“Get some fucking firewood, would you,” she muttered, looking sidelong at her husband with a withering scowl.
The fire in her eyes told Tim exactly what she thought about the current state of things.
*
People at Jack's started to step more lively as March 20th approached. The vernal equinox stood for something big in the camp; it meant they had survived the long winter. They had come through the other side of the tunnel and the warm months lay ahead to plan and plant. It meant that spring was fast approaching. Winter's spell had lifted a bit early and with the first spring thaw, spirits started to soar. Plans were already being drawn up for erecting a permanent wall to encompass Jack's cabin and the pasture everyone else was camped on. Volunteers were being recruited for when the snows melted, to be sent out to the neighboring communities to see where things stood in the greater world. Most important to those camped on the plateau though, was that there was an end in sight for the cold weather.
In the week leading up to the vernal equinox, preparations were made for a celebratory bonfire. Wood was gathered and the previously rationed supply of food was made available for a grand feast. When the equinox finally arrived, the mood in the camp was positively electric. All morning the atmosphere buzzed with excitement. In the late afternoon the bonfire was lit, there was a moment of silence for those who had been lost, both previous to arrival as well as those who passed on over the course of the winter. The sole birth in camp had occurred in February. The baby, Hope by name, was paraded around the fire to start the celebration proper. Glasses and jars of moonshine were raised to honor the fallen and to celebrate the birth, the coming of spring, and the hard work ahead.
The celebratory atmosphere got a little much for Mark and Amber, who had only come out of a sense of obligation. They retreated to the relative safety and quiet of their bedroom in the cabin well before nightfall. Jack was playing monopoly with the kids in the living room when they came through the front door.
“Everything okay up there?” Jack asked, as they took their coats off by the door.
“Yeah, things were starting to get a bit rowdy so we decided to call it a night,” Mark replied.
Jack snickered a bit, he couldn't help but be amused by the city couple’s aversion to fun. It seemed every time the fun was getting started they would scurry off to their room and hide until it was over.
“Well, goodnight then,” Jack called, returning to the game with the kids.
“You too, Jack,” Amber called back as she followed Mark up the spiral stairs to the balcony that led to their room.
Amber closed the door behind as they stepped in, locking the heavy wooden barrier securely with the dead bolt. Jack had put one on every door in the house just after they had arrived, figuring that each one could be used as a barrier to keep the undead out if need be. The two turned out the lights and lay on top of the bed in front of the window, watching the scene on the plateau as it devolved into barbarics. Fistfights and vomiting were common at the ramshackle community's gatherings, and this one had the makings of an epic evening. After some time watching, Mark heard the sound of Amber's slow and steady sleep-breathing as he rolled over to listen to the sound of the kids and Jack coming upstairs. They retreated to their own bedrooms and Mark drifted to sleep a short while later.
Mark awoke abruptly an interminable time later, as Amber slapped her whole forearm against his chest. He sat bolt upright and let out an awful, confused moan. Amber recoiled from the noise, which came to her ears sounding eerily similar to the noises made by the infected. Once they sorted out that they were both awake and neither were dead, or in immediate danger, the sound of gunfire from outside penetrated the fog of sleep. The gunfire was heavy and coming from multiple guns. The shots sounded clearly, echoing across the landscape. Mark couldn't tell if it was late or early by the deep gloom outside the windows, but he could see the bonfire was still going, though much lower than when he had fallen asleep. A moment later, Amber screamed shrilly when someone started pounding on their door.
“Mark! I need you man, open up!” Jack barked from the opposite side of the door as his heavy fist continued to pound.
“Just a sec,” Mark blearily called back, quickly struggling to pull his jeans and a shirt on.
“Don't go out there Mark!” Amber hissed. “Don't leave me here alone!”
Mark couldn't respond to her, he just shrugged helplessly as he walked over and opened the door. Jack stood, fully dressed with his shotgun in hand and a panicked look in his eyes.
“Esme never came in, I need you to come with me and find her.”
*
After a quick patrol around the perimeter of the pasture, Jen moved off to help Laura with the kids. Will and Tim set up the fire pit using the body of the SUV to block view of it from the road. They hoped that its hulking form would prevent anyone, living or dead from stumbling up to their camp. Though the evening air was frigid, they didn't light the fire until well after dark. In unfamiliar territory they didn't want to risk the smoke, which would be clearly visible for miles around against the cloudless, azure sky. Once the cold blanket of night had settled in and the fire was lit, Tim's first action was to put on a pot of water for coffee. He knew that the only way Laura would allow him to survive the night was if he kept vigilant watch until morning. It was bound to be a long night following the exhaustion of the previous days. As the smell of campfire coffee rose from Tim's cup, Bob stirred.
“Coffee, Bob?” he asked.
“Yeah,” the man croaked out, as he lifted himself weakly to the seated position.
“It's dirty camp coffee, gotta use your teeth to strain out the grinds,” Tim muttered as he handed the man a tin cup of hot liquid, laden with grinds.
Bob took the cup and nodded gratefully at Tim who returned to the pot to pour Will a cup.
“Mind telling us what you know about this whole thing, Bob?” Tim said, trying to keep his tone even and light.
The whole group perked up at the question. Bob saw all eyes turn hopefully toward him, watching his mouth as the words formed to come out.
“Rumors,” he said as he spit a mouthful of grinds on the ground next to him. “All we know is probably the same rumors you've already heard.”
“Indulge us if you don't mind,” Will said. “We've been kind of busy struggling to survive, we haven't had much time or opportunity for either gossip or informed speculation.”
Bob nodded, taking a deep breath in as the smell of beans and some luxurious smelling sauce rose to his nostrils.
“Let me start at the beginning. . .or the end then.” He took a deep breath and scanned his audience. “Y'all got any booze or maybe a cigar floating about?”
Will silently stood and moved back to the Yukon, returning a moment later with a sealed flask of Jack Daniels. He unscrewed the cap and passed it to the man. Bob sniffed the whiskey appreciatively and took a pull. He closed his eyes and let the amber liquid coat his mouth, savoring the taste and the burn of it in his mouth, before swallowing.
“Hank, my co-pilot, and I were stationed in Menwith Hill, north of Leeds-” he started, wincing through the first pull of whiskey.
“England?” Jen interrupted. “You mean it's overseas as well?”
Bob nodded soberly in return before continuing.
“We didn't see anything that far north yet, but we heard the reports and rumors of terrorism in mainland Europe, Poland was first if I recall correctly.”
Bob's voice trailed off as the frog in his throat grew prominent. He sipped his coffee and swallowed painfully before continuing hoarsely. “The rumors were too strange and surreal to believe. Even as a result of a chemical or biological agent . . . well, none of us wanted to believe the rumors. Even without the hard facts, we knew that whatever was going on was real, it was happening and it scared the shit out of all of us, to a man. Orders came down and we were confined to the base, no exceptions. All leave time was canceled. Contact off-base with the locals started get
ting spotty, a few of the men couldn't reach their girlfriends or what-have-you, which no one really batted an eye at. Just another SNAFU, we thought. But when people started having difficulties reaching family back home, the tensions really started to snowball. Fistfights with the Brits grew more and more common as the days passed without answers.”
Bob took another draw from the bottle of whiskey and delved fully into his tale.
“The first video footage came in a few days after the rumors started. There was footage of Brussels, Tokyo and New York. All of our doubts were cast away at that footage, and all of our fears were realized. We were thousands of miles from our homes and families and helpless to act while it all disintegrated. Morale on base hit rock bottom. The fistfights between us and the Brits grew more and more frequent, then order started to go to shit and it was American fighting American. Finally, as the fear and uncertainty mounted, the enlisted men turned on the officers. We were all sequestered to our quarters after the first death. Nearly a week spent confined to quarters drove half of us mad with fear and concern. All of us were relieved when the orders finally came in. All the crews were scrambled and sent off to all parts; Hank and I got assigned to an immediate evac of some brass in the London embassy.
“We could see the smoke from the fires nearly an hour before London came into view. By the time the city proper was beneath us, we could clearly see cars burning in the streets, buildings. . .whole blocks of the city were ablaze. Everywhere we looked we could see these crowds moving about the streets. We couldn't tell dead from the living at that height, but our imaginations ran rampant with the sight. I literally had to pry my hands off the stick when we finally touched down on the rooftop of the embassy. The evacuees were nowhere to be seen which kinda freaked us out. We were told this was going to be a grab-and-go. Anyways, armed guards came out of the embassy. They ordered us to power down the helo.
“Ambassador Wringle ordered us to stay, pending new orders from the outside as events unfolded in the world. He claimed that all communication was lost with the US government. In hindsight he was probably just scared shitless. We would've left right then but the helo was low on fuel and the fucking asshole wouldn't allow us to refuel.”
The entire gathering was rapt by Bob's story at this point, gathered around him by the fire.
“Over the coming weeks we had a front-row seat to watch London burn. Those things roamed the streets freely, and there were more of them every day. We could see them y'know, we watched them out the windows and through binoculars. The fast ones, those were the ones that ultimately kept Hank and I from walking out the front gates. Those fuckers are death on wheels, gives me shivers just thinking about them.
“Well, after 9/11 and all the other terror attacks, all our embassies overseas got a security overhaul. The embassy looked like some kind of artist's muse, but it was actually an extremely defensible building. It had water on two sides, a raised platform showing a twenty foot wall to the city at the rear. The only entrance to the place carried you over a moat-like gap and was only accessible through a secure glass structure. The structure looked delicate and ornate, but you could hit that glass with a mortar shell and not chip a fleck off of it.
“We were safe within those walls, a veritable island in the heart of London, nestled near the shore of the Thames. We had food and water, hell, even our plumbing continued working halfway through December. The air filtration system kept our air clear, even when the smoke was at its densest. We were bored though, TV was out, I guess no one left to broadcast, so instead we watched, every day, as things got worse and worse out on the streets.
“Things had really quieted down by mid-November. I don't know what was worse, the sounds of chaos in the streets, glass breaking, frantic screams and car tires skidding about the streets or the silence that set in. The breeze off the Thames sometimes carried the sounds of their moans to us. Over the long winter months, Wringle became a petty tyrant. I can't say for certain, but I think he believed that we were the only ones left. He developed a Napoleon complex of sorts, like he was in charge of all of humanity.”
*
Yen awoke early the next morning to the sounds of someone coughing across the barn. The normal nighttime noises organized themselves in his brain, snoring, shifting and coughing. He tried to get back to sleep, but his anticipation of the day ahead kept his mind working. He stared into the rafters above him and thought back to his early days in Donner and interactions with Tyler Peterson, the man he might have to kill later that day or the next. He tried to push the thoughts away, figuring it was best to let the situation unfold as nature intended, rather than being predisposed to kill or not kill. As much as he tried to push it from his mind, Tyler's face kept returning to his thoughts. The conversation the men had when Tyler asked them off his land.
He and his people had lived on the Peterson's ranch for the first few days in Donner. The man had been accommodating, if not welcoming to the remnants of the tribe. Yen understood that the people of Donner were all taking a risk by letting strangers in and he did his best to ensure that any kindness that was shown to him or his people was repaid and quickly. The Petersons had allowed them to live on their land and hadn't kicked them off out of malice. He'd only revoked the invitation because of a heated argument with Tar. In that conversation, Yen saw the hesitation and the shame come across the man's features as he asked them to leave. Now, in just a few hours he might have to kill that man. It was something he was trying his hardest to come to terms with.
Someone waking below and starting their morning routine finally shook the thoughts from his head. Probably old Chipeta, he thought, referring to the eldest to survive the journey east. Though only in her fifties, Mrs. Chipeta was the oldest of the survivors by more than a decade. Yen sat up in his cot and thought of his brother, Ti and his horse, Petal. He avoided thinking of his mother who had refused to come, not wanting to start his day with tears. He doubted she would have survived the journey. As tough as she was, she grew weak too quickly. Decades of smoking cigarettes had taken the vim and vigor out of her.
The sound of a car engine firing to life in the distance towards Harold's house and garage got him on his feet and his mind away from his losses. He rushed down from the loft and through the main aisle of the barn, skirting around the numerous piles of overflow from the tiny partitioned living spaces. He loathed what the trip held in store for him, and said a couple silent prayers for strength.
As he stepped onto the driveway where Harold, Benny, Danny and Hope were gathered, his two-way radio squawked on his hip. He recognized Linda's voice immediately.
“Yen! You there, Yen?” her voice chirped full of excitement.
“I'm here, Lin. Just getting ready to set out,” he replied, stopping a few feet short of the gathered group waiting in front of Harold's truck.
“I need you at the clinic. Forget your trip.”
“Lin-” he started.
“Tar is awake!”
*
“I'm coming, Jack,” Mark replied hesitantly as he hurriedly put on his clothes.
He immediately recognized that his consent was not optional. Jack had a way about him that affected Mark on a level he wasn't used to operating on. The man made him feel small, and not just in stature as Jack was nearly twice his size. It wasn't physical intimidation that affected him. After the first few days at the cabin, when Jack was learning the other man's limitations, he hadn't done more than shoot Mark a sidelong glance. What Mark was feeling was more of a need to please and fear of disappointment, the way a child feels toward their parents. It was rooted in the inferiority he felt in this 'primitive' way of life. If Jack recognized the trepidation and fear in his response, he was nice enough not to mention it.
As Mark stood, pulling on his fleece, he could hear Jack turn about and walk down the length of the balcony to the spiral staircase. He tromped down the steps into the great-room which was lit by two nightlights, one next to the fireplace, the other in the kitchen, next to t
he coffee pot. Mark hurried to follow behind, obediently. As much as he didn't want to be out of bed at this hour, he wanted less to be rushing through the dark outside chasing after Jack. He briefly wondered on the extent of his obligation to the man as he followed blindly down the staircase. He stepped out onto the covered porch, following Jack into the darkness outside without hesitation. Fear gripped at him, only the pretense of Jack kept him from running back inside and bolting the door.
The sound of gunshots continuously popping off sounded clearly through the air on the cold, cloudless night. The shots seemed to echo off the walls of the surrounding forest, amplifying the din. It was clear the shots were coming from atop the plateau, in the direction of the bonfire. The lack of raised voices did little to settle their nerves as they moved through the darkness towards the orange glow in the distance. About three hundred yards off, the land swept upwards roughly ten feet to the pasture on which the rest of the camp occupied. The land was well traveled by many feet traveling to or coming from the main house, forming distinct paths in the snow. The spring melt had turned the paths into muddy ruts, crusted over with ice. The two stepped carefully on the mounds of snow that remained, not wanting to stick their foot into sucking mud or an icy puddle.
The sound of a guitar and voices lifting and falling in song became apparent as they approached the embankment. Shots continued popping off, and as the song became clear, it became obvious that the firing weapons were a musical accompaniment. Mark breathed an audible sigh of relief. More than anything he had been terrified of having an encounter with the undead, and now it seemed it was just drunken shenanigans that roused him from his warm bed.
“Fuck!” Jack hissed, turning to help Mark up the last few feet of the embankment. “Drunken assholes!”
Jack reached back, lending Mark a helping hand. Once Mark had his feet firmly planted on flat land, Jack ran off without a word. The backlit shadow of the man moved out of sight quickly as he shifted through the variety of makeshift structures scattered about the area. The tents and ramshackle shanties served as bathrooms, bedrooms, and smokehouses among a multitude of other purposes. The sounds of writhing bodies in a tent directly to Mark's left startled a gasp out of him, spurring him to movement. After the briefest moment of indecision on whether he should run back to the cabin or continue towards the light, he started forwards. The impenetrable darkness behind him propelled him towards the light of the bonfire. As he sorted his prospects, he recognized that it was the sounds of a couple in the throes of passion rather than a life or death struggle that he had initially thought. He breathed a sigh of relief and his heart-rate started to return to normal, leaving only the lingering tingles of fear running along his spine.
Harvest of Ruin (Book 3): A Spring of Sorrow Page 9
