Draconian Measures

by Chris Lowry

  “Oh.”

  There was a world of understanding in that statement.

  We needed to scout ahead, but I wasn’t going to let them out of my sight.

  “Don’t move,” a voice called from behind us.

  Damn it, we should have moved off trail.

  I raised both hands in the air and slowly turned around.

  The three men in black were advancing up the path, guns aimed at me. They ignored the kids, which was smart.

  “You killed my brothers,” said the lead guy.

  I wasn’t going to talk, not with guns aimed at my head. I needed to assess how stable they were, what they had planned, and not get shot. I didn’t like getting shot.

  “Get up,” he told the kids.

  They stood next to me on shaky legs, both holding on to me for support.

  “Pull them guns out with your fingers,” he told Bem. “You keep your hands up.”

  They hadn’t shot me yet, which meant he had something worse planned.

  Bem pulled the first pistol out and dropped it. She slowly moved her hand to the second gun and kept going to the ground, flopping on the dirt.

  The three guns tracked her down and off me.

  I felt the Boy rip the gun from the small of my back. He sent three quick shots their way, nailing two and sending the third spinning. I got the pistol out and up before he recovered and finished him off.

  “Are you okay?”

  Bem sat up.

  “Dad, we planned it.”

  The Boy hustled to the fallen bodies and retrieved the pistols. He checked their pockets for bullets, but came up empty. Instead he held up a wad of cash folded into a rubber band roll.

  “Why do you think they still carried cash?”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  Bem picked up the gun she pulled from my waist and kept it. I took the three from the boy and stuck one in front, one in back and kept the last one out. It had a full magazine and the safety on.

  We were armed.

  We had a Princess backpack full of food.

  And I had a plan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  We went back to the marina next to the giant brick tower, but I didn't want to take the boat on the water after dark.

  The kids needed food and rest.

  So did I.

  Once we were floating downriver, we could find islands to camp on, and fish for food, but I knew of at least two dams we would need to negotiate, as well as the six bridges that spanned the river in just the city of Little Rock.

  Plus, I wanted to catch up with the kids and get them both behind a fence so they felt safe, at least for the night.

  We needed rest, some food, and some time with each other.

  "We'll spend the night at your school," I told them. "And take the boat at first light."

  I let the Boy lead the way back to the school and watched as he shimmied up the gutter to the open window, and slither inside. He opened the locked door after a few seconds and I put him in charge of building a fire while I tried to clean up in what had once been the kitchen.

  I could scrape the gray matter off, but the stains were set, so the jacket was a lost cause. I'd scrap it as soon as I could, but we would need all the layers we could get on the water.

  When I walked back into the gym they made into a campground, the Boy had a small fire going and Em had two cans warming in the coals.

  "I'm getting tired of beans," she used a pair of pliers to move a can in front of me, and the other in front of the Boy.

  I spooned up a bite, then burned my fingers passing it back to her.

  "We'll fish tomorrow. See if we can catch something fresh."

  The promise of that seemed to satisfy her and she took a spoonful and passed the can back to me.

  I made sure my bites were half sized, and that the boy ate all his. They noticed and appreciated it enough not to point it out.

  "I wish I could have shot the second guy for you Dad."

  I let him sit after dinner and wondered what he was thinking as we watched the fire die down. Emma curled up in a small ball and snoozed, the bottom of her feet against her brother's leg.

  "You're fourteen son."

  "Yeah, but when you were fourteen you told me you and uncle Doug were in the woods, building forts and booby traps and stuff."

  What kind of parent tells their kid exactly what they did when they were fourteen? And more importantly, who knew the kid was listening!

  He reminded me about my younger brother in California.

  Doug and his family. Two kids and a wife. I wondered if he was alive, if they made it. He had lived in a big city since he was twenty-five, and LA had thirteen million people around it. Fighting out of that many Z was almost impossible.

  But then I had crossed half the country and fought a few Z and we both had the same training. Maybe my will was stronger, and I knew I was angrier. We're talking Hulk smash size anger.

  He was way more mellow than me. Laid back. More friends, more people who liked him, including our parents and steps.

  It wasn't that I was unlikeable.

  A lot of people liked my company before the end of the world. I had a few close friends, could keep up a conversation with a stranger, and was a fine leader according to the people who worked with me and the surveys they took.

  But I knew I was a stand-offish fellow.

  I blame it on running by myself in the woods for hours on end.

  That's a lot of time for self-reflection and discovery. Some people called it living in your head, some people called it discovering your center. Who knows who was right.

  I know that after eighteen miles of exertion, the walls fall down and every emotion, every feeling is exposed. I ran without music which left me with the words in my head and song snippets stuck on loop.

  I came up with a couple of philosophies, probably regurgitated from some first-year classes at University.

  No one is right, this much I knew. Everything gets filtered through a point of view.

  My memory of having fun in the woods could be my brother’s nightmare of being dragged along doing something he hated. My feelings about my parents, even now thirty years later, could be wrong. Maybe they thought I was independent and nomadic and didn't want to be smothered.

  All true things.

  "Digging holes in the woods and fighting Z are not the same thing," I told him instead.

  "I've been doing okay so far," there was a tinge of sulking in his voice.

  It sounded a lot like me sometimes.

  That made me smile, which made the set of his lips harder, and his eyebrows crinkle up. I snorted more.

  "It's not funny."

  "I know Boy. I know. And I'm so proud of you. You have no idea. I know how hard it's been. I know what you've had to do, what you're going to keep having to do. You made it. Your sister made it. That gives me hope."

  "Hope for what Dad?" he pushed a branch further into the fire with the tip of his boot.

  "We're going to find T. And I'm going to take you somewhere that we never had to fight a Z again."

  "That's a pipe dream."

  He was too young to be so cynical. But then maybe I had been too. The bane of having children is that for years they believe every word you say until a hormone dump makes them think everything is a lie.

  It's why sixteen-year old’s know everything, and just forget as they grow older.

  I had been the same way. Part of that independence streak perhaps, or maybe the Boy got it from me, encoded in his DNA.

  "It's a promise."

  We sat and stared at the fire in silence, the crackle of the wood and pops of sap in the pine back the only sounds.

  “I’m going to check the perimeter,” I stood up.

  Bem stirred, but the Boy reached over and patted her leg and she drifted back to sleep.

  “You should sleep too. We’re moving out at sunrise.”

  He nodded and shifted down to the floor, careful that he didn
’t disturb his sister. I watched him close his eyes and felt another wave of sadness.

  It reminded me of something I had read a long time ago.

  A soldier grabs sleep when he can, and learns to sleep anywhere. The Boy was a solider now in the Z war. I’d learn about what they had done to survive, because I had a million questions. I could ask when we were on the water and it would help the miles go by faster.

  But I’d never tell them what I did, what I’d done.

  The Boy had seen some of it, and it changed the way he looked at me.

  I didn’t like it.

  The door was secured shut, and I walked around to peer through the windows.

  I glanced at the fence that surrounded the property, the view slightly distorted by the mismatched diamond patterns of the chain link outside and the security window stripes.

  The Z stood against the fence, unmoving, staring at us, or maybe the orange glow that flickered through the window.

  They didn’t moan, they didn’t shove, just stood in line and watched.

  It was a weird feeling that made chills do a dance up and down my spine.

  One of the Z looked like Jean.

  THE END

  Thank you for taking the time to read BATTLEFIELD Z – Zombie Blues Highway. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated. Thank you. Chris.

  BATTLEFIELD Z

  MARDI GRAS

  ZOMBIE

  By

  Chris Lowry

  Copyright @2017 Grand Ozarks Media

  All rights reserved

  Mardi Gras Zombie

  Waking up never felt so good. I rolled over on the blankets I had turned into a nest and stared at my two children sleeping back to back. The morning sun was lighting up the room and I watched their faces begin to form out of the shadows. Asleep they looked younger, less worried. Too thin, but then didn’t we all.

  There was only one thing missing.

  Number three, my youngest daughter. She was born with my second wife, and lived with her mother and stepfather in Florida. When the government announced the mandatory evacuation, they climbed into a car and drove north into the Carolinas.

  I stayed in Orlando in a sort of vapor lock.

  By the time, I decided to do something, like go find my children, I was torn.

  I still was. Maybe going to Arkansas first was a mistake?

  But then maybe had I gone to the Carolinas, it would have been an argument with her mother while my oldest daughter starved to death tied to a tower and my son was turned into a zombie waiting for her to come back.

  They were safe, the two with me.

  Luck had been on my side. It would stay with me when we went to look for T.

  Some might say luck was being cruel even if she was on my side. I had scars from my journey, and the fight yesterday with a couple of giant’s hell bent on me dying didn’t help.

  I wished for aspirin and morphine, and maybe a healing massage from Anna. Her tender ministrations had pulled me through worse.

  I watched the Boy’s eyes flicker open, and when they focused on me, he gave a tiny little grin.

  “You’re still here.”

  I nodded.

  I wanted to tell him always. But that hadn’t been the case while he was growing up. I was there once a month during the school year, for six weeks each summer and a week over winter break.

  Never enough time.

  I could blame work, or the second ex. But that just made me mad.

  They say if you want to control your life, take full responsibility for everything that happens in it. I said it. I repeated it. I wanted to live it. I just didn’t until after the Z apocalypse.

  My control now came from focus. I was going to find my kids and keep them safe. I was two thirds of the way there.

  And nothing was going to stop me from reaching one hundred percent.

  Bem stirred at his voice. I never called my kids by their real names, but nicknames based off their actuals. Bem was my fifteen-year-old. World wise and a lot like me, she looked just like her mother. Long brown hair braided in a plait down her back. Short, gymnast build. She was wicked smart and little miss popular at school.

  Had been.

  “I’m hungry,” she said in a low voice.

  “Trapped on a tower will do that to you Rapunzel.”

  She lifted on one elbow and dug in a pack with her other hand.

  “Beans,” she sighed.

  “Get used to it.”

  I took the can from her and opened it by twisting a metal opener. It was a heck of a lot easier than using the tip of a knife.

  “Cold beans,” she gagged.

  “No time for fire. We’re getting out of here.”

  I almost went over the plan with them, but they just nodded.

  “We were waiting for you,” said the Boy. “We almost thought you weren’t going to make it.”

  I ran a finger along the scar on my head.

  “Almost didn’t.”

  Someone tried to shoot me there and missed. Gave me a nice new part for my hairstyle.

  I divvied the beans up into three helpings that were little more than a couple of spoonful’s each. We had enough for dinner, but we were going to need to make a scavenger run again soon.

  CHAPTER TWO

  By soon I meant on the way to the marina. I had outlined a plan in my mind the day before and after spending the night thinking about it, it had solidified into action steps.

  I let the kids pack up a few things, blankets and was silently pleased when they put books into their packs.

  One of the things I was most proud of with all three was a love of reading, and even if their tastes skewed different from mine, at least they learned that by watching me.

  I added find a bookstore or library to our to do list at some point in the future once we settled somewhere. Rebuilding society wasn’t on my agenda, but staying entertained until someone else did was.

  We found a spot in the fence where the Z hadn’t clustered and took off at a fast walk up the street into the neighborhood. I didn’t want to make too much noise beating on the doors of houses, but we had to hunt for food to take with us.

  The first three houses had open doors, so we skipped them.

  The next two had red X’s painted on the windows.

  “What does that mean?”

  They both shrugged.

  “Gang stuff?” the boy offered.

  Gang stuff meant the guys we ran into yesterday or more like them. It also meant that they either claimed the houses or were warning people away.

  The kids followed me through the yard to one of the windows and I peeked in, but couldn’t see anything. I rapped on it with my knuckle, and a rotten hand smacked against the glass on the other side. An emaciated Z head peered over the window sill searching for the source of the noise.

  One of us squealed.

  In the retelling of the story, I said it was Bem.

  The Boy giggled as we walked away, but at least we had an answer to what the X meant. Though I think they should have marked it Z instead. It would have made more sense.

  The rest of the houses on the street were marked in a similar fashion. Open door or red X.

  “They didn’t harass you at the school?”

  “We had a couple of kids who lived in the neighborhood and went to the school with us,” Bem answered. “Maybe they kept us safe?”

  She still looked weak. The tiny dinner and miniscule breakfast hadn’t helped restore her depleted energy and I fought a momentary twinge of failure.

  It made me resolve to provide even more.

  I led the kids toward the river and to an apartment complex built a block or so back from the mini-mansions. The doors here were unmarked, which meant the gang hadn’t made it this far, or the places were already empty.

  We went to the top floor and started knocking on doors, and pressing our ears against th
em to listen for noise on the other side. Well-meaning relatives had locked some people in their homes in hopes of a cure, or others had locked themselves inside and died quietly before going Z.

  That had been my experience savaging so far in other parts of the country. I couldn’t see why Arkansas would be any different.

  It wasn’t.

  I head scratching behind mine, long drawn out strokes against the other side of the metal door. The boy shook his head. He heard the same thing. Bem moved from her door to the next, and that was answer enough.

  On the last door, we didn’t hear anything.

  I kicked in the doorknob and stood waiting, pistol drawn.

  Nothing came out of the dark interior.

  “Wait,” I said and stepped inside.

  The set up was simple. A galley kitchen just off the door, a half bar separating the dining living space that led to a balcony overlooking the river.

  The light from the door illuminated half the room, enough that I didn’t trip over anything as I made my way to the vertical blinds and pulled them, flooding the room with sunshine.

  Black leather couch in front of a sixty-inch television, small two-person table.

  “Shut the door,” I told the kids and they followed me in.

  I checked out the bedroom. Empty, as was the bathroom.

  “Check the clothes,” I told the boy. “See if anything fits.”

  He nodded and went shopping.

  “See if the bathroom has medicine, supplies. Take it all.”

  Bem followed him.

  I went into the kitchen and searched the cabinets.

  It wasn’t quite a jackpot but we had hit pay dirt in the form of Ramen noodles, macaroni and cheese boxes, and eight packages of spaghetti noodles and sauce. I stacked the haul out on the counter, dividing it up into meals and grinned.

  We had enough food for a week, almost all pasta.

  But pasta was good since it carried well. There were random cans of veggies, a bag of rice and a bottle of soy sauce.