Zombie Dawn Exodus

by Michael G. Thomas

  Peering down the scope at her target, Madison could see the creature used to be an office worker, the typical simple grey suit, now ripped and ragged. The shirt was so stained with dry blood, dust and grime that it was hard to tell it used to be white. She took careful aim at the beast’s skull through the red dot sight and then finely squeezed the trigger, whilst Justin still watched through his rifle scope.

  The bolt skewed the zombie through the eye socket, a well placed shot. The two watched as the creature staggered on a few extra steps whilst spasming, until it collapsed to the ground, finally lifeless, this time for good.

  “Fucking right on!” shouted Justin.

  Madison looked over at him with a grin. Despite his annoying her, she was satisfied by the applause of the crowd she had, revelling in her martial skill. She noticed lights appear in the distance, the artificial light at night that only manmade technology could make. She picked up the binoculars hanging from her chair and looked out down the long flat road.

  “It’s the hunters!” shouted Madison.

  The town organised regular missions to gather supplies from afar, essential items such as ammunition, medical supplies and food products which they could not grow themselves. These parties were called ‘hunters’, as they were in the traditional sense, hunter gatherers. The hunters were the only people allowed to use cars, except in cases of emergency. Madison took hold of the bell ringer hanging off the side of the tower and gave two bells, the signal that friendlies were approaching.

  The doors of the church swung open, the light from the candles beaming out into the street was quickly followed by the congregation, led by Wells. The three pickup trucks pulled up outside the church, each one armoured across its cab and with supplies in their beds. The door opened on the first vehicle and out stepped Jack, he was the leader of the hunter teams. Jack had no farming skills at all, but had served in the Marine Corps straight from school, making him naturally suited to the job.

  Richard Wells trotted forward with his usual enthusiasm, always treating the hunters like their saviours after returning from any mission, an important task to maintain morale he said. He stepped forward and offered out his hand to Jack, patting him on the back. Jack took the gesture of good will, but didn’t look particularly happy.

  “Well done boys, another fine job! And I see God did not let any harm come to you!” shouted Wells.

  “No, but we didn’t come back with a whole load either,” said Jack.

  “I can see you have brought back a worthy haul, and that’s all that can be asked of you,” said Wells.

  “It doesn’t change the fact that these supplies are becoming more and more difficult to find, with us having to travel further all the time,” said Jack.

  “Let’s not worry about the troubles of tomorrow, when we have success and much to celebrate today. Let’s get these trucks unloaded and sit down for supper!” shouted Wells.

  The crowd cheered, appeased by the welcoming notion of a warm meal in their bellies. Wells continually kept spirits high by preaching the bible on a daily basis and re-enforcing it with food and entertainment for the group. Plays and stage performances were common, providing they contained good Christian values. Card games were allowed to pass the time, but not with any form of gambling involved. It was a pure and simple life that the group led, and whilst it was at many times boring and drab, they were all thankful to still be living. The men began unloading supplies whilst Wells retired to his home for a short rest before supper.

  “Madison, please join me,” he said.

  She followed her father back to their home, which they had shared since the outbreak began. Her father was tired, exhausted by the daily work and routine of having to manage, motivate and entertain their community. He sat down with a huff at their dining table.

  “Would you like a coffee, father?” asked Madison.

  Her AK47 was still slung from her shoulder. Wells looked up at her with his tired eyes, shaking his head at the sight of her weapon.

  “You know that there are better roles you can serve here than that,” said Wells.

  “But every person here must carry a weapon at all times,” said Madison.

  “No, not that, you spend all of your time with rifle in hand, in watch towers, patrolling the perimeter,” said Wells.

  “That’s what we need,” she said.

  “There are plenty of men who would be quite up to the task. We’re a small community as it is, do you not think it’s time you married one of the fine young men and brought new life into this world?” asked Wells.

  She slammed the coffee mug down on the worktop where she was preparing the drink for her father. It was indeed true that she was among the minority of the group, being a young, fit and healthy female, but the suggestion did not at all meet with her idea of life.

  “I don’t want to marry and I don’t want children. Is it not enough, the work I do for this town?” she asked.

  “No, sadly it is not. In this world we must forget what we want and do our duty. We all have to make sacrifices. You are one of only a handful in Babylon who can spawn the next generation, or we will all grow old and weak with no one to defend us and carry on the Lord’s work,” said Wells.

  “And what is the Lord’s work?” shouted Madison.

  “My dear daughter, I thought you understood by now. It is life, to live life according to good moral and principle practice, which is largely to pro-create and keep evil at arm’s length. You are doing a fine work of the latter, but it is time you let others take on that responsibility and do what few can. You will again do the work you do now, once your children are teenagers themselves,” said Wells.

  Madison walked across the room and ripped the door open, furious at her father’s insights. She knew in her heart that he was right, but it seemed so unfair, beyond levels she could yet accept.

  “I am not having children!” shouted Madison.

  She slammed the door and strutted down the street towards the dining hall. She already knew that she would have to accept her father’s wishes, not only because he was her father and Babylon’s leader, but because their survival as a community depended on it in the long term. But she would hold on to her current life as long as she possibly could. Since the Zompoc began she had finally had a true purpose and role, beyond the toil of everyday life in the safe old world, and she wouldn’t let anyone take that from her.

  Madison reached the restaurant that had become the community’s dining hall, big enough for all of the survivors to sit in at any one time, though they never would. Eight people remained on watch at all times, two at each road leading to the intersection. She stepped through the door to be hit with the warm heat and light of the oil lamp lit room and the sound of joyous discussion. Most of the community was already assembled, whilst the smell of their supper cooking wafting around the room. The meals they ate generally consisted of a combination of stews and soups, because they were easy to make in large quantity with whichever ingredients were available at the time. Madison walked over to a table near Jack, who she held in high regard having been childhood friends, and pulled up a chair to his table. He would like nothing more than to marry and settle down with Madison, but was always too busy and aware of the impending work and caution needed to give it consideration or pursuit. Jack was sitting with three of his friends, all of a similar age, the men that hunted with him.

  “Hey Jack, how’s life?” asked Madison.

  “So, so,” he said.

  “How come?” asked Madison.

  “We didn’t come back with half as much as I would have liked, my truck is misfiring and I could kill for a beer,” said Jack.

  “It could be worse,” said Madison.

  “Really, you’re sure about that? Afghanistan sucked, but at least we always knew we had home to go back to. This sucks as bad, with no hope of a better future.”

  “Oh come on, you can’t talk like that, we’re doing great. We’re alive and we have each other,” said Madison.<
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  “Mmm, it’s better than being a zombie, I’ll grant you that,” said Jack.

  The night went on in much the same fashion as it had started. Most of the people in the community lived blindly in a happy but simple life, whilst Pastor Wells exhausted himself physically and mentally to achieve and maintain their high spirits. Meantime, those having to venture out into the rest of the world were being beaten down by the depressing and tragic sights they had to see each and every day, of ghost towns and decaying bodies, whether they were still walking or not.

  Those with the true insight into the world’s situation were all too aware that life was only getting more difficult, with what was manufactured in the old world getting ever rarer, and the number of enemies staying constant.

  Halfway through the evening Pastor Wells stepped out from the room and into the kitchen. He returned a few moments later holding several bottles of wine.

  “Ladies and Gentleman!” shouted Wells.

  The crowd went silent and turned their attention to Wells, all surprised to see an alcoholic beverage anywhere in sight.

  “I have always been insistent that we remain alcohol free in Babylon, not because the Lord wills it or the bible tells us so, neither have any issue with alcohol in moderation. Our rules have been in place so that we can all remain alive! However, we have now survived a year in this new world, a world occupied by evil. We have beaten all the odds, stuck together, and achieved a sturdy and lively community. Let us all share a glass of wine together in celebration, as you have all earned it!” said Wells.

  The crowd erupted with laughter, quickly taking the bottles and passing them around. Each man and woman filled their cups as high as they could go until the bottles were empty. Finally, they sat quietly, impatiently and with all attention on the Pastor, waiting for his approval.

  “Now, let us drink to our fallen friends, our living comrades, to the grace of God and the abolition of evil!” shouted Wells.

  The people all stood and raised their glasses before taking their first sips. Jack sat down with a sigh, he was clearly unimpressed by the gesture, though his dissatisfaction went unnoticed by the Pastor, but not to Madison.

  “What’s wrong, it’s what you wanted isn’t it?” asked Madison.

  “No, I said a beer, but that’s not the point. Your father would never give out alcohol in this day and age unless he considered it vital to morale, meaning, there are cracks appearing in the community,” said Jack.

  “Maybe he just thought we could all do with a relaxing evening and a reward for our work?” asked Madison.

  “No, it’s not the way the Pastor works. He’s methodical, he makes actions for the greater good, not conscience or instinct,” said Jack.

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” said Madison.

  “What is it?” asked Jack.

  “Nothing, just him being his usual self,” said Madison.

  “Well, let’s at least enjoy this drink while we have it,” said Jack.

  It was a solemn evening for those who knew more about the life and workings of Babylon than the majority, knowing that this was the best it would get, and that it wouldn’t be repeated often. Wells again rose to speak, his audience were already silent before he had fully stood up.

  “We’ve had a long and hard year, I will not deny it, but you have all done well and continue to do so. On Saturday we will have a baseball game, for all to watch. In fact, we’ll have two, and cycle the sentries so that everyone has a turn to either play or watch,” he said.

  The crowd again cheered at their leader’s speech, clawing at any hope or fun that they could possibly find in their lives. The evening came to a close and Madison went back to her watch tower to join the guard who was in it. It was not her turn for duty, but she couldn’t tolerate returning home to her father that night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ENGLAND

  Nick pushed the gearstick into fourth as the Land Rover picked up speed on the wide six-lane carriageway. He was only doing twenty miles per hour but with the amount of debris scattered across the lanes, any faster would have been suicidal. It was amazing that after just a few months the road had deteriorated so badly with holes, debris, abandoned vehicles and possessions.

  Nick led the convoy of eight vehicles in a long, scattered column across the deserted debris ridden motorway though the heart of England. He drove a late nineties model Defender, the same kind of vehicle used by British forces in Afghanistan just a few years ago. It was of a similar size to an American Chevy Silverado. It was a tough, utilitarian four-wheel drive and hadn’t seen any serious changes in design since the sixties. The Defender had been modified in several ways to make it useful and reliable in these exceptional circumstances. The first addition was the wheel protection made up of hanging metal slats over the tyres to stop damage from wrecked cars and possible raiders. The doors and windows were covered in thick mesh and sliding metal shutters. The front of the vehicle was taken up with a large steel snow plough and the roof contained an improved weapon platform with a hatch that led down to the front passenger seat. It was heavy, tough and easily maintained, perfect for use in an apocalypse.

  Looking out of the small rectangular windscreen Nick could see cars and trucks littering the sides of the road. At some point a large number of them had been pushed out of the way, but even now some still forced him to slow down. With a clump the hatch above him on the roof lifted open and Artur, a young Polish man lowered his head inside.

  “We’ve got something in the road up ahead,” he called.

  Nick nodded as he pulled the handset from the radio that was tied with plastic cable ties to the damaged and worn dashboard. He keyed the radio, holding the microphone up to his face.

  “Hammer One, this is Hammer Three, we’ve got something up ahead,” said Nick.

  There was a short pause, punctuated by static. As he waited for a response he checked the map attached to the dashboard. They’d left the outskirts of London in the early hours of the morning, having collected survivors and supplies from the Hammersmith Rescue Centre. The trip should technically only take two hours back to the Green Zone but since the Zompoc the trip now took up most of the day. Even worse was that if they hit a problem then they would be forced to take cover for the night. Being caught out of the Green Zone after dark was a big problem and one the convoy avoided at all costs.

  “Hammer Three, we’re slowing the convoy, check it out. Hammer Two will join you,” came the response.

  “Roger,” answered Nick as he replaced the mic back on the dashboard.

  Nick checked his side mirrors, noting the half a dozen vehicles behind him were slowing down. Only one, a small bus that was heavily modified stayed with him. At first glance it looked like a conventional bus, but closer examination revealed the windows were boarded up with reinforced metal shutters and it had masses of supplies and boxes on its roof. There were weapon mounts fitted at the front and back of the vehicle with hatches leading back inside. A man was sitting at the front weapon mount, turning the firearm as he scanned the surrounding area.

  Looking ahead down the long stretch of motorway, Nick steered the Land Rover through debris. He was extra careful to avoid anything that could damage the tyres or underside of the vehicle. They had learned the hard way that all vehicles hit trouble once they sustained damage to their wheels. Unlike in the movies, a simple glass bottle could shred a tyre and leave you stranded and vulnerable.

  The two vehicles weaved past several heaps of debris and then slowed as they approached an area with scores of crashed and burnt cars. These were different to other wrecked cars they’d seen on the motorway. A few were still smoking and some of them looked like they’d been carrying supplies. After a clear section on the motorway there was a thick plume of black smoke ahead.

  “Approaching a Z-Zone,” said Nick on the handset.

  Nick turned to Artur.

  “Get ready, I don’t like it, this could be trouble,” he ordered.

  Artur loo
ked confused. He’d only been on a few runs with the convoy and this was the first time he’d come across this term.

  “Z-Zone?” he asked, as he checked his weapons.

  “Yeah, you don’t see so many of them now. Back at the start you’d get a whole section of road blocked off by a few crashed cars. Once the road was blocked the rest of the traffic would get stuck and people would abandon their cars. The zombies would come and start attacking them and have easy pickings in the panic,” explained Nick.

  Artur opened up several cases in the back of the Land Rover as he pulled out more ammunition for their weapons, anticipating possible trouble ahead.

  “What happened after the zombies attacked?” he asked.

  “In a few hours the road would be deserted apart from the vehicles, supplies and bodies. You used to be able to spot them by the car fires that would spread to anything nearby that was flammable. There were times when we found hundreds of cars and probably up to a thousand dead outside some cities,” answered Nick.

  Artur lifted himself back up so that he could see out of the hatch that had been cut into the roof of the Land Rover. It was roughly done and the edges were covered in a piece of green garden hose so he wouldn’t be cut as he moved about. On top of the vehicle, attached to a metal mounting was a vintage World War II Bren gun. This distinctive light machine gun was a staple weapon of the British Empire and this particular one had been deactivated for a long time. The workers back at the compound had reworked it heavily and added new parts so that it was once again functional. The modification of weapons and supply of ammunition was a real issue, but the vehicles of the convoys always got priority. One very handy modification was the fitting of a large spotting scope on a mount next to the main gun. It meant Artur could spot possible targets from a long distance away. Artur pulled back the bolt and then swung the weapon around as he scanned the surroundings. From his position he could see a coach about three hundred metres ahead. He banged his hand on the roof of the Land Rover, Nick shouted back up.