Zompoc Survivor (Book 3): Odyssey

by Ben S Reeder

  “That’s what your daughter said,” George told me with a grin. “And I know, she ain’t really your daughter.” The man who’d led our rescue had some gray in his hair up close, and when he wasn’t busy shooting people, he had an easy smile.

  “He’s adopted,” Amy said. “But we think of him as family just the same.” George’s smile became a brief laugh.

  “Well, Dr. Harper did the best he could, but she’s still not doing too well,” George said in his rich baritone.

  “I’m a veterinarian,” the round faced man beside him said. In his mid-thirties, Dr. Harper looked like he was borrowing a bigger man’s clothes. His shirt seemed a size too big for him, and his pants were belted down two holes from the most worn notch. A pair of glasses was perched precariously in his thinning brown hair, and his eyes were almost hidden by a perpetual squint. “Though this isn’t my first time dealing with gunshot wounds. But most of the time, I’m digging birdshot out of dogs. Still, the bullet lodged in her scapula. From what Coach Malcolm tells me, it must have been slowed down by going through the truck’s frame, otherwise, it would have shattered her shoulder blade instead of just lodging in the bone. I’d need an X-Ray machine to tell how bad the bone is fractured, and I don’t know what other damage might have been done. I’m…not sure I got all of the bullet out.” I nodded silently and ran my hand through my hair. If McKay died, it would add another number to a count I was keeping track of. Unlike my zombie kill count, the number of people I’d either killed or hadn’t saved was one I was keenly aware of. Not counting the crew of the chopper I’d managed to shoot down over Kansas City, my current estimate was fifteen people whose deaths were on my hands. It was a number I wasn’t proud of, and I wasn’t looking to add to it if I could avoid it.

  Dr. Morris turned and headed back to the makeshift infirmary that had been set up in one of the Sunday School class rooms of the church we were in. Actually, calling it a church sold the place short. The place was a cathedral, though fortress would have been another good word for it. Outside, it was solid stone, and none of the windows was less than eight feet off the ground. The front doors were solid oak, and every side door that wasn’t solid enough to stop a tank had been blocked off with pews, desks and tables. From where we sat in the cathedral itself, the place was huge. The pews had been turned into makeshift bunks, and I counted about twenty people up and moving around. From what I’d seen, there were another twenty or thirty more elsewhere in the building. As we talked, a man in a purple t-shirt and jeans walked over and sat down on the steps nearby. He wore his hair in tight dreadlocks under a bandana that kept them out of his face. He acknowledged us with a brief dip of his head, then seemed to turn his attention back to the rest of the cathedral.

  “So, how did you guys keep this place from turning into a slaughter pit?” I asked George.

  “We can thank Dean Stone for that, Lord rest her soul,” George said somberly, his voice reflecting a little more of the Midwestern drawl that had only been on the edges of his words until now. “When people first started showing up, she set up an infirmary next door with the Baptist church. If anyone was sick or if they’d been bitten, she took them over there herself. Pastor Marks and her tended to ‘em themselves. Healthy folks, they sent over here. All the way up to the end.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. George shook his head.

  “Don’t be, son. Her and Brother Sam died the way they lived, takin’ care of their flock. The Lord’ll look after ‘em now. It’s up to us to make sure they didn’t do all that for nothin’.”

  “I take it you’re not Episcopalian,” Amy said. He shook his head and smiled.

  “No, ma’am. I’ve been a Baptist since I was eight. But I’m not above taking refuge when refuge is offered, and take it from me, St. Mark’s is about as safe a place as I’ve seen in Hastings. So, what are you gonna do now? Your truck’s kinda busted up, though I think it could be fixed if you could get those back tires and rims replaced.”

  “Radiator’s shot,” I said. “Literally. There’s no telling what other damage hitting that pole did to the engine. So, we have to get another vehicle, but we also need to get to one of the radios in the armory.”

  “That’s not all that needs liberated from that place,” the man who sat near us said. If George’s voice was a pleasant baritone, this man’s voice resonated in the shallow end of bass. He stood and walked over to us.

  “Amen, brother,” George said. “Damon and his crew took Dr. Crews prisoner a week and a half ago. If there’s anyone who could take care of your friend, she’s your woman. And she’s not the only person they have. They’re holding at least ten folks we know of, probably more.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “A few women, for obvious reasons, and some men for manual labor, we think. Who knows who all they have. Damon ain’t all dumb. He knows his boys don’t know what they need to stay alive for very long, but his answer is to force people to do what he wants.”

  “The boy is clever,” the other man said. “At first, he used a CB to offer help to anyone who needed it. They’d capture anyone who showed up, take their stuff and kill anyone they didn’t need. Then someone got wise to his wicked ways and started warning people about the armory. Now, he’s setting himself up like a little feudal lord, offering protection, and the services of his captive doctor in exchange for tribute. His methods have earned him the loyalty of a few who think violence is strength.”

  “Who are you again?” I asked the new guy.

  “Johnny Apocalypse,” the dreadlocked man said with a smile. He put his hand out and we shook. “The voice of Radio Z.”

  “I heard your broadcasts when I was in Kansas City. I’m Dave.” Amy introduced herself, and Johnny’s gaze went back and forth between the two of us.

  “Dave from Kansas City, and his daughter,” Johnny said slowly. “Your last name wouldn’t happen to be Stewart, would it?”

  “My last name wouldn’t happen to be anybody’s business but my own,” I said.

  “Dave,” Amy said. “Chill. It’s not like he’d tell anyone.”

  “No, I understand,” Johnny said as he raised his hands. “If he was the man I thought he was, it would make a target of anyone who knew him. And if he’s the man I hope he is, I don’t think he’d let that happen.”

  “Yep, you’re Johnny Apocalypse all right,” Amy said. “I thought you were just larger than life on the radio.”

  “No, little sister, I’m as large as life all the time,” he replied. “Any more, there’s no better way to be. But you, Dave, have the look of a man who’s keen on doing something rash.”

  “Dangerous, maybe but not rash,” I said after a moment’s thought. “I always have a plan.”

  “At least one,” Amy said. “You’re about to go all rule twenty-three here, aren’t you?”

  “Can’t say that it’s entirely altruistic,” I said. “We need to get to a radio. Otherwise, we’re just wandering around out here without a plan and no one the wiser to where we are.”

  “So everyone wins,” Johnny said with a sly grin.

  “Pretty much. I’m going to need some things. First, I want to raid your janitor’s closet. Is there a hardware store nearby?”

  “Yeah, there’s a Hammer’N Post just about three blocks south of here on West Second Street,” George said. “We cleared it out a few days ago. I can send a team for whatever you need.”

  “You’ll also need to hit a gardening store. I’ll make you a list.”

  Four hours later, I was ready to start cooking. On the table in front of me were the bottle of bleach Damon had tried to make me drink, a five gallon water bottle, a bottle of Werx drain cleaner and a few other household items. The cathedral’s modest kitchen had provided me most of the chemicals I needed, and on the table behind me was a respirator mask and a pair of swimming goggles. A camp stove and a pan were my first stops, though.

  “So, what’s this?” Amy asked as I stirred my concoction.

  “
Potassium nitrate and sugar. Two prime ingredients in a smoke bomb.”

  “Where did you learn how to make that?”

  “High school chemistry class. Do me a favor and pull off some foil for me.” She handed me a sheet of aluminum foil, and I started to fold it into a container.

  “What’s all the other stuff for?” she asked. “I mean, sulfur? Charcoal? Blanks for a nail gun?”

  “All parts of things that go boom. Basic gunpowder is amazingly simple to make, once you know the right ratios and the right materials. And where to get all of it. Dangerous as hell, but still pretty simple. I don’t need much, just enough to make a couple of small bombs. The chemical stuff…well, that’s part of an object lesson for Damon and his boys.” I handed her a pair of work gloves and pointed to a bag of charcoal. “Do me a favor, and start crushing about a pound of that down to as fine a powder as you can.”

  “Black powder, eh?” George asked from the kitchen door. “You’ve got to teach some of us that recipe.” I turned to look his way. Johnny stood beside him, looking at the array of stuff before him.

  “And smoke bombs, and a toxic gas…not shit you want to mix lightly. Assuming I survive this little raid, I’ll tell you what I know. But right now, tell me what you know about the armory.”

  For the next few hours, my blood pressure was probably high enough to qualify for serious medication as I ground the ingredients for primitive gunpowder and got the rest of my improvised arsenal ready. By the time I was done, I had half a dozen Molotov cocktails ready to go, a big pressure bomb, a trio of smoke bombs and a black powder charge in a coffee can and two gas charges that just needed to be mixed and tossed.

  “Okay, what time is it?” I asked as I straightened from inserting the fuse into the black powder charge. George looked at his wristwatch.

  “Almost two in the morning,” he said.

  “Good. We just need a couple more people, and we can get this party started,” I said.

  “How many people do you need?” Amy asked after George left to find a couple of volunteers.

  “At least five. The armory has doors on all four sides. The Molotovs will take care of keeping the side and back doors out of action at first, then we’ll have to rely on old fashioned suppression fire. Amy, I want you on my six, covering the front door.”

  “You’re not going in there without me,” she said. She put her hands on her hips, a pose that she had clearly inherited genetically from her mother.

  “Surviving this would be a cinch compared to facing your mother if she ever found out I deliberately took you into a firefight,” I said.

  “And you think you can stop me?” she asked.

  “Short of tying you up…not really. Just bear with me.” George came back in with three other men. One of the men was carrying what I recognized as an SKS assault rifle, and the other had a deer rifle. George’s rifle turned out to be an old Mosin-Nagant. In addition to the men I’d seen with him earlier, Johnny had tagged along.

  “You’re going to need something a little bigger than a handgun for what we’re doing tonight,” I said, pointing to the pistol on his hip.

  “I’m not much of a fighter,” Johnny said. “I’m going to be your witness. Somebody’s gotta tell your story.”

  “Johnny, we already talked about how dangerous that would be,” I said. He shook his head and gave me a broad smile.

  “I’m not gonna use your name, Dave. But I am going to tell the world what you did. People need hope, and something like this will give ‘em that in spades.”

  “Assuming I survive,” I said. “So, here’s the plan.” They listened as I laid everything out for them. It didn’t take long. As plans went, it was pretty simple. Less than twenty minutes later, we were on our way. It took us almost an hour to cover the ten blocks to the armory. The moon was at the last quarter, providing just enough light to see by once we let our eyes get used to the light. The dead were out, and we had to bring down a handful of them at an intersection with our blades. George’s men looked at Amy with a little more respect once they watched her put her blade through a zombie skull. Finally, we reached our destination. George stayed with us while the other two went to take up their positions.

  “Remember,” I said to George fifteen minutes later. “Light ‘em up when the shooting starts.”

  “And come in when Amy blows the whistle. Got it.”

  “Yup,” I said, then turned to Amy and put my radio’s earpiece in. “Remember, shoot and move. We go on your first shot.” She did the same, and headed into the park while I crept up to the edge of the house on the corner and waited.

  It seemed like forever before I heard the first crack of her Ruger going off. Someone cursed, and George and I rushed forward. He took cover behind a tree and light the gasoline soaked rag on his first Molotov while I kept sprinting for the corner of the building. The back of the building lit up as the first Molotov went off, and George’s arced through the air as I closed on my objective. The night lit up behind me as I made it to the wall and crouched looking away.

  “What the fuck was that?” someone called out.

  “Get the night vision goggles!”

  “Open fire! Shoot ‘em!” Muzzle flash and the sound of gunfire erupted around the corner from me as Damon’s crew poured lead into the darkness. I opened the top of the water container and up-ended the bottle of Werx into it. The six reactants inside rattled as I screwed the cap back on and shook it. Another crack came from the park, and someone cried out in pain. Another crack, and I heard the whine of a ricochet while I dumped the ammonia in with the bleach and hastily recapped the bottle. The sound of the two liquids sloshing was covered by more gunfire. Seconds later, I heard the call of “Reloading!” In the fitful light from the Molotov, I looked at the two bottles. The pressure bomb was starting to swell, but the gas mixture hadn’t caused a very noticeable change in the bottle’s shape. So far, so good. Neither was in danger of blowing up on me. I took the smoke bomb and my lighter out, then lit the fuse. More shots came from the park, now more quickly. Again, the boys behind the sandbagged entrance emptied their magazines at nothing, and I tossed the smoke bomb.

  It went off a second before they ran their mags dry, and by the time the first one of them called out that they were reloading, there was a plume of thick gray smoke billowing up.

  “What the fuck is this shit?” one yelled. Light flared behind me as George’s second and last Molotov went off. With the renewed light, I could see a white vapor starting to form at the top of the water bottle. It was time to throw the pressure bomb. Under the cover of the smoke, I went around the corner and tossed the bottle over the top of the sandbags, then dropped flat. Gunfire erupted over my head, then cries of alarm.

  “What was that?”

  “Throw it back!”

  “I got it!” Half a second later, the pressure in the bottle exceeded its strength, and it blew apart, sending boiling, corrosive liquid flying. I lit the fuse on the powder charge as the first screams tore through the night, then chucked it over the sandbags and scurried back to the corner. No one seemed to notice it amid the chemical burns, and it went off like a charm. I pulled the respirator up over my face and pulled the goggles into place.

  When I came back around the corner, the smoke was clearing. Sandbags were tumbled onto the ground, and only moans reached my ears. The glass door had been blown off its hinges, and almost nothing but broken glass and wisps of acrid smoke stood between me and the interior of the armory. I tossed the deforming chlorine bottle into the hallway then stood to the side and unslung the Mossberg. I heard it bounce once, then the deep boom of it rupturing came from inside. After a few seconds, I came around the corner and found myself in a reception area that opened onto a hallway. A tumbled lantern lit the room. Movement came from my right, and I turned the shotgun toward it. It bucked in my hands as I found a target, and the guy went down. I heard footsteps coming my way, then coughing and cursing. I pointed the Mossberg down the hallway, pumped a fresh
round into the chamber and sent three more blasts down the hallway. My effort was rewarded with a scream, and I put my back to the wall and loaded four more rounds into the tube.

  Muzzle flash lit the hallway and plaster flew as someone opened fire from down the hallway.

  “Got your six,” I heard in my earpiece, then a fresh scream joined the chorus.

  “They’ve got the doors covered!” someone called out from deeper inside.

  “We got night vision!” I heard Damon yell. “We fucking own the night!”

  “Damon, someone’s inside, man!” I heard from nearby. “They shot me!”

  “We got fucking body armor!” Damon yelled back. I peeked around the corner and didn’t see anyone.

  “I’m bleeding man!” the guy close to me screamed. Then he coughed, and staggered into view, and I aimed for his hips. He flopped and writhed as he let out a high pitched squeal.

  “They’re using some kind of nerve gas!” one yelled as I scrambled down the short hallway. Ahead of me I could see a dim light in an open area. The guy I’d shot was just outside the hallway.

  “Turn out the lights!” Damon yelled. As darkness descended, I reached out and grabbed the wounded man and dragged him into the hallway with me.

  “He’s got me!” the wounded man screamed. “Help!” I pulled his NVGs off and slipped them down over my face.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I said and hit him in the jaw with the butt of the shotgun. More coughing started to come from deeper inside the building.

  “Hey, Damon,” I called out. The respirator robbed me of a lot of volume, but I was sure Damon and his crew were listening real close now. “Remember me? I’m the guy who broke your nose earlier.”

  “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker!” he yelled back. I risked a look into the open area and saw four Humvees. Damon and his crew were spread out, hiding behind the Humvees and crouched in doorways. Only a few of them had NVGs or flak jackets on. Most of them were only carrying sidearms and stumbling around like they’d just woken up.