by David Achord
His smile didn’t falter. In fact, if anything, he looked like he was amused.
“No, I don’t suppose it does. I was just curious.” He looked back at Prairie. “Hey, sweetie, why don’t you have a drink of that water?”
I helped her unscrew the top and then the three of us watched her slurp it down.
“Don’t gulp it down, or else you’ll get stomach cramps,” he admonished while still smiling.
I looked over and gently pulled the canteen out of her hands before wiping off the water running down her chin with my sleeve.
“Like the man say, drink it slow.”
“You drink some too,” Melvin said. “Go ahead, we’ve got enough for all of us.”
I stared at him warily a moment and handed the canteen back to Prairie. When she had enough, I took it back and drank down several gulps. The water tasted wonderful. It had a clean, filtered taste. I was sure of it. Melvin waited patiently while I drank several swallows.
“I appreciate it,” I said. “My name’s True.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mister True,” he said and looked down at Prairie. “And what’s your name, sweetie?” he asked.
“I’m Prairie,” Prairie said. “I’m hungry.”
“Well, now we can’t have that,” Melvin said and nodded at Savannah again, who went back to the truck and came out a moment later with something wrapped in an off-white cloth. She brought it over and opened it up. I caught a whiff and my mouth started watering, like that dog Ms. Stewart talked about back in science class.
“That there is what’s left of some damn good sourdough biscuits,” Melvin said. “I must admit I ate more than my fair share, but I couldn’t help myself.”
Savannah handed Prairie a biscuit. “You sure are pretty,” she said as Prairie took the biscuit.
“What’s your name?” Prairie asked.
“My name is Savannah,” she said and smiled at her as she brushed some hair out of Prairie’s face. She then turned to me and held her hand out. I tentatively took one of the biscuits, trying to hide how hungry I was.
“Take a couple,” she urged me. I gratefully took an extra one.
“Thanks,” I said and before I knew it, I’d eaten both of them and helped myself to some more water before handing the canteen back to Prairie.
“I appreciate this, I really do, but are you going to keep my rifle?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, even when he saw me giving him a hard stare. I had a lock blade knife on my side. It wasn’t my trusty bayonet, but it was sharp. From his angle, I don’t think he could see it. I continued looking him over, sizing him up and weighing my odds of being able to stab him and not getting shot by the girl. For some reason, despite his friendliness, he gave me the impression he was a fighter. I guess his skinned-up knuckles might’ve been a clue. He’d been in a recent fight and his face was unmarked. That told me a little something.
“If you’re going to spring on me, you should stand up first and get the muscles loosened up a little,” he casually said. “Maybe even wait a few minutes for your meal to settle.”
He didn’t seem too worried on whether or not I was going to jump on him. I chose to stay seated for the moment. He stood, took the magazine out, and racked the action back. After counting the bullets, he inspected the bore closely.
“You’ve fired some rounds out of it recently, but you’ve got a nice coat of oil on it. That tells me you know the value of keeping your weapon in good shape,” he said. He then handed the rifle back to me.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to hang onto these bullets for the time being until I get to know you a little better.”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “I got more.”
The amused smile was back. “No, my friend, you don’t.” He waved a finger toward me. “Those are some well-worn combat utilities you’re wearing. I got a feeling you earned them the old-fashioned way, the same way I earned mine, and no decent soldier I ever knew would go around loaded with only four rounds if they had more bullets.”
I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t no need to. He had me mostly figured out.
“What’re you two doing around these parts?” I asked. “Do you live here?”
“We live a few miles from here,” he answered. “We travel around on occasion. You know, scavenging and what not.”
“Are you marauders?” I asked.
His easygoing grin faltered now. “No, sir, we’re not marauders. Never have been. Since you’re not going to tell us where you’re from, do you mind telling me where you’re going?”
I thought about it a moment and figured, what could it hurt? “A place called Mount Weather.”
As soon as I said it, the girl gasped. Melvin then arched an eyebrow.
“You know of Mount Weather?” he asked.
“Never been there,” I answered. “But some friends of mine went up there a few years back. I’m hoping they still there.”
“Oh yeah? We know a few people who live there. Maybe I know your friends. What’s their names?”
I almost told him it was none of his business, but if I kept being belligerent, they’d either kill us or just leave us here to rot. Besides, I was trying to figure out how to get him to give us directions.
“One of ‘em is a dude by the name of Zach. He’s tall, got some muscle on him, and he don’t smile much except when he’s playing with his kids. Oh, and when he do smile, he has teeth as white as yours.”
Melvin glanced over at his girl, Savannah, and there was a kind of silent communication that passed between them. He then stood, held out his hand, and pulled me to my feet.
“True, I think the two of us are going to be friends. Would you and your little buddy like a ride?”
“It depends on where you’re going,” I said.
He let out a belly laugh now and handed me back my bullets. “Here,” he said. “We’ve got some more in the truck and you can top off your magazine. Alright, who’s ready to go to Mount Weather?”
Chapter 41 - Journal Entry, March 25th, 8 A.Z.
It’s late and I’m exhausted, but I’m too keyed up to sleep. Several hours ago, my beautiful wife gave birth to a handsome baby boy. His name is Hardy Gunderson, named after Kelly’s father. It goes without saying I’ve been bouncing off the walls with joy. Even Fred cracked a smile when he saw the little fella.
Kelly is understandably exhausted and at the moment, she’s sound asleep. The kids wanted to sleep with their new baby brother, and when they couldn’t, they insisted on sleeping with their mother. I started to protest, but Kelly said she wouldn’t have it any other way. I tried to squeeze in, but the three of them were sprawled out, leaving little room for yours truly, but that’s okay. In the past, I’d slept on the cold hard ground, on a concrete slab in a jail cell, in cramped vehicles, pretty much everywhere. So, riding the couch so my family could sleep peacefully was a no-brainer.
Besides, like I said, I was too worked up to sleep, so I thought I’d do a little writing.
I started with the great news, but now I have to write about some bad news. Parvis died last week. His health had gotten progressively worse. We knew it was going to happen, but even so, we were all understandably saddened by his death. We cremated his remains, in accordance with his wishes, and held a memorial service in the form of a party, which was also what he wanted. Garret and Grace were devastated, but they’ll be okay. Kendra handled it with the professionalism of a doctor who had seen many people die when she was an ER doc, but even so, she shed a tear or two during the eulogies.
The freezing weather broke in early March. Several days of sunshine melted the roads of ice. Our first visitor was good old Roscoe Sidebottom with another tanker full of diesel and our old friend Raymond Easting. We responded with enough food to feed his people for a couple of months, along with several Proctor and Gamble products. Joe Fitzgerald Senior had ridden with Roscoe and spent the day with his daughter, Riley.
Our second group of arrivals this month was M
elvin and Savannah. They’d been gone all winter, and I think it’s safe to say everyone had missed them both. Surprisingly, they brought people with them; Nimrod True and a cute little blonde-headed girl by the name of Prairie. They had found them nearly starving to death outside of Stephens City.
During the debriefing, True told of the trek to west Tennessee with Blake Mann and Brandon Casswell, whereupon they encountered BC’s aunt and uncle and their small group of survivors. They lived together near Kentucky Lake before getting ambushed one evening. True said he and Prairie were the only survivors.
I got the sense he did not tell us everything during the debriefing, but I wasn’t concerned. He’d tell us when he was ready. After the debriefing ended, he surprised me by asking to be reinstated in the rank and file of the military. The last time I had spoken with him, he said he was done taking orders. I asked him why the change in attitude, but his response was only a vague shrug.
The warmer weather has also allowed us to mobilize our scout teams. We’re being bold this year and are sending most of the teams west of the Mississippi. Despite the president’s trepidations, we broke the news and told everyone about the fleet of ships landing on the west coast last winter. The bottom line is, we needed to find out, somehow, what their intentions are.
Of course, their primary mission is to find survivors. It is hoped we can create outposts where we can stage and resupply. Once they start compiling census counts, I strongly suspect our population projections are going to multiply exponentially.
Our goal has not changed; reestablish a formal government and reunite our nation. This sounds easy, but rebuilding the infrastructure of America goes along with this goal. It is a monumental task to say the least, but I think I can safely say the survivors we’ve brought into our fold are onboard with this.
Now, for a final note of bad news. A couple of weeks ago we discovered a traitor in our midst, General Harlan Fosswell Senior. Surprisingly, nobody knew about his nefarious activities until his son gave him up. He had become a religious zealot and somehow decided people needed to die. He’d conducted several acts of sabotage within our community, culminating with intentionally tampering with the batch of vaccines earmarked for the survivors of Ohio.
The result of that act is we now have a new strain of the plague. They display the same symptoms of hyper-aggression, but even more alarming, their bodies don’t immediately begin decomposing. Therefore, a freshly infected individual is extremely dangerous.
Both Harlan Fosswell Senior and Junior are now deceased. Junior committed suicide. Senior met an untimely end and was cremated. We are convinced more parties were involved in his crazy scheme, but unfortunately, any direct evidence died with the general and his son. I have my suspicions of the complicity of two particular scientists, but believe it or not, I am not going to act only on suspicions. I’ll wait and do something when the time is right.
Chapter 42 – Lisandra
Fred sat in Parvis’ chair, sipping tea and looking around as he stroked Zoe’s head.
“I don’t think you’ve ever been in my office,” I remarked.
“Nope,” Fred replied. “I don’t see how you can spend hours in this windowless room.”
“You never really get used to it, but I’m doing the job of two people now, so I seem to spend more time than normal in here,” I said as I struggled to finish typing a report.
After Parvis died, a meeting was held to discuss the merits of whether I was going to take over the position of Director of Operations. While I sat in the hall outside of the conference room, they had a long-winded debate on whether or not I was qualified for such an important position. One would have thought it would have been a simple decision; either promote me or don’t and put someone else in the position. But, nothing is ever simple with politicians. Somehow, the job opening was the impetus for old, festering issues to resurface.
President Stark was uncharacteristically magnanimous and made several concessions, one of which was the appointment of William Rhinehart as vice president. There were other administrative changes made, including the declaration that an election would be held within four years, along with minor trivial matters. A vote was finally put forth and I was formally appointed the position of Director of Ops, but, as of yet, I had no assistant. So, now I was doing the work of two men.
Fred was in a talkative mood this morning and continued his diatribe.
“I never liked any room without windows,” he said. “Offices, computers, staff meetings, I never cared much for them.”
I shook my head. “You know, you’re turning into a grumpy old man.” Before I could say anything further, my phone rang.
“Never liked phones either,” he muttered.
I ignored him and answered. After a brief conversation, I hung up and stared at Fred.
“What?” he asked.
“We have new arrivals at the front gate,” I said. “And one of them is saying she’s my sister.”
I thought I saw a slight arch of Fred’s right eyebrow. He was obviously dumbfounded.
“Aren’t you an only child?” he asked.
“Yeah, I am. Let’s go check it out.”
We stood together and made the walk to the front gate. We bumped into Grant in the hallway carrying his medical bag.
“We have new arrivals,” he said.
“Yeah, we heard. I take it you’re the one who is going to check them out?”
He held up his bag and smiled pleasantly. “Are you two going out to meet them?”
“Yes, we are. One of them said she was my sister,” I said as we walked.
Grant frowned. “I didn’t think you had a sister.”
“I don’t.”
There were four people sitting at one of the picnic tables; three men and a woman who had her back to me. They were all dirty; an indication they’d been on the road for a while.
One of the men spotted us and said something under his breath. The woman stood and turned toward us. Grant stopped walking and grabbed my arm, causing me to stop suddenly.
“Zach, I know that woman,” he whispered.
“Okay, who is she?” I whispered back.
He took a deep breath. “Do you remember me telling you about another subject who had antigens in her blood similar to yours?”
I remembered. When he was a member of the CBIRF, they had kidnapped my kids and me, massacred several people in my group, including Julie, and held us captive at Fort Campbell. While under confinement, Grant had told me of a woman whose blood had similar properties to mine.
I stared at him. “That’s her? Are you sure?”
Grant responded with a nod. “I mean, it’s been a few years, and she’s got some mileage on her, but that’s her. Her people told us she’d been killed. I guess they were protecting her.”
We resumed walking, exited the gate, and stopped before them. She was tall for a woman, maybe six feet, and I guessed her to be a couple of years older than me. She was thin, but had broad shoulders, like a onetime athlete. All of them were rough-looking, dirty and unkempt. Their clothing, jeans, and various types of shirts, looked like they’d not been washed in several days.
“Welcome to Mount Weather,” I said.
One of the men, the oldest one of the group, offered a nod while the other two men stared silently. The woman offered a smile, revealing crooked teeth that’d never been seen by an orthodontist. Zoe walked up and stood beside me. She stared at me without emotion. I noticed her nose was a little bent to one side, like it had been broken once and not reset properly.
“Are you Zach?” she asked.
“I am. Who might you be?”
“My name’s Lisandra, but everyone calls me Lisa.”
I nodded. I’d get the rest of their names later, but right now it was time to get right to the point.
“The guards said you told them you’re my sister.”
“Yeah,” she answered matter-of-factly, like it was common knowledge, or no big deal.
“I think I would remember if I had a sister,” I said.
“We’ve never met, but we have the same father. I guess that makes me your half-sister,” she said.
I glanced at Fred and Grant, and then back at her. She returned my gaze, looking me over the same way I was doing her. I gave her a slow, solemn nod.
“Well then, I suppose we have a lot to talk about.”
The End
Read on for a free sample of Destiny Nowhere: A Zombie Novel
Chapter 1: Now
The Zombie Apocalypse started two months ago, and it started exactly where you’d expect it to--on television. Or, more to the point, on Facebook.
It went viral on the internet only slightly faster than it did in real life, and lucky for me, it happened on a Friday night so being a socially phobic shut-in saved my life.
While everyone is blabbing about undead bullshit on their social media feed, I’m lubed up and kneeling in front of my computer, whacking off to Sativa Rose and Lorena Sanchez having steamy, raunchy sex with some guy who looks like he stepped out of Duck Dynasty.
Before mankind ended, the AC Nielson Company reported that the “average” American watched 5.2 hours of television per day. That’s 36.4 hours per week, one and a half days straight, staring at the idiot box! So if they lived to the ripe age of 80, that means 16 years of their life were spent living vicariously through celebrities, being told what to buy and who to be. A nation of consumer cyborgs whose brains were equal parts Kardashian-ized, Monsanto addled, and pharmaceutically stunted in a 24/7 online shopping, social media, virtual reality orgy porgy. America runs on High Fructose Corn Whiz and McMeat, and humans were retarded by Candy Crush long before the zombie plague actually devoured their brains.
But none of that really matters now: TV doesn’t exist anymore; neither do the mentally handicapped, the government, or the status quo. And when civilization died, I was 38, chronically single, and jacking off to Lewd Contact #29, so who am I to really talk shit about everyone else? I’ll tell you who--I’m the smug asshole who’s alive to record history.
