by R. J. Spears
Time worked against us though. The now fractious nature of our coalition was strained. Sometimes people decided that cooperation was the best way and sometimes, not so much. Pastor Stevens’ force of personality kept the worst of it from boiling over, but things were not the same.
To make matters worse, Frank’s predictions started proving true. We started running low on food by mid-October, but the real issue was medicine. There were several diabetics in our ranks and a couple people who needed critical meds or else they wouldn’t last the winter.
Doc Wilson was the only real doctor in our midst, but he was too old and too valuable an asset to risk sending out on foraging runs. Since I had been training to be an EMT in college, and worked at my mom’s pharmacy, I had been tasked with leading small crews to scour the local pharmacies and hospitals. The problem was that we had stripped our local resources, so our foraging runs had to broaden their reach.
Up until October, we had been able to keep our medication runs within the reach of our walkie-talkies. The latest runs were stretching that reach. At least for me, the walkie-talkie was a tether back to home, back to help, back to safety. If we ran into a horde of the undead or some particularly well-armed marauders, having the ability to call in back-up provided a sense of security that was worth its weight in gold.
By November we had to give up that sense of security. Our medical supplies were running at dangerously low levels. Greg put together a foraging team that consisted of two warriors, Kara, and me. With Kara’s training in nursing, and the time she has spent around Doc Wilson, she knew enough to be useful on the mission. The warriors were Mike and Logan.
Greg outfitted us with lots of weapons and had selected an old SUV as our ride. Back in the day, I would have laughed at this gas-guzzling beast, but now I felt blessed to have its muscle and ground clearance. As a general rule, all of our vehicles were older models without the modern computer technologies that the newer cars used. Since computers were a thing of the past and we were living a near stone-age existence, we needed something that anyone could keep up-and-running. We had more than our share of backyard mechanics in our midst.
Greg had wanted Hack to be on the mission, but he was out on one of his solo missions and didn’t return in time to go. So, Logan was picked.
Wheelersburg, which was east of the city, was our goal. There were two pharmacies in Wheelersburg -- one national chain and a small independent. Our hope was that they were still standing and had some usable medicine left.
When I was in high school, Wheelersburg had been our arch rival in sports. Each football season the schedulers made it a point to put the Portsmouth vs. Wheelersburg game as the last game of the season -- a titanic struggle between two rivals. It seemed no matter how bad one of the teams was both were able to get themselves up for the game and make it a match. That rivalry was now ancient history much like the battles between Sparta and Athens.
Two small towns sat between Portsmouth and Wheelersburg -- New Boston and Sciotoville. I always considered New Boston an extension of Portsmouth because there was no clear geographic distinction between them. One second you were in Portsmouth, the next you were in New Boston - just drive east on Gallia and you went from one municipality to the next.
New Boston had been the home of the steel mills. Detroit Steel was the biggest player pumping out steel that moved a nation. The mill was long gone and torn down. A Walmart took its place, but it was now just as obsolete as the mill.
Sciotoville, to the east of New Boston, was now scorched earth. I hadn’t been that way, but reports from people who had, said a fire burned nearly every structure in its downtown to the ground. The smoke from the fire hung over the area like an ominous cloud for weeks. The only thing that kept the fire from racing to New Boston and then Portsmouth were our lovely Southern Ohio hills. That and a monsoon-like rain storm which quelled the fire.
State Route 52 is the main east-west conduit running through the city. It wound along the river from Cincinnati in the west to Huntington, West Virginia to the east. At points the hills squeezed down on the road claustrophobically, threatening to press the road into the waters of the Ohio River.
It was slow-going through New Boston as the road was clogged with abandoned and wrecked cars. Mike drove while Logan rode shotgun, his window down and M-16 ready, constantly on the watch. The cold air from his window froze my face and hands, but I thought it better not to complain and decided to grin and bear it.
Logan’s vigilance paid off. As Mike hopped the curb to navigate around two abandoned cars in the street, Logan spotted three zombies shuffle our way from between two houses. A waist-high fence boxed them in the front yard of one of the houses as they lunged over the top of the fence at us. They seemed frustrated as the fence blocked them in. I knew they weren’t frustrated, but it was hard not to humanize them -- they were humanoid; two arms, two legs, a head, but they were far from being human. They were eating machines with no other impulse than to find their next mouthful of flesh.
They rammed insistently against the fence, the metal clanging. Their meager mental skills didn’t provide them to know-how to do those simple tasks like climbing over the fence or opening a gate. Score one for the humans.
Mike brought the vehicle to a stop less than fifteen feet away from the creatures. We could hear their guttural moans and the rattle of the fence as they clawed in the air, desperate to get at us. Logan looked to Mike and a tacit communication passed between them when Mike gave an almost imperceptible nod. Logan took careful aim from his sitting position, his finger tensing on the trigger, then popped off three quick shots -- each one on the money, direct hits to their foreheads. Blood and brains blew everywhere as they toppled back on into the yard, their eternal hunger ended.
I was so focused on Logan’s marksmanship, that I hadn’t noticed that Kara was gripping my arm with a fierce intensity. I looked her way and saw that her face was locked on the zombies in the yard. I had no idea what was going through her mind, but I put my hand on hers. Her grip relaxed some as she turned to look at me. Mike popped the car into drive, and her hand slipped away from mine.
We made it through the rest of New Boston without incident. We passed the Walmart on the east edge of town and its parking lot looking like it had been the site of a demolition derby. Cars were rammed against each other, some even overturned. A small congregation of cars was nothing but blackened and charred mass. Obviously something had gone amiss and set the cars aflame but the fire had been contained to only a half dozen vehicles.
My best guess was that people must have surged to Walmart for supplies when the shit started rolling. I wondered how many really made it out in the chaos. There seemed no way to even squeeze a bicycle through the tangled mess.
Mike deftly navigated us through the cars on 52. We were just about past the last set of abandoned cars when Kara jerked forward and slapped Mike’s head rest.
“Over there,” she said pointing at a minivan blocked on by a Honda against its side. The Honda sat perpendicular to the van with a small Ford crammed against its back end. From my angle, it looked like the minivan had been T-boned by the Honda and was pushed back against the guardrail, effectively trapping the minivan and its occupants inside.
The windows were smeared with what looked like melted chocolate so it took me a few seconds, to see what she had pointed at. A zombie was trapped inside the van, clawing at the windows, trying to escape. It looked like a child of no more than eight or nine. Its fingertips were nothing but bone from the incessant scratching at the interior to get free. I also noticed what looked like a desiccated and ravaged human torso still strapped into the driver’s seat.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Kara asked.
“Like what?” Mike asked.
“Shouldn’t we shoot it?” She asked.
“The ones back in the yard were still free to roam,” Logan said. “From what I can see, there’s no way for this one to get out.”
“But we could put
it out of its misery,” she said.
“For the trouble these things have caused us, I say let it rot.” Logan said and Mike must have agreed because he punched the gas.
Kara looked to me, but I just shrugged giving her my best “What can you do?” look. She exhaled loudly, crossing her arms and looked away from me.
It was the next part of the trip that made Greg and the warriors nervous. We were approaching a long overpass which spanned over a set of railroad tracks. The bridge extended a good quarter mile. Once we were on it we had no lateral escape routes. In the planning stages, Greg tossed out the idea of taking an earlier exit but neither Mike nor Logan liked the idea of going through the burned out town. Any other possible route would take us miles out of the way and keep us in the field too long. So, it was the bridge or nothing.
Mike used the bumper of the SUV to push a couple cars into the passing lane just as we were about to ascend the bridge. We moved along at no more than five miles per hour. As he tried to squeeze between two cars, a harsh screeching sound came from his side. The bumper of one of the cars scrapped along the side of our vehicle sounding like the claws of a dinosaur trying to open us up like a can of beans.
Just as we reached the top of the bridge, Mike let out a small groan. Both Kara and I leaned forward.
About fifty feet from the top sat a real cluster fuck. Nearly perpendicular to the road sat a dual axle, double cab pick-up truck, the back of it raised off the ground by a mid-sized Nissan that had plowed into it. The two vehicles effectively blocked the road.
We got out of the SUV, using the bridge as an observation post, as the pungent aroma of burnt wood assaulted our noses: the smell of a burned out and dead city. Sciotoville looked like a bombed out city from World War II.
“What now?” I asked.
Both men shrugged at once.
“That’s not helpful,” I said.
“Well, we could back down the bridge and take the exit into Sciotoville,” Logan said.
“Nah, that won’t work,” Mike said pointing towards the town. “Gallia’s blocked in at least four or five places by cars. And look,” he said pointing towards what used to be downtown Sciotoville,.” Half of the blackened front wall of a building lay across the street.
Logan held up a finger in a ‘hold on a minute’ gesture as he fished a map out of the glove compartment, laying it out across the hood of the SUV. “Our other choice would be to head back to New Boston and take Milldale Road out to the county roads. There’s a couple ways to go.”
“I don’t like it,” Mike said. “We have no idea what it’s like out there. Plus there are more than a couple places out there where if we ran into trouble, I’m not sure we’d be able to turn around and get back.”
“Like this is not one of those?” I asked.
“How badly do we need this medicine?” Mike asked.
“Mrs. Stapleton won’t last the winter if we don’t get her heart medicine,” Kara said. “And the Benson twins will drive us all crazy if we don’t get them some ADD meds.” Maybe she was trying to lighten the mood, but Mike and Logan weren’t biting.
We sat in silence for a few seconds. Mike rubbed his chin as he thought.
“Well, I have an idea. You see how the pickup has knocked through that side rail a little?” he asked pointing at a large break in protective side rail of the bridge. “I’m thinking if I can get enough momentum, I might be able to knock it off the bridge, but first I’d have to get the Nissan out of the way.”
“What do you mean - enough momentum?” Kara asked.
“I’ll have to ram it pretty hard.”
“Won’t that risk ruining our ride?” I asked.
Mike put up his hand and shook it in a wavering fashion. “50/50, maybe less.”
“I don’t like those odds.”
“It’s that, or turn around and head back.”
We liked that prospect even less. A plan was devised and, in retrospect, I’m not sure how good it was. When you’re out in the field, sometimes the mission seems like the most important thing. As you get caught up in the moment, backing down or turning back is total failure. Getting locked into the “this plan must succeed” mentality is too hard to ignore.
Logan, Kara, and I got out just in case things went very badly. The three of us took up a vantage point about thirty feet from the back of the pickup.
Mike backed the SUV up, trying to get the best angle. Behind the wheel of that beast-of-a-vehicle, he looked small and vulnerable, but he steeled himself for the run and gave us an exaggerated double barrel thumbs-up. He approached the it slowly, the road grit making a crunching noise beneath his tires. He engaged the pickup on its back fender and revved his engine in an attempt to dislodge the pickup from the Nissan. He dropped the transmission into a lower gear and jammed the accelerator down. The engine protested, growling like an injured animal, but he pressed on.
The pickup moved a few inches and there was a slight separation. Mike backed the SUV off and repositioned it again. The engine roared and this time he got a few more inches. It wasn’t nearly enough for us to get through.
He rolled down his window and looked our way, “These little pushes aren’t doing it. I’m going to try to ram it.”
Logan exhaled loudly and stepped back, motioning for us to do the same. Mike moved the SUV back about fifteen feet. He rolled up the window and sat behind the wheel for moment, his eyes closed. At first, I couldn’t figure out what he was waiting for and then it clicked.
I leaned towards Kara and whispered, “See, even the warriors pray.” She punched me in the arm and Logan shot us a glance of disapproval.
Mike revved the engine twice, getting our full attention again. Kara’s face set into a dreadful grimace as she covered her ears expecting something loud. Although, I’m sure he’d deny it, Logan looked excited, like a kid watching some sort of daredevil stunt. My stomach churned.
The engine revved a final time and then he popped the SUV into gear. Upon impact the back of the SUV lifted about two feet off the ground. The pickup lurched forward, breaking completely away from the Nissan, and smacking through the guard rail. It teetered on the edge of the bridge for about a second, dangling into the chasm of open air. Finally, it fell back onto the road and ended up righting itself.
With Logan in the lead, all three of us sprinted down to the SUV to see how Mike was doing. Within a few seconds Mike appeared in the window. He shook his head from side-to-side slowly, trying to clear away the effects of the collision. He looked past the steering wheel and took an appraisal.
“It’s close,” he said. “Step back a little. I think one little push will do it.”
This time he gently nudged the front of the SUV against the back of the pick-up, applying only the smallest amount of force. The front of the pickup moved off the edge of the bridge. It rocked back and forth for about a second, before gravity did its job, pulling the front of the truck downward. The crashing resounded off the concrete buttresses below.
We ran to the guard rail and peered over the side.
“What’s it look like?” Mike asked from the SUV.
“It’s on its top, pretty smashed up,” Logan shouted back. He turned and walked back towards Mike. Kara and I remained at the edge, looking down at the wrecked pickup.
I looked back to Mike and asked, “How’s the SUV?”
“Banged up, but she still runs,” he said patting the door with his hand.
I felt Kara grab my wrist and pull me back to the guard rail.
“There’s someone moving down there,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it was someone. Maybe two people. They were in the shadows, plus they were in all black.”
“What do you mean, all black?”
“They must have been wearing all black clothes. I only got a glimpse.”
Logan was now at our side looking down, too.
“Where’d they go?” he asked, bringing his gun up, ready to fire.<
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“Back past those pillars,” she said pointing at some of the support pillars for the bridge.
“Do you think it was zombies?” Logan asked.
“I don’t know,” she responded.
“It could be marauders,” he said.
“Hey, whoever it is, we still have to get the Nissan out of the way,” Mike shouted.
We left the side of the bridge and went back over to stand a few feet away from the SUV. Mike maneuvered it so that he could give the Nissan a decent push while Logan watched the road both ways. With very little effort Mike moved the Nissan, giving us a clear path to proceed.
Everything looked like smooth sailing until Mike put the SUV into reverse and the Nissan came with it. The back bumper of the Nissan locked on the front bumper of the SUV. Mike goosed the gas pedal twice trying to extricate the SUV, but the Nissan’s bumper held fast.
“Hey Logan, can you take a look up there and see how bad this is?” Mike asked.
Logan complied and moved to the front of the SUV telling us to keep an eye out. Kara and I watched as he first examined the locked bumpers. After a minute he took the butt of his rifle and tried to pound the bumpers apart.
“Want me to get the tire iron from the back?” I asked.
He nodded. He worked the tire iron on the two bumpers for at least five minutes before he made any progress.
In my head, some sort of internal clock was ticking away. We were spending way too much time on this. We should get free, head back to church, and come at this tomorrow. We had time and lots of it, but when you’re caught up on a mission, things seem more imperative to solve right. Besides, who really listens to that clock? Not me, but I should have.
My attention came away from the ticking and back to the situation when Mike revved the engine and the SUV jumped back a few inches. Logan let out a yelp of pain, the tire iron clanging like a bell against the ground. Mike slammed the brakes. Logan jumped around, holding his hand tightly against his abdomen, obviously in a great deal of pain. Mike jumped out, heading towards him with Kara and I close behind.
