by JE Gurley
“Don’t miss,” he said.
Fascinated by the sound of the generator, the zombies failed to notice Marino until he had almost reached the Russian tractor. He heard the crack of the AK just as the head of one of the nearest zombies exploded. It fell to the slush and kicked its legs several times before growing still. Marino hadn’t suspected they would be so fast. He barely reached the door before they were upon him. He heard the rifle bark three more times, but he didn’t stop to look back. Anson had the weapon set to single shots to conserve ammunition. When he opened the door and jumped in, one of the zombies grabbed his heel, almost dragging him from the tractor. He lashed out with his foot and smashed the zombie’s face. It reeled backwards, giving him time to slam the door. He fought to catch his breath while zombies pounded on the glass and sides of the Kharkovchanka.
He located the bag containing the ammo and slung it over his shoulder. Then he eyed the crowd of zombies and judged his chances of making it back to the Hercules alive. The odds looked bad, but he had an idea. He cranked the Russian tractor and drove away, crushing one zombie beneath the treads. The remainder followed him away from the plane and the generator. He drove down the runway with zombies chasing after him. Then he turned and headed back into the crowd. The heavy Kharkovchanka plowed through them easily, sending some sprawling, and crushing several more beneath the heavy treads. Marino grinned, even though he recognized several bloody faces. They had once been acquaintances, but now they were just dead meat with a sick taste for human flesh.
The zombies did not lumber as he had seen in 1950s movies. They were quick and agile, but he stayed ahead of them and beat them back to the C-130. He grabbed the ammo bag, leaped from the Khark, and ran to the generator. It was small, but too heavy for him to lift with one hand. He grasped one end and dragged it to the steps.
“Hurry!” Anson yelled down to him and fired at a zombie that had gotten too close. The zombie, clad only in a bloody t-shirt and ragged underwear, and missing an arm, fell across his boots. Marino kicked it away in disgust. He thought it odd that only half the zombie’s face was clean-shaven as if struck down in the process of shaving. Anson raced down the steps and brushed past Marino. He picked up the other end of the generator and almost pushed Marino up the boarding ladder. When they reached the top, Marino dropped his end of the generator and shrugged off his right mitten.
“Damn! I burned my hand.”
“You’re lucky that’s all that’s wrong with you,” Anson snapped.
Anson kicked the ladder away from the C-130, just as one of the zombies attempted to climb it. The zombie was naked, one of the pilots escaped from the morgue, his pale body a chaotic patchwork of black blotches of frostbite. The boarding ladder rolled a few meters away from the plane with the dead pilot clinging to the rail. Marino wondered if the zombie pilot felt a sense of recognition with the plane as he picked up the AK-47, and shot the zombie in the head, deriving a great deal of satisfaction as the body toppled onto the icy runway.
“Climb that, you death dealing bastard!” he yelled.
The remaining zombies milled about the plane moaning and staring hungrily up at the open door. Marino slammed the door shut and sat down, leaning his back against it.
“What now?” he asked Anson.
Anson shrugged, “We wait.”
8
Aug. 29, 2013 Coober Pedy, Australia
Alex spent most of the day staring idly out the window, interrupted occasionally by Nicole’s soft sobbing. Her father’s death had hit her hard. Alex realized she needed to mourn, but how do you mourn for an entire planet, if the Demise had spread that far. If she wanted to survive, she would have to toughen up. In Afghanistan, he had been tough. It had come with the territory. The enemy did not wear a different color uniform or attack in waves: They mingled with the rest of the civilian population, and struck randomly, often killing themselves in the process. He had hardened himself to the senseless slaughter, feeling little pity for the Taliban that he killed, or the ones captured by the Afghan National Army, knowing the fate that awaited them.
He had brought a little of that war home with him, becoming cold and silent, bitter at all the pent up frustrations he had endured. Jiselle had noticed. They had slowly drifted apart. In all honesty, if she had not died in that awful accident, they would have soon split up. He sometimes felt that maybe some small, fed up part of him had aimed deliberately at that tree hoping to end both their miseries. In that, he had failed, and he still felt miserable.
It seemed most of his memories concerned death – Jiselle’s, Afghanistan, the hunting club, even the end of the world. His short-lived infatuation with the hunting club had been mostly a ruse to avoid Jiselle accusatory gaze. The other hunters, mostly just elderly gun enthusiasts, had ostracized him for his cold, hard manner and lack of camaraderie. They had finally asked him to leave. Maybe his proximity to death spoke more to his character than chance.
Twice during the long quiet day, he had considered going out to find boots in Nicole’s size, but put it off. He wanted her out of his hair, but was reluctant to send her out ill-equipped for survival. Finally, he came to a decision about her. He approached her as she sat staring at a photo of her father.
“Look. If you’re going to survive out there, you need to learn to shoot and to scavenge. Grab the shotgun and we’ll drive out into the desert where the noise won’t attract zombies.”
She looked up at him and nodded.
The drive was uneventful. No zombies walked the road. No crazies took a shot at them. Alex also noticed very little wildlife on the trip. He wondered if the animals, were also becoming prey for the zombies. The day was warm and bright with only a slight breeze stirring the dust. He tried to forget about the problems they faced and just enjoy the sun on his face. He looked longingly at the useless radio in the dash – no stations were left on the air to enjoy. Maybe he would install a CD player when he got the time. He drove ten kilometers out into the desert to a place he knew of, a small wash he and others had often used for target practice. Rusty tin cans riddled with bullet holes littered the ground, as well as a purloined Kangaroo Crossing sign that bore testimony to someone’s disdain for authority. A substantial number of empty bottles of Tooheys New beer covered the ground and even a few Fosters tins dropped by some tourist lay scattered about; Alex figured only an unknowing tourist would drink Fosters, a decidedly wank beer. He lined up a row of empty tins atop a large rock as targets. Then he showed Nicole how to load the Remington
“Place the stock hard against your shoulder to cut down on recoil and prevent a bruise,” he advised. Nicole settled the shotgun into the crook of her shoulder. “Now, shut one eye and look down the sites. Then take a deep breath, exhale slowly and gently squeeze the trigger.”
She nodded, took a deep breath, exhaled audibly and fired; then fired three more times in rapid succession, quickly pumping the shotgun between shots. Each shot sent a tin flying into the air. She looked at him and smiled.
“I know how to shoot. My dad taught me.”
Alex laughed, “I guess I look like a fool.” He handed her his Browning 9mm. “Try this one.”
Her aim was a little less exact with the pistol, but she managed to hit a tin after several attempts.
“You’ll do,” he pronounced, “But stick with the shotgun. While we’re out here, is there anything you need from your home?”
Wistfully, she stared into the distance in the direction of her home and shook her head slowly. “No. That’s all part of the past now.”
Alex gave her credit for realizing that they were now living in new times, strange times, but new. Friends, family, jobs, even nations were part of the past, and best forgotten; a part of history if anyone was left who cared to write it. Unless some government somewhere managed to survive the Plague intact, subsistence living would soon become the new norm as stored supplies became exhausted. Skills essential for survival; growing food crops, hunting wild game, raising livestock, people learne
d by trial and error. Others, such as preserving food, weaving, glassmaking, metal working and first aid would quickly become lost arts, unless the few artisans and specialists that remembered, could teach their crafts to new world apprentices, if any artisans remained, that is. It would be many years before anyone had time for art for art’s sake.
“Now, I’ll show you the proper way to salvage goods from a store.”
Alex loaded the weapons and ammo back into the jeep while Nicole scanned the desert.
“Do you think there are other people alive out there?” she asked.
“Maybe a few desert rats, miners, or people who just want no truck with other people. They might not even be aware of what’s happened.”
She snickered. “Won’t they be surprised?”
Alex looked west and noticed a reddish brown tint staining the horizon. He felt a hard knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He hoped it wasn’t another ill wind blowing in more problems. They had enough to deal with already. It appeared they would just make it back to town before the dust storm hit.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to delay our shopping trip a bit.” He pointed west, “Looks like we’re in for another blow.”
Nicole stared at the approaching line of dust with something akin to terror in her eyes. She was also remembering the last dust storm that blew through.
“Hurry,” she pleaded.
Alex had just started to crank the Jeep, when movement in a nearby thicket caught his attention. He motioned Nicole to silence and he grabbed his rifle. As he climbed out of the jeep, hoping it was just a curious kangaroo; a zombie shambled out into the clearing. Someone had peppered its chest and face with a shotgun. Strips of rotting flesh dangled from its right cheek, sliced open to the bone. Several of its teeth were missing. Alex raised his rifle to fire. Behind him, the loud report of the Remington surprised him. The zombie’s head exploded and gore and brains splattered across the sand. It tilted slowly to one side like a toppled tree, fell to ground, and did not move. Alex turned and saw the deadly glare burning in Nicole’s eyes as she fired a second round into the lifeless corpse.
More zombies appeared – three men and two women. Before he could stop her, Nicole walked toward them firing the shotgun, blocking his shot. She dropped three of the five zombies with her remaining four shells, but to his amazement, she stood and stared as the two last creatures came at her. She did not even bother to reload, as if she welcomed death. Alex leaped away from the jeep, fired a bullet into each of the two. Then he walked over to Nicole, staring at the dead zombies, and shook her. She glared at him. He slapped her hard across the cheek, leaving a bright red mark.
“Damn you,” he yelled. “If you want to die, do it, but if you put me danger again I’ll shoot you myself.”
She rubbed her cheek, but wordlessly got back into Jeep. Alex put away his rifle and started the engine. Halfway back to town, the leading edge of the dust storm hit. It looked as if the storm would engulf them before they reached the safety of his hide out. Alex pressed the accelerator harder. The jeep jumped as it dug into the dirt. When they reached the asphalt, he skidded into the road without slowing, slewing the rear wheels into the loose gravel shoulder, throwing up a rooster tail of dust and gravel. As he fought to regain control of the wheel, he guessed a little of Nicole’s trepidation was rubbing off on him.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Coober Pedy, the wind was already whipping stinging grains of sand into Alex’s eyes. Powerful gusts tried to lift the jeep off the road or push it into the ditch, almost as if the entire force of the storm was venting itself on the jeep and its occupants. The wind growled with the ghostly voices of billions of dead. He could barely hear Nicole over the banshee roar as she yelled, “It hates us!”
Alex spared a glance at her. She had a death grip with both hands on the edge of the seat and her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and unblinking in spite of the dust. When they reached his home, she snapped out of her trance. They quickly unloaded the jeep and ascended to their second floor refuge. The large window had no glass, but Alex had salvaged a large canvas tarpaulin and two sheets of plywood for just such an occasion. Nicole helped him secure the tarp across the opening and they covered it with the plywood. Once nailed into place, very little dust entered the room. However, so did very little light. Alex lit a propane lantern and set it on the table. In spite of its reassuring radiance, he couldn’t help feeling somewhat trapped by the storm. He didn’t like the idea of not being able to see out, or to be aware of what was happening around him. He began to pace the room.
“Nervous?” Nicole asked after awhile.
He glared at her as he paced. “I feel like a caged animal. I need room to breathe. That’s why I chose to live in the desert, the open spaces.”
Nicole nodded as if she understood Alex’s anxiety. The howling wind made goose bumps dance on her arms and cold shivers crawled up her spine. The wind was like a wild animal trying to get to them by clawing its way through the canvas and wood. Whenever a strong gust hit, the building shuddered, as if the entire building could blow away like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz.
“It’s a big building. Why not go to the east side, out of the wind. I saw a window there.”
Alex stopped pacing and smiled, “Damn. You’re right. I’ve just been so used to keeping an eye out toward the city that I forgot.” He sat down beside her. “I’ll be okay now. Thanks.” He picked up his deck of cards. “Do you play poker? I’m tired of solitaire.”
Nicole shook her head. “No, I’m not much of a card player.”
Alex ignored her protests as he dealt out two hands. “I’ll teach you. There’s not much else to do until the storm passes through.”
Two hours later, Alex totaled up the figures and discovered he owed her nearly a hundred dollars. She had picked up the fundamentals of the game quickly, and he found it almost impossible to read her face. It was a good thing they were playing for fun. The wind had died down, but still gusted strongly. Between the storm, and the early evening darkness it brought, he was feeling more confined than ever.
“I need to get out of here. Maybe you had better stay.”
She looked stricken at his suggestion. “Alone? No. I’m coming too.”
Her face bore a look of determination. Alex decided it would be useless to argue with her, but he remembered her actions with the zombies.
“What happened back there?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know. I saw them coming and all the rage I had inside welled up and I couldn’t stop it. I . . .” She hesitated. “It won’t happen again.”
Alex knew about rage. “Come on.”
He didn’t want to remove the tarp and plywood until the storm had died down. Instead, he led her downstairs to a metal door barred by two lengths of metal pipe. “It only seals from the inside. It’s kind of an emergency exit.”
Alex opened the door and peeked out. Seeing nothing, they walked to the jeep. The wind was crisp and the night air had cooled. Visibility had improved, but dust driven by strong gusts still pelted them. At the rolling gate, Nicole got out and opened it. The 3-meter chain link fence surrounding the factory had been one of the reasons he had selected it for his refuge. It did a good job keeping out the zombies, but would need inspecting again after the windstorm. He drove to one of the local shoe marts. The plate-glass display window was shattered and the door off its hinges and on the ground. He entered carefully, shining his torch in front of him. Nicole followed close behind, brushing against his back. He found the physical contact surprisingly pleasant. A faint scent of perfume drifted to his nose. He found his thoughts about her disconcerting and tried to dwell on the store.
Another, less pleasant odor came to him from the rear of the store, riding a sudden gust of wind. He waved Nicole to remain where she was. He raised his rifle to his waist and scanned the store with the torch. He spun at the sound of boxes falling to his right. A zombie ambled around the end of the aisle. The
young girl carried a pair of black high heels in one hand. A plastic nametag pinned to her shirt read ‘Amber’. She stopped and stared at him; then snarled and lunged toward him. He fired from the hip, tearing a hole in her chest and shattering her nametag. She fell backwards into a display case, scattering shoes, and boots, but she did not drop the pair she carried. She clutched them to her chest and stared at them as if reassuring herself they were undamaged. Apparently satisfied the shoes were fine, she tried to rise. Alex fired another round into her skull. She jerked spasmodically several times before going still. Alex walked to her and stood over her a moment, looking down at her face.
“I remember her. Nice kid.” He turned to Nicole. “Find your size. Get good walking shoes or boots and several pairs of socks. Get more than one pair of boots,” he called after her as she turned to leave.
Alex searched until he located the aisle containing his size and picked out a pair of sandals and another pair of boots. He went to the display case and dug through it until he found two plastic packs, each containing four pair of socks that weren’t splattered with blood and gore. He waited several minutes for Nicole to return. He could hear her at the rear of the store tossing boxes to the floor. He grew impatient.
“How about getting a move on?” he yelled back to her.
Nicole appeared around the end of an aisle with an armful of boxes. She shot Alex a dirty look as he led the way back to the jeep. She tossed the boxes in the jeep and got in.
“I got a pair of dress shoes, too,” she said. “You never know.”
“Jeez,” he snapped. “You think we’re going to a ball somewhere?”
Nicole placed her hands on her hips and stared at him. Her glare was hot enough to melt wax. “A girl likes to look good sometimes. Besides,” she added, “They were on sale.”
Alex muttered in irritation under his breath, cranked the jeep, shoved it in first gear and spun out. The wind was dying and the air had cleared of dust but high, scuttling clouds hid the face of the moon. The twin beams of the jeep’s headlights sliced through the darkness, cleaving a path down the road.
