by R. J. Spears
I fell into a routine of foraging and search and destroy missions again with each day flowing into the next, usually ending with me falling into my sleeping bag each night exhausted. Sleep was the only escape from our living nightmare, and I relished every minute I could get. That’s why I resented the distant popping noise that woke me up that morning.
The sound of shooting carried our way on the cool morning air, breaking me out of a semi-conscious state. Shaking off the cobwebs of sleep, I jumped out of my sleeping bag, pulled on my boots, and started for the stairs. Several other people shuffled into the hallway sleepily, and I dodged around them.
By the time I got to the first floor, a half dozen of the warriors were in the hallway including Chuck, Logan, and Mike. Almost before I could react, Logan shoved a rifle into my hands.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Not sure,” Logan said. “All we know is there’s some shooting off to the west. Most likely from downtown. Greg and Jerry are on the roof trying to see if they can spot anything.
As if on cue, the walkie-talkie in Mike’s hand came to life, “Mike, Logan, come in.” It was Greg.
Mike said, “Mike here. What is it?”
“We’ve got shooting downtown from one or two people,” Greg said.
“Is it the people from the hill?” Mike asked.
We knew we weren’t alone in town. The school bus we saw earlier proved that, but we also thought there was a group hunkered down on a hill on the north edge of the city. They didn’t seem to be a threat, and we had kept out of each other’s business. Maybe that had changed?
A volley of gunshots echoed our way from the distance. Each of the men’s faces was etched with tension and concern. Adrenaline surged through my veins bringing me to full wakefulness.
“No, I don’t think it’s any of them,” Greg said. “We think it’s one guy. He seems well armed and a good shot, but there’s nearly two dozen zombies closing in on him and he’s already put down about that same amount. Hold on.” Static came from the walkie-talkie for about six seconds and Greg resumed, “He just disappeared inside one of the buildings and the zombies are following him in.”
“What do we do?” Mike asked.
“Hold tight for now,” Greg responded.
“But he’s on his own,” Mike said. “Shouldn’t we do something?”
“We don’t know who he is,” a voice sounded behind us and most of us turned to see who it was.
It was Steve Hampton and he was barely dressed, wearing only a half-buttoned shirt and pants. “We don’t need anyone else’s problems. We have enough of our own.”
“I seem to remember you were our problem once and we saved your sorry ass,” I said. That shut him up.
Pastor Stevens came around a corner looking fresher than any of the rest of us and said, “Now Joel, you don’t have to be so harsh.”
I felt my cheeks go flush, but I don’t think Pastor Stevens really felt all that much differently than me.
Greg chimed in over the radio, “We hold tight and absolutely make sure there’s not more people down there and then we’ll decide.”
At this point, there was no clear winner in the debate, but things would change quickly. Greg kept us informed every few minutes of what was going on downtown and it seemed like the guy was holding his own, moving from building to building, staying just ahead of the gathering horde. After about twenty minutes, he handed the spotter duties over to Jerry and headed down to us.
He didn’t look all too happy when he walked into our midst. “We may have a problem. He’s heading our way. If he gets too close that means we’ll be risking having a horde coming down on us.”
“So, we’re going out to help him?” Mike asked.
“It looks that way,” Greg said. “Let’s get two teams ready. One will head south and the other will head north in case he veers this way. First priority, is to make sure the zombies do not congregate anywhere near the church. Second is to find out if this guy is worth saving. Chuck and Joel, come with me. We’re heading south. Mike, Logan, and Willy, you guys head north. We take vehicles and then get out on foot to see what this guy’s up to. If the horde is getting too close, we use the vehicles to draw them away. Everybody good with this?”
Steve Hampton started to raise his hand.
“Everybody but you,” I said.
“But --,” Hampton tried to get out, but Greg cut him off.
“There’s no debate here. You’re not going, so you’re not at risk.”
“I’m talking about the good of everyone,” Hampton said, trying to get a foot in the door.
“This is for everyone’s good. We don’t need another long siege of zombies outside for days. Now, please, drop it,” Greg said with some heat in his tone. Hampton did.
We stayed in constant contact with each other as Jerry gave us “eye in the sky” reports every few minutes from his perch on the roof. The man running from the zombies moved off the main street and alternated between running and then turning back to shoot. The reports of his shots echoed through the streets and drew more and more of the undead. The whole mass of them wasn’t as large as the horde that had come down on the church a few weeks ago, but it was still larger at than any of us wanted to face.
“I can’t tell what he’s doing,” Greg said as he navigated in an arc around the downtown, working his way back up to where the man was. “This doesn’t make a lot of sense. A lone person shouldn’t engage a group like this. He should keep his head down and run for it. And why is he on foot?” The argument seemed to be more rhetorical than anything else so Chuck and I just listened. Chuck was a man of few words, anyway.
“Where is he now?” Greg asked into the walkie-talkie.
“He’s almost to Gay Street on the south side of the street,” Jerry responded from his roof view.
“Mike, where are you?” Greg asked.
“We’re just past the post office with a clear view down Gay Street,” Mike responded. “You want us to move in and pick him up?”
“Negative. We don’t know if this guy is friend or foe. Besides, if he continues going the way he is, he’ll be closer to us. Stand by.”
Greg drove us down an alley between 3rd and 4th Streets, just nudging the SUV’s nose out from behind a one story building on 4th. The sound of shots drifted our way. All our eyes were locked on a group of buildings along Gallia that ran from the downtown eastward toward the church and then ultimately into the next town.
We heard a few more shots and a man dressed in jeans and an army jacket popped out on the backside of the VA clinic. He was wearing a sizable backpack and was carrying an assault rifle. He looked back the way he had come and then into the expansive municipal parking lot between us and him. It must have looked like the Grand Canyon. Running across that parking lot would leave him without a lot of cover with exception of the few cars still in the lot. I could see him calculating his chances of making it across the lot or taking his chances of continuing east. Either way left him exposed for long distances.
“We could be in that lot and to him in ten seconds,” I said, watching the man back step away from the building while firing into the shadows between the two buildings. I could only imagine that he was firing on a shambling horde of undead. Maybe he could stack a few of them up there and then make a dash for it.
“We don’t know who he is and what he wants,” Greg said.
“We’re not finding out sitting here and may never get to if the deaders over run him.” I said.
I could sense a battle raging behind Greg’s expression and I could imagine that he didn’t like taking advice from a whelp like me. After a few seconds he brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth, “We’re moving up to get closer. If this guy looks friendly at all, we’ll pick him up.”
He took his foot off the brake and edged northward past the building we had been hiding behind, across 4th street into another parking lot, and positioned the SUV behind a building that was used for campus ministry before the
Outbreak.
Just before we ducked completely out of view Chuck said, “He’s making a run for it.”
Before we stopped, Greg turned to Chuck and said, “Take the wheel. Joel, come with me.”
While the safety of the vehicle seemed a lot more comforting than being out in the open and exposed, I fought my basic nature. I hopped out to follow Greg to the corner of the building where we would have a good vantage point.
When we got to the corner, I could see the man chugging across the parking lot. A few zombies must have broken free of the scrum of ones he had shot because a small group of them were about forty feet behind him moving out of the shadows of the buildings. He was so intent on getting away, he didn’t even look our way and, frankly, I’d probably be more focused if I had thirty to more zombies hot on my tail, too.
His lead was cut in half when he had to climb over a set of cars that blocked his exit. He took the moment to turn and fire back into the crowd. He was a lot more controlled than I would ever be as he got headshots more often than not.
Greg waved a hand, hoping to catch his attention. If he didn’t see us soon, we’d be chasing him to the college and then over the levee to the river, where he would quickly run out of room. So, I took the initiative and fired a single round into the air.
Greg, surprised by my action, wheeled on me in near shock.
“He was going to get past us,” I said, shrugging.
My shot caught the man’s attention and he stopped dead in his tracks, looking at us and then back at his pursuers. He had to know that his only hope besides trusting us, was to lose the zombies in the campus buildings, but he’d likely encounter more there.
Greg and I waved frantically trying to communicate that he should head in our direction. Our persuasive salesmanship must have convinced him because he broke from his southward path and veered in our direction. Of course, that meant his undead friends wanted in on the action so our stealthy maneuvers would soon be for naught.
“When he gets here, I’m taking his rifle. You get his backpack and any other weapons you can find and get in the front with Chuck. I’ll get in the back with him,” Greg said. “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about slowing up the zombies.” Greg dropped to one knee and braced his shoulder against the side of the building. He brought his rifle up and took quick aim, firing off a half dozen shots. Six of the undead pursuers fell, bringing down an equal amount behind them in a tangled pile of bodies. This allowed our man to put some more distance between him and the group.
The man didn’t even look back and sped towards us. I noticed a lone zombie shambling onto the scene from the northeast. This one must have been the Olympic sprinter of the zombie world because even moving at the zombie shuffle, it was closing ground quickly on an intercept path for the man.
I shouldered my weapon and took careful aim. My first shot flew harmlessly past the zombie, then I overcorrected, sending a bullet off the asphalt. I collected myself and remembered some of Mike’s training, took a breath, let it out and pulled the trigger.
Mr. Zombie Sprinter suddenly lost his livelihood as I blasted off his left kneecap. He sprawled face-first across the street, leaving a trail of blood streaming out of the wound. He was a persistent bugger and tried valiantly to get back up, only to collapse again as the leg gave out.
The man hit the street and was to us in six bounding strides. He was barely breathing hard.
“Hey, thanks,” he said as he looked back over his shoulder. “I wasn’t sure how I was going to get away from those suckers.”
Greg pulled back from his shooting stance and stuck out a hand. The man took it as an offer to shake hands, but Greg withdrew his hand.
“Give me your weapon,” Greg said in a neutral tone.
“What?” the man asked, bewildered.
“Give me your weapon or you’re walking,” Greg said.
“But I don’t mean any harm. You guys just saved my ass. I owe you.”
“We don’t have time for discussion. We don’t know you. You either give us your gun and we let you ride with us or you’re on your own.”
The man took a look over his shoulder, calculated the amount of seconds he would live if we left him on the street and handed over his rifle.
“Joel, get his pack and his pistol,” Greg said.
The man put up his hands in a gesture of surrender, but his posture said something different. “Are you going to leave me here without a weapon?”
“No,” Greg said. “We’ll give you a ride out of here but we need to get to know you. I promise. You’ll get them back.”
Again, he took a leap of faith and handed his backpack and holstered pistol over to me. The pack was deceivingly heavy and nearly pulled me over. This guy was strong because he made it look like a kindergartener’s backpack in terms of the effort he put out to move with it. I decided to maintain a small amount of humility and grunted it over the back of the SUV where I tossed it in the back -- with some effort.
Greg ushered him into the back seat and Chuck punched the gas just moments before the mini-horde was about to descend on us. Chuck headed west to make sure not to lead them back to the church.
“Where are you taking me?” the man asked.
Greg held up a finger in a ‘wait a minute’ gesture and brought up his walkie-talkie. “We have the package and it is safe. Why don’t you head back to base and we’ll be along shortly.”
Mike responded affirmatively, and Greg put the walkie-talkie away.
“We need to lead these zombies away from our home base,” Greg said.
“You didn’t answer my question,” the man said.
After getting a safe distance from the pack, Chuck slowed to a crawl allowing the zombies to trail behind us.
“No, I didn’t,” Greg said. “Listen, we’re not bad people. We just have to be careful about who we allow into our group. These are dangerous times.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. I was the one being chased by zombies.”
“That wasn’t too smart,” Greg said. “Why didn’t you just run?”
The man took a moment to answer. “I’ve been on the run for so long. I guess I sort of lost it.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at his feet. “I hate these damn things. They killed everyone I ever cared about. I got overwhelmed by it and just started shooting, and I couldn’t stop.”
“We’ve all been there before,” Greg said sympathetically.
Chuck slammed on the brakes. A zombie stepped out from between two parked cars and blocked our path. An abandoned car blocked the other lane so it was through this beast or nothing. In most cases, I’m sure Chuck would have run the thing over, but there was always the chance that the SUV could be damaged. It was a long shot -- a bone could puncture the radiator (it had happened to us once before) -- and with a mob of zombies not too far behind it was better to avoid entanglements.
“Joel, can you take care of that?” Chuck asked.
“With pleasure,” I said. I rolled down my window and pulled my pistol. The zombie had been significantly overweight in life and waddled along slowly as he closed on on the front of the SUV. I leaned my head out of the window and shouted, “Hey, Jabba the Hutt, I’m over here.”
“A Star Wars reference in the zombie apocalypse,” Chuck said scoffing. “Tsk, tsk.”
I gave him a sideways glance as the zombie course corrected and started in my direction. When the thing got within five feet of my pistol, I shot it in the head and it toppled like a tower of whale blubber.
Chuck started forward again. The zombies stayed in hot pursuit. Well, they followed as fast as they could.
“I guess it would be good to get to know each other,” Greg said. “I’m Greg. Chuck has the wheel and Joel is in the shotgun seat.” Last names had become mostly superfluous.
“My name is David Hackett. My friends...” The man started by trailed off. “People call me Hack.”
“Okay, Hack it is,” Greg said. “What’s your sto
ry?”
“I lived west of here on the river just outside Maysville. You’ve been through there if you’ve been to Cincinnati. ”
Greg nodded and Hack continued his tale as Chuck weaved around wrecked and abandoned cars with our zombie fans following. Hack said he had tried to go to Cincinnati, but it was swarming with the undead. So, he decided to head east to try to find some relatives in West Virginia -- if they were still alive. As long as he stayed off the main roads, he had avoided the clusters of zombies and the roaming gangs of armed rednecks.
“We’ve had our share of both,” Greg said. “I noticed that you’re pretty good with your rifle. Where’d you serve?”
“Afghanistan. Korengral Valley.”
“That was some pretty heavy fighting.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re welcome to come back with us. At least, for the night. Then you can decide when you want to head out.”
“I’d like to be around people for a change,” Hack said with a faraway look in his eyes. “That’d be nice.”
“Take us home Chuck, when you think we have our friends far enough away,” Greg said, pointing a thumb back at our trailing mob.
CHAPTER 21
The Bridge
Hack decided to stay with us after a couple days and turned out to be a great asset. His military skills were equal to, if not better than, Greg’s and Mike’s. The only downside is that he turned out to be quite a loner, spending much of his downtime on his own or patrolling the area. Greg surmised the wounds of war must have been wide and deep. For my part, I left him pretty much alone.
Days turned into weeks and our routine became just that, a routine. Pastor Stevens fed us spiritually and the warriors kept us safe. We did our best to bolster our defenses. We even took proactive measures to decrease the numbers of undead in the city by systematically tracking and killing smaller groups. This helped reduce the chance of them grouping into larger, harder to handle herds.
