by Lund, Dave
Something bumped his elbow as he slid along the corrugated metal wall. Ken looked at the offending small lump and saw the head of a sheet metal screw. Looking up and down the wall, he saw the seam between two corrugated sheets and the smalls screws that held them in place against a metal stud. Smiling, Ken opened a box in the bed of the truck and retrieved a small socket and ratchet set. After a couple of tries, the correctly sized socket was found and the sheet metal screws were being extracted one at a time. Ken was careful not to drop the screws, since he would end up driving over them and ruining a tire. About 10 minutes later, Ken had the wall peeled back and was making his way into the neighboring unit, which was full of old furniture and black trash bags of clothing. He rattled the latch; it was locked from the outside.
After a few moments trying to come up with a plan, Ken made his way to the next wall by clearing away some furniture and he began removing the screws holding that wall together. Two more walls and nearly 30 minutes later, Ken stood in an empty unit that had an unlocked roll-up door. Satisfied, Ken made his way back to his unit, retrieved his M1 rifle, and started the truck. Unconcerned about the exhaust building up in that unit, Ken made his way through the peeled back sheet metal walls to his exit. After listening for a few seconds at the door, Ken slid the latch open and lifted hard on the door. It rattled open with a loud bang, just as Ken stepped into the sunlight. A few seconds later, the M1 was empty with a distinctive ping sound of the empty ammo clip being ejected and four Zeds lay ruined on the ground in front of the metal door with his idling truck behind it.
Ken retrieved the spent ammo clip and put it in his pocket. Before he could leave, Ken dragged the bodies away from the front of his truck. He didn’t want to drive over one and accidentally damage a tire from one of the bones. Pointing north on Highway 75, Ken took the left turn on 164.He would have to cross under I-45, but once clear, he would be between I-35 and I-45 and still be able to drive to Waxahachie.
Worst case, Ken thought, I have to backtrack and take a different route. As long as I’m safe and smart about it all, I’ll get there.
Groom Lake
This was the second meeting of survivors in the cafeteria in as many days. The first spurred the second, except that this time a real warrior stood at the front of the crowd instead of a person who Aymond considered to have been a coward.
“Until President Lampton orders otherwise, this facility is under my command. If you are unwilling to accept that fact, then the stairs to leave is that way. I will not tolerate another coup attempt. I will not tolerate any action that places the lives of your fellow survivors at risk. Some of my men are still up top creating a network of fighting positions and earthen walls. Knowing what we know now about the PLA and Korean forces, they should have been built a long time ago, but they weren’t so we’re building them now. At first light tomorrow, we begin training to fight and defend our position from another attack. We fought them in San Diego, we fought them in Yuma, and we’ve fought them here. We have to assume that they will be back and with greater numbers.”
“Why don’t we just shut the front door and keep it locked?” someone from the crowd yelled to the front.
Aymond took a deep breath before answering. “What front door? The blast door was badly damaged in the last attack. If we’re going to keep the below ground secure, then we must keep the above ground secure too. I need a representative from each of the ‘towns’ of survivors to come to the front. They will bring the rest of the information and details back to your berths.”
The assembled crowd grumbled as people stood and began filtering out of the room. Aymond didn’t try to listen to the conversations; he gave some instructions to Kirk as he left the room. He needed to check the storage deck and see what sort of real supplies he had at his disposal.
CHAPTER 10
April 13, Year 1
Groom Lake
“Roger.”
Chivo didn’t have a radio, so he didn’t know what Aymond just replied to, but he guessed it was time to get topside; his taxi was arriving. Aymond confirmed Andrew had just touched down and was taxiing toward the destroyed hangar and what remained of the facility entrance.
Once topside, Chivo found company waiting for Andrew to pull to a stop. Someone in the facility had been tasked with providing fuel for Andrew, so two dirty red fuel cans sat at the edge of the hangar’s slab. Next to the fuel cans, Oreo sat patiently with his tail wagging until Andrew cut the motor and the prop lurched to a stop, then Oreo ran to Andrew.
Chivo had very little gear compared to what he could have taken after raiding the facility storage, with Aymond’s blessing. Going to an underground ICBM launch control facility to kill a real-life secret agent wasn’t the sort of mission profile that necessitated a comically large rifle that was over four feet long. It was the sort of mission profile that necessitated cunning and a close-quarters war-fighting kit. The kit was mostly worn on the carrier he wore, but the rest was in the small ruck that Chivo just tossed in the space behind his seat.
“Chico, do you mind? I need to go below to top off my water bottles, use the boy’s room, and grab a snack before we go.”
“No, mano, go ahead. I’ll just wait up here.”
Andrew smiled wearily and walked toward the entrance. Chivo smiled back seeing Oreo plod happily along next to his friend.
“Chico…huh.” Chivo turned and walked around the yellow aircraft. It was dirty and looked worn, lovingly worn and maintained, but used.
I’m not sure how long into society’s new future things like these will be able to survive and function.
A significant portion of Chivo’s military and paramilitary career could be described as “hurry up and wait.” The world had ended and yet here he was in full kit for a mission and waiting.
“No hay bronca,” Chivo said as he sat down on the tarmac under the shade of the wing.
About an hour later, Andrew and Oreo reappeared and walked toward the plane. After a hug goodbye, Oreo sat away from the plane while Andrew walked around it, climbed in, started the engine, and began taxiing toward the dry lakebed. A few moments later, they were airborne and flying north. Chivo guessed that the flight might take two days, but flying a few thousand feet off the ground at what felt like a walking speed, Chivo decided to update his guess to three or four days of flying.
“Captain, how long will it take us?”
Andrew smirked at being called captain. “Well, I’m not really sure. I didn’t have a chance to plot out a flight plan. I’m guessing three days, maybe two if we get good winds. Also,” Andrew yelled over the wind and engine noise, “just so you understand, I don’t know where this secret missile place is.”
“Not at all?”
“No, I mean, I know it’s in Montana and south of Great Falls, but we’re going to have to find it once we get there.”
Chivo quietly changed his guess from four to five.
Outside Buffalo, Texas
The topography sucked. He was downhill from the overpass, the sight distance was short, and if the Zeds had any sort of military bearing, then they would have easily spotted him and his truck. Ken shifted into reverse and gently guided the green truck backward. There was a church a few hundred yards behind him and the parking lot could give him a chance to figure out his next move. Ken wasn’t sure what that would be. He might have to simply be patient and wait, but he wasn’t sure if he would have to wait an hour or a month.
Some of the other survivors on the radio net had talked about massive herds of Zeds roaming from place to place, and he had seen some smaller groups in the initial weeks after the attack, but this was like nothing he had ever thought possible. The highway crossed under I-45 and that made things worse, at least it appeared worse to Ken. Besides the Zeds that trickled past on the access road, dozens and dozens of bodies fell over the side of the bridges as the writhing mass of corpses walked past above. Th
e whole sight sent chills down Ken’s back. It was possibly the scariest thing he had ever seen.
After backing into the driveway for the Baptist church, Ken realized he was much too close to the interstate to be safe. Ken shifted and drove pulled out of the driveway to go back toward Buffalo because at the very least there was a more manageable number of dead back the way he had come a few minutes before.
Once Ken reached Highway 75, he saw that the Zeds from the morning had mostly shambled off after whatever it was that caught their attention. He ran the stop sign that strangely survived thus far and still stood at the intersection and turned north. After a couple of minutes of driving, Ken slammed on the brakes. Through the trees, he could see a row of semi-truck trailers. The wheels were gone and the large box trailers sat on the ground forming a makeshift perimeter wall around what appeared to be the high school. Ken’s mind filled in “makeshift” as he tried to accurately describe it to himself, but that didn’t seem right. Improvised may be a better word because it appeared to have worked well. Dried blood and gore caked on the sides of the trailer-wall from what must have been a large group of Zeds gave testament to the wall’s functionality.
Maybe there are other people still alive in there!
Ken began rolling forward when his windshield shattered. The crack of a rifle followed quickly. Ken slammed his foot down, pinning the gas pedal to the floor. The truck roared in protest and lurched forward as another round impacted the b-pillar near his head.
Shit! What the actual fuck?
The back glass of the truck cab shattered with the impact of another round. Ken ducked below the view of the dash. Although the thin sheet metal offered no protection from rifle rounds, it somehow felt better than being visible. Ken didn’t hear any more rounds impact the truck and had miraculously kept the truck mostly on the road while fleeing. As quickly as everything had become exceptionally dangerous, Ken was clear of the attacker and alone in the countryside on an empty two-lane Texas highway. What few cars there had been were pushed into the fence lines and trees along the side of the road; they were badly damaged. After letting the truck settle into a safer speed, Ken decided that he would keep on until reaching Dew then see if I-45 was clear enough to cross, or maybe he could find one of the crossing roadways that goes over the interstate, but he couldn’t remember which roads crossed over or under the interstate.
Crystal Springs, Nevada
Jessie woke with a start. Her ankle throbbed painfully; the Advil found behind the counter did little to ease the pain of her badly swollen ankle. Dried tears left crust on the edges of her eyes, and the previous night had been horrible. She couldn’t believe how badly everything had gone in such a short time. Jessie no longer felt safe at Groom Lake—obviously after the uprising had tried to kill her and Bexar—where they were was unsustainable in the middle of the Nevada desert. The only extra supplies they had found was some of the different homemade jerky that the store sold.
Bexar was already awake, sitting up against the wall near the front door. He wore a silly souvenir T-shirt with a cartoon alien head on the front of it. Jessie had cried the entire time she checked him for bite marks. She was sure that after having her Bexar back, after losing her daughter, after losing Malachi, Jack, and Sarah, that she would then be left alone with a husband killed by the damn Zeds that she would have to shoot to save him from a death wandering the wasted world in which the now lived.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Bexar smiled at his wife.
“Hey, sexy.”
Bexar was filthy; dirt mixed with the dark, foul blood of the undead was still streaked across his face and arms. Jessie didn’t care. She wasn’t sure the last time that she had felt this in love.
“Baby, I need to pee.”
Bexar smiled as he got up to help his wife. Jessie couldn’t put any weight on her severely sprained ankle, and being a little off balance from the pregnancy didn’t help. Gingerly, Bexar helped his wife up and outside. The landing by the door was made of wood, like a backyard deck, and it had arm rails on each side before the steps and the turnoff for the wheelchair ramp. That would have to do for a woman who now was unable to support her weight and squat to relieve herself. After sliding her pants down, Bexar picked up Jessie and helped her to the top of the rail, her bare ass hanging off the side.
“You better not let a Zed bite me in the ass.”
Jessie steadied herself by holding onto Bexar and began laughing at the absurdity of their situation. If just six months ago someone would have described this scene to them, it would have sounded like a badly written novel; now they were living in one.
A handful of Zeds shambled in their direction from the highway, but it wasn’t worth Bexar firing on them. Over a hundred yards away, they weren’t an immediate threat yet and the rifle fire would attract even more. Bexar was amazed; the Zeds had a super-human ability to hone in on gunfire like no other. They may not get to the shooter very quickly, with their broken gait, but they would eventually get there. Then when more gathered together, even more arrived, like one of them sent the others a message about a happening party.
“That’s it,” Bexar said after helping Jessie off the rail and with her pants, pulling them up instead of down for once.
“What?”
“Aymond had that Zed bug zapper truck. If we had a few of those trucks and then were able to have a loud continuous sound, like an air raid siren to attract the dead, we could kill off huge numbers of the without having to fire a single shot.”
“Great, but how do we get more than one of those trucks?”
“I assume we could from the Koreans or the Chinese or whoever these fucks are.”
“Sure, you could walk up to the next group we find and just ask, ‘uh, excuse me, I know you attacked us and invaded our country and shit, but could we have some of your Zed-Zapper trucks?’ Yeah, I’m convinced that they would go for it.”
“You know you can be a real bitch sometimes.”
“And you still love me in spite of it.”
“Maybe I love you because of it?”
Jessie had her arm around Bexar’s shoulder so he could help carry her back inside as she hopped along with her one good leg. He smiled when she kissed him on his dirty cheek.
“Well, I’m sure that Aymond and President Amanda can figure that out. For now, we need to either get on the road to St. George or we need to prep to stay here longer.”
“I’m not sure I could handle riding in the FJ very far. But more importantly, I know that I couldn’t fight for shit like this.”
Bexar helped Jessie lay down on the floor and slid an empty box under her swollen ankle to keep it elevated.
“OK, I’m going to hide the FJ and drag the Zeds we killed out of view. I’ll probably have to drop the other Zeds out on the road before they start giving us problems over here. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Bexar knelt and kissed Jessie on the forehead before walking out the door.
The Zeds were shambling closer, following the last movement they had seen disappear into the lone building in the area. Now only about 25 yards from the building, Bexar still didn’t want to use his rifle if at all possible. He took out his heavy custom CM Forge blade and walked toward the closest Zed. The knife had survived through a number of situations in which Bexar should have been killed and he was thankful to still have it. As heavy as it was to carry, its functionality in the post-apocalyptic world had been proven time and time again. It was worth the weight.
Getting closer, Bexar picked up his pace from a walk to a trot, closing the distance to the first Zed. Bexar kicked hard like he was kicking open the door to a crack house and plunged his knife into the bridge of the nose of the Zed he had knocked to the ground. Rocking the knife, he pulled it free, leaving a gaping, ragged hole where the heavy blade had ruined the undead’s face and skull. Bexar stood and rotated, plunging the knife into the te
mple of the next Zed, this one falling with his knife planted firmly in the skull, ripping the butt of the knife out of his grip. Bexar turned, drawing his pistol, and shot the next Zed in the face, which was a few yards away. The back of its skull exploded outward as it crumpled to the dusty parking lot. The next Zed’s jaw was missing, torn from its face sometime before. Unable to bite, Bexar still didn’t trust that it couldn’t hurt him and that Zed was shot in the skull.
Before holstering, Bexar tucked his pistol into the SUL position and turned in place, scanning the area for any more threats. Satisfied he was alone for the moment, Bexar retrieved his knife, wiped the putrid-smelling, pus-filled blood off the blade on what remained of the Zed’s jeans before holstering the knife. With a heavy sigh, Bexar grabbed the arms of one of the Zeds and dragged it toward the large sign on the property. The sign was like a homemade billboard that he had seen in old movies. It wasn’t elevated, but was more like a wooden wall erected in the middle of the parking lot and then painted for advertising. It would be a convenient place to hide bodies.
