by TW Brown
I took a few steps in the direction I thought it might be and then waited. All I could hear for several seconds was my own heartbeat. Then…I heard it; the still-hair-raising sounds of a baby cry. It was down the hill and to my left.
I drew the long blade I kept strapped to my hip and went to the barrel that was under an overhang by the tool shed and fetched one of the ready-to-light torches. Moving out into the open, I called up to the lookout tower atop the huge building we called home.
“DeAngelo!”
“Hey, Steve!” a deep voice rumbled. I still suffered from a bit of starstruck-itis when it came to DeAngelo. Considering that he was once a standout defensive monster on my beloved Seattle pro football team, I just couldn’t help it. “Sounded like a bit of an argument coming from downstairs. Everything okay?”
“Just some differences of opinion being aired,” I brushed the question aside. “Sounds like we have a lone shambler down below. Who’s in the stand?”
“Jamie.”
“Signal him that we have something inside the perimeter,” I called up. “I’m going down to check it out.”
I saw the light start flashing the message. Morse code had replaced the cell phone. All that was old is new again.
I started down the hill and was just about to light my torch when I heard a voice whispering in the darkness. I froze. That changed everything in an instant. Whoever it was—and since zombies don’t whisper, I knew it was a who versus a what—had slipped past our perimeter security without tripping a flare, as well as the little tower we had set up in the trees where the road emptied into the former National Park camping grounds.
We all carried blades or bludgeons everywhere we went, but unless we were leaving the area, we left the firearms inside. Besides the fact that ammo was a very finite resource, and we were nearing the end of our reserves, the sound of gunshots carried for miles and served as a zombie dinner bell. Plus, it gave our position away to those who, while not zombies, might be more dangerous: the living.
We’d decided a while back that, from now on, we would seek survivors out on our foraging runs versus advertise our presence. We’d had enough difficulties when it came to learning that the undead were only one small part of the problem. Lately it seemed that the living were far more dangerous. After all, it wasn’t a zombie that had murdered some of the group and then led a horde to our doorstep in an attempt to kill us all. It hadn’t been a zombie that had shot DeAngelo’s wife, nearly killing her.
“Hey out there!” a voice hissed. “I know you’re there, I heard you talking up the hill at that big building to somebody.”
I stayed silent.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t answer either,” the female voice whispered a bit louder. “Look, I just took down a walker that was roaming around in the road down here.”
I still wasn’t talking. I didn’t care if this person had dropped a dozen zombies, I didn’t care if it was a woman’s voice. That is why they called them traps.
“Okay,” the voice huffed, “I get it; strangers…bad. Trust me when I say I get it. My group was wiped out…and it wasn’t by the zombies. But you should know that your guy down at the entrance is sleeping, which, if he is supposed to be on guard…”
I couldn’t just take this person’s word. Whoever this was could say that Jamie was asleep. That would explain any lack of response we might experience. Of course, he could be down there with his throat slit or something.
“My friend is up the road in the back of a car and needs help.” The voice had an edge of pleading to it now. “We’ve seen lights in this direction from our camp in the hills, and I had to risk it. It has taken me three days to get her down the hill and back up. I kept her wrapped in blankets and laid her on the big tarp. You know how hard it is to drag a tarp with a person on it? Through the woods? Trying to avoid the freaking undead?”
I gave it a moment’s thought. “I want you to lace your hands behind your head,” I finally called. “I am going to light a torch and come to you. Any sudden moves and we have somebody in the tower.” I wasn’t going to mention that the person in the tower didn’t have a gun handy at the moment.
I made my way down the hill until the person finally came into view at the edge of the circle of light put off by my sputtering torch. As I’d requested, she had her hands behind her head. I didn’t know what good that would do me, but I’d seen it in enough crime shows.
I quickly realized that if this woman wanted to take me out, she had the upper hand. The big revolver on her hip looked formidable, but the M4 (I’d seen enough of them to know what it was) hanging from a tether over her shoulder like the modern day equivalent of a purse had a scope that let off a little glow. That meant she had probably already “seen” me in the darkness.
“My name is Steve Hobart,” I introduced myself.
“And that’s all fine,” the woman said, “if it makes you feel better. My name is Nickie Bailey and my friend Christina is dying. So, if you don’t mind…”
2
Vignettes XIX
Cairo, Egypt—Aaheru stepped out into the chilled morning air and breathed deep. He had become accustomed to the smell of the walking dead. In the distance, the iconic pyramids loomed. Those were the signs of the old Egypt. Those were the jewels of Cairo, a truly dead city which was ironic considering that, as far as he knew, the only life resided behind the walls of Qarafa, el-Arafa: The City of the Dead.
In this place, Aaheru was king, pharaoh, and God. He had led his followers here and overwhelmed the rabble that had lived for years in their primitive tribal societies amongst the tombs and shrines to the dead. Of course his name hadn’t always been Aaheru—a name which meant Chief of Terrors. He had claimed it after shooting his commanding officer in the face and taking control of the unit he had been assigned as a soldier of Egypt. There were none remaining who knew his given name, and that was just as well because that man was dead; more so than the creature chained by the neck to a post outside the entrance to his grand tent.
The abomination stood silent and still, its white-filmed eyes staring at him with no emotion. Its mouth hung open, but not even a drop of saliva dripped from it. The creature had not fed in weeks, yet it remained as it had the day of its first death; a slight rip on one arm the origin of its transformation from living to dead to undead. The cruel desert heat had sapped any hint of moisture from the zombie—the Western word used to describe the dead who now walked the Earth—yet it remained.
“My Lord,” a voice said in a whisper, “I am here to do your bidding and please you in any way you require.”
Aaheru glanced down to see the young, dark haired beauty kneeling before him. He’d told Ahi to send him a new girl to replace his previous consort; foolish thing, she’d not heeded his warnings about the gate and ventured too close. The hand that snagged her scarf and pulled her to that grasping wall of arms that writhed, more deadly than any asp, had held her fast. She was ripped apart in moments, pieces of her pulled through the bars. At least she would not join their ranks…there was not enough remaining to rise and walk.
“What is your name, girl?”
“Ahmes.”
Child of the Moon? Aaheru thought. How appropriate. “Have Ahi dress you in something more fitting.” He looked at the faded rags the girl currently wore and made a note to have the next group that went out for supplies bring back clothes. Food and water had been such a priority that he’d forgotten that his people would need clothing.
The scrawny figure scooted away and vanished to do as she’d been told, leaving Aaheru alone to consider his plan for the coming days. As much as he had a fondness for Cairo, he would need to lead his people out of the city at some point. They could strike out for Alexandria. From there, they would find a ship and sail someplace more hospitable. His ancient ancestors might have been able to carve out an existence on the banks of the Nile; he would not be following in their footsteps.
Juan stepped off the small boat. A few deader
s had been stumbling along the shore despite the fact that they’d shut off the motor and rowed from a few hundred yards out. A misty almost-fog swirled across the surface of the dark waters of the Willamette, adding to the muffled surrealism of the scene.
“Horror movie shit,” Keith Thomas, whispered.
“Don’t get all spooked by a little weather,” Thad scoffed.
“It ain’t the weather that wants to take a bite out of our asses,” Keith grumbled.
“Everybody shut up!” Juan snapped. “Last time we came over, JoJo said he heard voices.”
“Then why didn’t you guys check it out?” Keith grumbled, knowing full well the reason why.
“The Bently guy was bleeding out, and we were trying to get him back to the island.” Juan could still see that whole scene in his mind’s eye.
Morris Bently hadn’t fallen victim to a zombie or a raider, but rather simple clumsiness. They had been searching a house for supplies, and he’d found what amounted to a jackpot in these days: a stocked medicine cabinet belonging to either a very sick person, or one of the world’s biggest hypochondriacs. He’d run down the stairs with his hands full of pill bottles and missed the last step. The break in his leg where the bone jutted through the skin was bad, the gash opened on his forehead from where he’d smacked the corner of an end table turned out to be just as bad. Juan had always heard the saying, “Nothing bleeds like a head wound.”
They’d gotten him back across the river. Mackenzie had done all she could, but between the blood loss and an infection in the compound fracture, the man had died in a feverish delirium.
JoJo had insisted that he’d heard voices from someplace nearby as they were hustling the man to the boat. So far, in seven trips across, there had not been a single sign of anybody alive in the area they were currently scouring for food and supplies. There were deaders…lots and lots of deaders.
Twice they’d had to abort their trip due to an overwhelming number of the cursed things wandering the shores. Juan couldn’t make any sense of it. Sometimes they came across and only encountered a few; at other times, they were greeted by mobs of varying size. Fortunately, today was one of those days where only a few of the things were present.
“I want to get at least three houses swept,” Juan announced. He didn’t know when it had happened, but at some point he had become the leader of their little group on Sauvie Island.
When Thad, Keith, and JoJo had shown up, it was only Juan, Mackenzie, and Mackenzie’s mom, Margaret. Now, they had taken in a few small groups and the numbers were over twenty men, women, and children. He only knew the names of a few, but Mackenzie had everybody down pat. Hell, he thought, she probably knows their birthdays. Yet, lately, anytime there was a decision to be made, folks were asking him what he wanted them to do.
“Juan, where should we stack the firewood?”
“Juan, can we build a church?”
“Juan, should we have patrols walking the fence at night?”
If these people knew where he’d been when all this deader crap started—homeless, and living in the back of his car—or that he had a long and documented history of being in trouble with the police for everything from drugs, to that brief stint where he thought he was going to be a pimp…they wouldn’t be asking him a damn thing.
“Yo, Juan!” Thad elbowed the larger man in the ribs. “You want to go check that out or not?”
Juan blinked his eyes against the cold and brought his focus back to the situation at hand. He gave Thad a questioning look.
“You didn’t hear that?” Thad huffed. “That wasn’t a zombie; I’d be willing to bet on it.”
“Not unless they’ve learned to make a new sound,” Keith added. “That was a giggle, no doubt about it.”
Juan listened. Other than the nearby deaders that they would have to deal with in a few minutes, he didn’t hear anyth—
A giggle.
In the low-lying mist of the morning, it was almost impossible to tell which way the sound came from, but he’d definitely heard it. He pulled the long blade from over his shoulder and started towards the crumbling walkway that led from the water’s edge to the heavily overgrown park that they would have to cross to reach the little neighborhood they were currently scavenging.
“You two take those few out,” Juan nodded to the approaching zombies, “and I will see if I can narrow down where that sound is coming from.”
“You think it is a good idea to split up?” Keith asked.
“We ain’t splitting up,” Juan whispered. “I’m just going to the edge of the park. I won’t even cross the street until you two catch up, but if whoever is making that noise hears you take down the deaders, they might get spooked and run. Hopefully, I can figure out which way they run.”
“What makes you think they’d run?” Thad asked.
Juan stopped and turned back to face the pair. “Because that’s what I would do if a gang of three guys looking like us got close.”
Thad seemed to consider the comment for a second, then shrugged and turned to deal with the zombie tugging on his jacket. Keith had already taken his five-pound sledge to one and was facing off with the next.
Juan waded through the waist-high grass, careful to stay on the three foot wide or so path they’d cleared. He knew what sorts of things could lurk unseen in the weeds. He reached the sidewalk and smelled it immediately: smoke. More importantly, somebody was cooking. It had a hint of onions and something spicy.
His eyes scanned the row of houses facing him. A dozen had big black Xs painted on the fronts. Those had been stripped of anything useful. It wasn’t a very sophisticated system, but it worked for their purposes. He blinked a few times to be certain, but he was sure he’d found the source of the smoke, and perhaps the giggling. It was tough to make out against the gray of the morning, but a wisp of smoke was rising from beyond the houses further back in to the neighborhood.
“Anything?” Thad asked as the two men caught up with him at the park’s edge; Juan pointed.
“We going in?” Keith sounded like he’d rather not.
“Be foolish not to,” Thad replied. Juan didn’t say a word; he simply started across the street.
They had to navigate through three yards—front and back—as they made as much of a beeline as possible to the source of the smoke. When they reached the last yard, Juan pulled himself up on the fence and took a look.
“Tight like a tigah,” he hissed appreciatively.
Chad brought the axe down with all the strength he had. The piece of wood split with a satisfying crack. The sounds of others involved in the daily chores—washing clothes, splitting wood, building barricades—filled his ears. Amongst it, there was another sound.
Children playing…laughing…yelling.
It had taken a few weeks for everybody to stop talking in whispers for fear of what it might bring. Slowly, things had become almost normal. Out in the middle of nowhere, Yosemite Village had catered to tourists from around the world who came to gawk at the park’s wonders. Now it was the site of another wonder: civilization.
The group was settling in nicely. The few hotels and restaurants had yielded a bounty of food, and the surrounding streams and rivers had taken any concerns about water and washed them away.
The first days had been busy. The place hadn’t been entirely empty. They had gone room-to-room in the hotels, and it hadn’t gone off without a couple of casualties. Worse, a small mob had come in the night just a few days ago and found their way inside an RV that an older couple lived in and refused to vacate in exchange for one of the rooms in the hotel that everybody else was now calling home.
The morning had come, and most everybody had been jolted awake by the screams of Jerri Sue Baker, the young woman unfortunate enough to be an early riser who had to start each day with yoga and a jog. She’d had very little direct contact with the undead in the months since they had risen and wiped out most of humanity. Jerri had been on a solo hike of the
Pacific Crest Trail and only come down because she’d run out of—of all things—feminine hygiene products. That is also why she froze at the sight of the elderly couple sitting up with fresh rips that allowed their insides to spill on the ground in steaming piles of gore. She went to the ground under five of the undead, her scream ending abruptly when her throat was ripped out.
Now, things were settling back down. Also, they had regular patrols at night to keep an eye out for the possible lone straggler or mob that might come their way. One of the better finds had been the sporting goods store. Not much bigger than a mini-mart, the place had yielded a plethora of fishing equipment…along with a variety of guns and ammo.
“Dad!” Ronni yelled from the window on the third floor of the hotel they now called home.
“Yeah?” Chad shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun reflecting off the several inches of snow that coated the roofs of the buildings.
“A bunch of people are going down to the falls to wash clothes, can I bring our stuff?”
Chad wasn’t stupid. That meant the Simmons boy was going. Marty Simmons was nineteen, tall, and had that scrawny, emo look that young girls seemed to go for from what Chad had observed from his daughter and the girls she hung out with.
“Fine,” Chad consented, “but don’t forget the sheets and towels.”
“Whatever,” Ronni groaned. They’d had the discussion a few times. She seemed to think that since the hotel had closets full of linens and towels, they didn’t need to worry about actually washing the ones they used.
She still didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation they faced. To her, the world was simply suffering a temporary inconvenience. She either didn’t fully realize, or, more likely, didn’t want to realize just how serious things had become in the past few months.
Bearing in mind all she had seen in just the past several weeks, he thought that maybe she was simply refusing to accept things as they were. That would mean she would have to accept the death of her mother…as well as a few of her friends. He knew she would have to come to grips sooner or later, he just couldn’t find it in his heart to make her do so right this moment. Considering the fact that this would be her new reality, he didn’t see the harm in letting her live in a state of denial for a few more weeks.
