by J. L. Bourne
Stunned, all I could think to say was “Checkers, help” before the wind left my lungs.
I was gasping for air as the creatures approached. With them nearly on me, I tried to stand, still unable to recover from having the wind knocked from me moments earlier. Just before the lead creature got close enough to grab me, I heard a sound come from the GARMR’s speaker. Not a horn but something else. It got my attention, but it didn’t seem to be loud enough to travel much farther than the immediate area. It didn’t stop the creatures from advancing but certainly slowed them down enough for the machine to get under them like a sheepdog, herding them away from me.
Checkers began its defensive algorithm, tripping the advancing undead, giving me just enough time to get to my feet and scurry back onto the hood and up to the roof.
I yanked the tow strap from the clutches of the undead and coiled it to the roof. Disconnecting my end from my rigger’s belt, I attached it to the heat shield of the exhaust stack. I didn’t want a repeat if I missed again.
Swinging the long tow strap once more, I let it loose, watching it sail up to the skybridge twenty-something feet above me. I was careful to account for the height of the rig and myself. The strap flew up into an opening in the glass that Mitch and family likely used to relieve themselves. One person, probably Mitch, was on the far end of the bridge, struggling with the creature that had fallen through the skybridge ceiling glass.
After verifying that one of Mitch’s kids had the hook and was tying it off, I unsheathed my bayonet and stabbed the creatures that were climbing into the rig window. I flung a corpse out into the crowd, knocking over the ones standing in the immediate area. I took this chance to throw my carbine inside the truck and Duke Boys my way back through the passenger window.
“Make sure you secure your end good,” I warned.
“It’s good; tell us when!” Mitch said.
I put Goliath in gear and edged forward directly underneath the skybridge shit opening.
Before I could hit the brakes, I heard the first thump on the roof, then another. The undead were surrounding the truck in huge numbers with a smaller faction chasing the GARMR around the street.
Three knocks came from the roof, followed by Mitch’s voice: “We’re on, let’s get out of here!”
I slowly pressed the accelerator, simultaneously instructing Checkers to follow the rig. Bones crunched and stomachs burst under Goliath’s heavy tires as the rig rolled ahead. I hit the accelerator a little harder, tossing bodies aside like bow waves, and broke through. At thirty, I was worried I’d lose the GARMR. It remained in my rearview mirror, its LIDAR sensor coming in via my NOD. I hit the gas, bringing the rig up to forty, and the machine didn’t miss a beat. At fifty, Mitch started pounding on the roof in protest and Checkers began to lag behind.
Impressive.
I slowed back down to twenty and pulled over into an electronics store parking lot, parking the rig.
“What the hell are you doing, mister? They’ll be here any minute!” said Mitch.
“Relax, buddy. I’m getting my dog,” I said, half smiling in the darkness.
Checkers clicked to me and stopped near the steps next to the fifth wheel, cocking its head and awaiting further instructions. I led it up the steps and secured it to its standby spot just behind the sleeper.
The NOD enhanced the infrared reflections off three sets of retinas looking at me from atop the rig, a visual trait the undead did not share with the living.
“Get in,” I said sternly.
Mitch screamed at his kids to hurry up and climb down into the truck. After the kids were inside, Mitch handed two large duffel bags down from the roof to his boy. The undead were nearly to Goliath’s rear tires when the doors slammed and I put the rig in gear once more.
We edged forward on a road leading back the way I’d come, in and away from the city of Forsyth. We drove for twenty minutes without anyone saying a word until the little girl broke the silence.
“Daddy, I gotta go potty.”
We were driving in the dark. My passengers had no idea of the situation outside, as the moon was low on the horizon behind the trees and hills, bathing the area in darkness. Through the NOD, I didn’t see any hordes or unruly masses of undead along the road ahead.
“Mister, is it safe to pull over?” said Mitch.
“Are you armed?” I asked Mitch.
“Yeah; .22 revolver with a handful of rounds is all I got,” Mitch responded.
I pulled the truck over into the shoulder in front of a large billboard for a winery a couple exits up the highway. I checked both directions with night vision before letting Mitch know it was okay to open the door. The billboard had tiny fish scales, like metallic pieces on it, that shimmered in the ambient moonlight. A huge open and tipped wine bottle spilled its shimmering contents out onto the artistic canvas of the billboard for all passersby to see.
The road was still clear when the little girl climbed up into the cab in front of Mitch. The rumbling behemoth lurched forward in the direction of the vineyard. I took the exit, leaving the highway, and veered off where the vineyard sign told me to go. Why the vineyard? Why not? It was a better choice than a hospital or supermarket, I knew that much.
After two miles, I took another turn to the right, heading deeper into more rural surroundings until I came to a large wooden sign with the same metallic scales representing flowing wine. There was a swinging cattle gate closing the road off to traffic, but the bolt cutters I had in the truck took care of the flimsy lock. I pulled Goliath through the gate, closed it behind us, and reattached the chain with multiple heavy-duty zip ties. The arrow pointed out the direction I needed, so I kept on down the road until coming to a small parking lot next to a medium-sized building surrounded by rolling hills of overgrown grape vines and tall weeds.
There were half a dozen vehicles in the parking lot. Their derelict, dust-covered appearance told me that they’d been sitting there since the shit hit the fan.
Meanwhile, the rig stank from the refugees I’d taken on board. Weeks of piss, shit, sweat, and tears permeated the truck. Just as I verified the parking lot was clear, I shut down Goliath and told everyone to get the hell out before I vomited.
We headed for the vineyard building. Mitch pulled his six-gun and held it up at the ready as we got closer to the door.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I told him. “You don’t know what’s hiding in those fields, do you?”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Mitch said as he uncocked the hammer on his gun and put the pistol back inside his waistband.
I knew immediately that the building wasn’t safe. Through the glass, I could see a few silhouettes of creatures moving around inside. I told Mitch to send his kids back to the rig and not to touch anything. We waited while I watched the kids scurry back to Goliath and climb up inside. I listened for the door to shut before I began whispering.
“Keep that wheel gun handy, but don’t shoot unless you have to,” I instructed Mitch.
“Okay, you’re the boss,” he responded.
We were headed into close quarters, so I checked the tightness of the can on the end of my gun and pulled my bayonet from its sheath. With a swift kick, the door flew inward, sending one of the corpses over a table and hard onto the concrete floor. Another took its spot in the doorway and marched out, and was met with an instant stab to the eye socket. I left the corpse on the ground inside the doorway to act as a doorstop in order to allow the others passage out. Best to neutralize them quietly, one at a time.
The third creature stepped out and tripped over the other dispatched corpses before falling forward at my feet. Looking straight down, my NOD wasn’t focused enough to take a step, so I kicked it in the head like a football. Its neck broke with a sickening snap, but I could still hear its teeth scraping the concrete as its jaw opened and closed in protest. As I took care of that one, I heard a muffled gunshot from Mitch and turned to see one of the creatures falling with the barrel of Mitch’
s revolver still in its mouth. Good thing, as that wheel gun would be damn loud if not for Mitch using that creature’s brain as a silencer. The spill noise from the gun’s cylinder still snapped a bit, but nothing bad enough to call the hordes in on us.
With the last of the creatures neutralized or disabled, we dragged the bodies off to an empty parking spot and went inside to clear the vineyard building. The inside of the sprawling vineyard was full of hand-done water fountains and coliseum-style rock benches. A half-dead tree reached for the ceiling at the bottom of the stadium-style seats, just behind the massive bar lined with wine racks holding countless bottles of warm booze. I walked down the steps, kicking aside sleeping bags, blankets, purses, and other things you might find in a place where people holed up. Whoever was still surviving in there was isolated from the undead, as the gate at the road was closed and a barbed-wire fence surrounded the property along with heavy foliage. This place didn’t have the luxury of power, water, and air-conditioning like my previous digs, but it was remote enough.
After checking every nook and cranny of the building, I looked over to Mitch and said, “It’s safe for now. Bring ’em in.”
“Listen, I can’t thank you en—” he began to say.
“Don’t. Just go get your kids.”
I didn’t have time to really let him in. I didn’t want to. I know full well that children are my weak point and that I’d do anything to save them, but I couldn’t let Mitch use his kids to compromise me any more than I already was. Mitch went outside while I stood at the top of the mini-coliseum, staring down at the bar and half-dead tree.
I heard Goliath’s door slam and then multiple footfalls before the doorway darkened and the children cautiously entered. I clicked on my torch, revealing their dirty faces. The boy looked up and offered his thanks and I accepted without interruption.
Kids.
The little girl didn’t go far from Mitch. She was a few years younger than the boy, who was about Danny’s age. For a flash of a second I thought back to the day I’d met Danny and his grandmother, Dean. Hell, was it over a year ago already? I landed that aircraft at that abandoned field looking for the Davis family, but what I ended up finding was Danny and Dean. My first sight of Danny was of him pissing off the water tower onto the heads of the undead far below. I still laugh when I think about it.
I panned the torch around the interior, stopping on the upstairs balcony. I climbed the steep curved staircase to the loft area, finding another wine bar with plush sofas against the walls. Mitch followed with his chicks in tow.
“This’ll be the safest place to sleep tonight,” I said.
Mitch agreed and I helped him slide one of the heavy sofas over to the top of the staircase to barricade anything that might get inside. The kids began to explore this new high ground with more confidence, choosing the sofas they wanted to sleep on and leaning over the bar to see what was behind. This made me nervous for a moment, but when I didn’t hear any screams I knew that nothing lay dormant, waiting for them there.
Mitch asked me if I had any water, so we both climbed over the sofa and back down the stairs, leaving the children in the loft with instructions to call out if they heard anything that wasn’t us. Back at the truck, Mitch took his two large duffel bags and pulled out two empty Nalgene bottles. I filled them both. Mitch thanked me before turning back to the vineyard.
Before he got too far away, I said, “Why were you there? Why in that city in a hospital?”
“I’m a doctor. I needed supplies. You leaving tonight?” Mitch asked with a hint of optimism in his voice.
“Not anymore.”
Day 22
1000
I awoke from inside Goliath’s sleeper cabin at 0600 and looked outside. The window was fogged over from sleep breathing, so I used the curtain to clear a spot. Smoke climbed up from behind the building. I woke up throughout the night, noticing that the area remained clear with no signs of movement besides a lone rabbit I saw cross the parking lot. I must have shut down the rig early enough to prevent the undead in the area from triangulating our position. After lacing up my boots, I grabbed my near-empty carbine and exited the truck to a nice morning breeze. After releasing the GARMR and putting it in sentry mode, I smelled meat cooking, so I followed my nose around to the back of the building, where Mitch sat next to a fire pit.
“Summer sausage sitting on the shelves in there. Plenty to eat. Plenty to drink, as long as its wine,” Mitch said with a smile.
The morning sun was coming over the tree line, illuminating the overgrown fields. I reached down to stoke the fire when Mitch noticed my bandaged hands.
“What happened there?” he asked.
“I got some cable burn coming down the side of the Florida capitol building,” I said nonchalantly.
“Jesus, what . . . why?” Mitch said, flabbergasted.
“I needed some high ground. Do you think you can do anything with them?”
Mitch removed the bandages and examined my hands, noting the obvious fact that I’d lost some skin in the transaction with the metal wire. He went into one of his heavy duffel bags and pulled out some first aid implements, cleaning the wounds on my hands and applying salve to them before wrapping them with clean dressings. My hands shook from needing more codeine and I think Mitch took notice. He was kind enough not to say anything.
With my hands out of the way, he examined my ankle, performing a mobility test. Turns out it was only sprained. I was shaking worse with pain and reached inside my empty cargo pocket for meds.
“If all this wasn’t going down, I’d say keep weight off it for three weeks, but you can’t exactly do that, can you?” Mitch asked rhetorically. I couldn’t take it any longer, so I stood up to hobble back to Goliath to retrieve a ration of drugs in order to quell the shakes and pains of post-apocalyptic survival.
“Does your dog need any first aid? I’ve seen them rip animals apart,” Mitch asked politely.
I told Mitch that I didn’t think my dog was hurt and thanked him for his concern. Mitch asked its name and if it would bite and if his kids could see it. I thought it might be time for an introduction.
“Checkers, come,” I commanded into the control watch.
The titanium beast rounded the corner of the building and into Mitch’s view. Mitch pulled his six-gun from somewhere and was about to ventilate the GARMR when I asked him to put his weapon away.
“That’s my dog, Mitch,” I told him.
“That’s not a dog,” Mitch said.
“It’s the closest thing I’ve got out here.”
After explaining to Mitch the circumstances around the machine’s discovery, we both agreed that it was some black ops project remnant from before the world went to shit, a piece of tech designed for contingency plans in the event of a worst-case scenario. The machine settled near the far side of the fire pit as the food cooked, the smell eventually bringing the children to us.
The girl’s name was Bailey and Mitch called his boy Stunt. Stunt was just old enough to hold his own, I could tell, but not little Bailey.
Mitch’s story of survival was remarkable. He had escaped from Atlanta in the very beginning and was the last surviving medical doctor in the city. He’d taken refuge at the hospital in Forsyth, yielding floor after floor to the undead until he was exiled on the hospital skybridge with only his kids and the dead relentlessly beating the doors on both sides.
I asked him about Atlanta. I’d flown over it back when there was still a military and I was in it. He described it as a war zone in those early days. He was lucky to save his children. He made the decision to get them out of Atlanta instead of trying to find his wife, who’d gone missing without a trace when things really started going sideways. Mitch and his children made it out of there just before the military sealed off all the roads to all civilian vehicular and foot traffic. During the night after his escape, he’d heard automatic fire coming from the checkpoints charged with keeping people from leaving the city.
; The children ate their breakfast, oblivious to the GARMR folded up ten feet away from them. Mitch and I continued our conversation. I was curious as to what his plan might be. The Keys could always use a doctor and I knew Jan would appreciate the help. After some back-and-forth, Mitch admitted that he didn’t have anyplace to go. Forsyth was his last stand. After some deliberation, he admitted that island life sounded a lot better than mainland Georgia, but laughed at the prospect of making it there alive.
“I came from there. Getting back isn’t impossible,” I said.
“Yeah,” Mitch said, laughing, “but you aren’t dragging two kids around this war zone with you. Bailey was in freakin’ kindergarten when those things came. We’re barely makin’ it as is.”
I told Mitch I’d be right back and started walking to the truck for some meds and the road atlas. I wasn’t three steps away when the kids started to scream.
“Shhh! It’s only his dog!” Mitch said, running for Bailey to get her to quiet down.
Stunt had a walking stick raised up over his head as if about to club the GARMR.
I kept walking and Checkers followed me back to the truck. I thought it best to leave it in sentry mode overlooking the road. After popping another half dose of codeine, I promised myself I’d lower the dose to a quarter pill the next time I needed it.
It was always next time.
I grabbed the atlas and the mansion gate opener from Goliath’s sun visor.
Back at the fire pit, I sat down on the stone bench near Mitch and found our current location on the maps.
“Listen, you don’t need to trek all the way to the Keys with your kids. I know a place not far from here you could hole up and be a helluva lot better off than you are now,” I said.
