield wiper fluid, and four three-gallon red plastic gas cans. Packages of Pop-Tarts, Slim Jims, Combos, and beef jerky also went into the bags. In the storeroom he found a garden hose the clerk had probably used to spray off the parking lot, and cut off two four-foot long sections of hose. He was going to need them to siphon gas.
Storing his scavenged items in the truck, he started looking for cars to siphon gas from. To the north he saw a sign for a car rental agency; that would be his destination. Most rental companies didn’t keep their own fuel tanks, but rentals were rented out with a full tank of gas, so maybe his luck would continue.
A quick drive to the rental car company’s lot where, as he’d suspected, he found a handful of small and midsized vehicles. Hose section and gas cans in hand, Cliff first approached a red Dodge Avenger. He broke the driver’s window, reached through to unloc
k the back door, pulled out the bottom of the back seat of the car, and unscrewed the fuel pump from the gas tank. The Dodge held just enough fuel to fill three of his gas cans, which he used to top off the truck’s gas tank. He repeated the process on another car in the lot before driving back to the gas station, happy he had a full tank of gas and four full gas cans for tomorrow’s drive.
Again parking the truck at the side of the gas station, he walked over to the Holiday Inn to begin his quest for blankets and a pillow. He had no intention of going in the front door, so he walked along the outside of the hotel looking for a room with open curtains so he’d be able to see if the room was devoid of undead. The sixth window he passed had the curtains open, and it didn’t look like anyone was inside. He tapped the barrel of his rifle against the glass to see if there would be a reaction in the room; hearing none, he broke the window and climbed into the hotel room. This time he made sure it was actually empty; that had been a close call in the gas station.
He pulled the blanket off the queen bed and found a spare blanket in the closet, along with a spare pillow stored in a zipped up bag. He was about to crawl back out the window when he had a moment of clarity, the kind that could change the world, and he quickly darted back into the bathroom to take two unopened rolls of toilet paper and three large bath towels.
He had intended to sleep in the gas station, but the smell was so bad he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he hung his new towels up on the inside of the windows of his truck to keep himself out of view, opened a beer, and tried to enjoy his dinner of Pop-Tarts and beef jerky as the sun set.
CHAPTER 32
December 31st
