by John Ringo
Enough infected fell from the dam roadway or tumbled into the lake upstream to ensure that the supply of dead bodies was refreshed, despite the scavenging ranks of infected that patrolled the riverbank in full view of the concrete observation platform that jutted out from the shore-side lockhouse. One infected, weakened by hunger, was trying to crawl out of the water while fending off another, more powerful zombie who was drawn by the splash.
“I’d say, ‘eww’—” Brandy Bolgeo replied, “but watching a zombie drown doesn’t even make my gross-a-meter twitch anymore.”
Each dam along the river included a large canal lock that could be flooded or pumped out to raise and lower river traffic, such as barges and tugs. Before the Fall, this arrangement connected the Tennessee River westwards to the Ohio and Mississippi, and southwards directly to Alabama and the Gulf of Mexico. Even though river traffic had fallen precipitously during the economic slowdown, each canal lock still had accumulations of barge trains and tugs that had been stranded when the lock system ceased operations.
The long expanse of visible shoreline was dotted with moving shapes, all of them infected, who searched the riverbank for food. In front of their vantage point, the hale zombie first pulled its weakened cousin from the water, and then attacked from behind, burying its teeth in the soft flesh of the neck. The matted beard of the attacking infected suddenly ran with dark red blood.
“Yep, but just when you think it’s over,” Stantz said with the merest hint of humor, “they step it up a notch.”
“Is it…um?” asked his teammate.
“Dinner and a date, apparently,” Mike said as he implacably observed the grotesque scene. “Happens.”
Below, the feeding infected was simultaneously attempting to copulate with its prey. Biological incompatibility didn’t appear to be an inhibitor.
“Ugh,” Brandy said. “I wish we could just shoot them all.”
“Not enough bullets in the world,” Mike said, turning away. “We had thousands of rounds of ammunition, sure. We used most of it just clearing the small part of Spring City that we held on to, never mind trying to clear the dam or any of that.”
He pointed towards the cooling towers of the nearby Watts Bar nuclear generating plant. The wispy white condensate that used to hover over the towers was missing. Quiescent, the towers were a mute reminder of the power of the Fallen civilization.
“Do you think anyone is still alive in there?” Brandy followed his glance.
“Maybe,” mused Mike. “There hasn’t been external communications in months. The diesels went quiet almost two months ago. There hasn’t been a catastrophic nuclear accident or, believe me, we would have known it by now. We didn’t see anyone on our last foray into their equipment yard for that rough terrain crane. No one has come out, and the grounds are crawling. But they lasted long enough to do their job and shut it all down.”
The Watts Bar and nearby Soddy Daisy nuclear plants had been part of an extensive power generation infrastructure along the Tennessee Valley. As far as they could tell, the dam that they protected was the only remaining operating plant within any knowable distance.
“No, the nuke plant is fine, it’s the dam I worry about,” he continued, fretting. “The maintenance is going undone because we can’t get to the parts that need attention.”
He looked at the dam lock, which in normal times was used to raise or lower barge traffic between the upper lake and the river below the dam. The lock motors had seized during the confusion surrounding the early Fall. That same confusion had damaged a lot of the exterior bits of infrastructure, like the crane that adjusted the critical trash racks. Large coarse screens that fit into grooves along the upper side of the generator house, the racks kept oversized logs and well, trash, from entering the dam intakes and damaging or worse, fouling the turbines themselves.
“I can live with a dinged turbine blade,” he said, gesturing angrily. “But a fouled assembly means burning out the windings and rotors. They’re the heart of the dam. If we lose those, there’s no point.”
Brandy followed his gestures, pensively cupping her chin and calculating the risks, as best she could.
Zombies didn’t swim, or least wouldn’t swim very far. Corpses had begun to accumulate in the raft of debris along the upstream face of the dam. Occasionally, one of the mostly naked, bloated corpses would sink. At flood, a turbine drank in sixty thousand gallons of water a second. And there were five of them, although only two were at risk. When each corpse hit the turbine it was moving at thirty miles an hour. The turbines that spun the mighty generator would burp a dirty cloud of offal into the spillway downstream, gladdening the migratory seabirds that had previously relied on a less frequent diet of small fish.
“So far, so good, right?” she finally asked. “The deaders are mostly naked and the turbines haven’t even hiccupped.”
“For now,” Stantz replied darkly. “Not forever. Come the rainy season, were going to get a lot more debris, and the turbines can’t digest a tree.”
“I can’t believe how many infected there are,” Bolgeo said, wondering aloud to distract Stantz from something that they couldn’t chance. “And we’re only seeing a fraction of the horde.”
“They’re filtering in along the shore from the metro area,” Mike replied, referring to nearby Chattanooga. “We are effing lucky that it’s nearly sixty miles away or we would’ve been overrun in the first few days.”
“We’re damned lucky that you started getting us all organized when you did, or no one would have lived this long,” Brandy replied. “The power has kept us alive. It’s the only thing that made it possible.”
Stantz had used his authority and remaining staff to isolate and reinforce the dam’s critical components, including a small landing area that they used to beach their boats. Roads remained impassable, but Spring City was a brief boat drive away.
Much farther downstream, the fall of Chattanooga had finally been precipitated by a sudden mass of refugees pouring along the I-24 from Nashville. Overnight the infection rate had shot through the roof. Hardy communities east and south tried to block roads with varying degrees of success. Stantz’s early preparations had paid off tremendously. Key among them had been cutting State Route 27, the principal road from Chattanooga into the immediate area of the nuke and hydro plants.
“Such of us as are left,” Mike said grimly. “We lost two more Springers yesterday. Old lady Johnson insisted on feeding her ‘family’ and she fell off the container wall into the infected. Jimmy leaned too far trying to save her and was snatched off.”
“What was she thinking!” exclaimed Brandy. “Just…damn it.”
Almost ten percent of the people who contracted H7D3 pulled all the way through without turning. Mrs. Johnson had been one of the few older people in nearby Spring City who had weathered the virus’s flu symptoms. Many of her extended family had lived as well, but as mindless carnivores who prowled the edges of the wall formed by shipping containers that Stantz’s crew had emplaced during the early, desperate days of the Fall. Behind the barrier sheltered a small oasis on the edge of Spring City. Extending to the lake shore, it ensured that Mike and his few remaining technicians could commute by boat to check on the dam and the power house. By traveling after dark, they minimized the number of infected attracted by movement.
“She was thinking that she needed to take care of her people,” Mike said, shaking his head. “And even though she died doing it, you can bet that someone will continue the practice. Christian charity, etc.”
“There are still enough of us to protect the plant, the switching yard, the town and keep us fed,” Brandy said flatly. “But not if we keep losing people. How long do we hold on? And what if the number of zombies goes up?”
It really wasn’t a question, but Stantz answered anyway.
“We hold for as long as it takes,” Mike said, scanning the area again. He ignored the growling and wet tearing sounds originating in the disgusting scene right in front of
them. “As long as we have to. And I’ve got some ideas.”
Downstream the water was briefly stained an unnatural color and the terns rose into the sky again, screeching happily.
* * *
Paul Rune picked his way through the local high school, scavenging for Kohn’s prioritized items. The heat and insects had already had their way with the people that had died inside, so the smell wasn’t too bad. He carefully didn’t examine the classrooms other than to ensure that none held live infected. Though the school had been evacuated well before the Fall there were plenty of human remains, and they were somehow especially eerie in a school setting. Behind him, his wingman lagged, though he held his pike at the high ready, blade angled up and ferrule nearly dragging on the blue tiled floor.
“Jackson, move up,” Paul ordered the townie in a low tone of voice. “All we need on this sweep is to confirm there aren’t any infected and see if we can locate the school dispensary.”
“This place gives me the creeps,” mumbled Jackson. “I had a nephew that used to go to school here. Haven’t seen him since.”
“I’ll say I’m sorry for your loss later, when I mean it,” replied Paul in a very soft tone. “Just now I am a little too focused to give a shit. And you should be too.”
The former intel analyst scanned the hallway and held up one hand.
“Okay, hold up.”
He slowly eased forward to look left and right at the hallway intersection. The one-story school appeared deserted, but they had deliberately avoided making noise in order to conduct the recon without stirring a large number of infected. It was still even money on whether or not they might hit a nest.
Survivors and foragers had both reported that infected would tend to group up in shelters and appear to doze, perhaps saving energy. So far, there wasn’t much understanding on the how or the why.
“I don’t get why we’re looking through a school?” said Jackson, complaining. “We don’t need school supplies.”
“Were you asleep in the briefi—never mind,” Paul said, biting back his frustration. It was up to him to teach these handless cows how to fight and survive. Damnit, Smith should have been here by now. He would’ve organized this mob in a day. Paul stopped moving and let the second man catch all the way up to him.
“Keeping your voice down doesn’t mean whispering like you are in a theater,” Paul said, speaking softly in order to illustrate his point. “Just use a very low volume and pitch so that your voice doesn’t carry. Now the point of our jaunt into this little corner of heaven is to locate and recover medical supplies, so the school dispensary is a target. Second, this place has a shop class, so we can identify tools for a later sweep. Third, we are looking for paper maps of the surrounding area. Lastly, we are checking for survivors and measuring the density of infected.”
“And another thing, fuck this spear shit,” his wingman said, persisting. “We have guns, why are we using freaking spears?”
“We don’t have unlimited ammunition and guns are loud. Loud equals zombies. Like your voice. Now shut it.”
So far, they hadn’t found a thing, including any infected. Paul was feeling pretty relieved.
Naturally, that meant that it was time for a zombie.
A bank of open wall lockers and trash broke up the infected’s profile, so Paul almost missed the first stirrings as it turned its head, spotting him.
This one must have been a football player. The tall, long-haired male was gaunt, but huge muscles still padded its shoulders and arms.
“Pikes!” Paul ordered, taking three long steps forward. He used the momentum of his charge to bury his spear in the infected’s throat, socketing the weapon all the way up to the crossbar, fully eighteen inches past the needle sharp tip.
The zombie didn’t get out more than the beginning of a querulous growl before it choked on its own blood and dropped, clawing at the pike shaft.
“Whataya waiting for?” Paul asked forcefully as he kept his weight on the infected, pinning it to the floor. “Put your pike into the head and finish it!”
Even as the townie moved up, Paul heard another growl, this time from a classroom a door down.
Lovely.
* * *
From the bench seat, Risky could see the back of Tom’s head.
She’d spent the day during the flight from the disastrous reconnaissance with her arms around the newest addition to their group. She’d finally persuaded the girl to share her name: Elpis Ambrosio—Elf for short. The grade-schooler had sobbed quietly into Risky’s ribs, her face pressed into the rough Cordura fabric of the older woman’s plate carrier. Eventually Elf fell asleep and, rather than risk waking her, Risky held still, braced against the inside of the car door. She carefully avoided looking at the rear view mirror, avoiding any eye contact with Tom.
She felt as though her heart had been torn to pieces.
It ached for the little girl’s fear and pain, which resonated with Risky. The refugee had obviously lost her family. She’d been traumatized by her capture, however brief. Finally, she was thrown among strangers. Risky could empathize, understanding precisely what Elf felt as only another survivor could.
Risky was grateful for the temporary preoccupation of caring for the girl, because it distracted her from the second stab to her heart. The onetime mobster’s moll had bonded with Durante strongly, as only comrades who’d shared danger could. His patience, his counsel and his obvious allegiance to Tom made the loss of Durante hurt all the more.
Durante had been special.
Perhaps most of all, her heart broke when she remembered the look in Tom Smith’s eyes when she’d pointed out the inevitable, that they had to leave Durante behind. And she knew that Tom blamed her for the fight. From their first meeting she’d acknowledged his attractiveness. In the months since, she had come to see Tom as a paladin who was holding firm to his oath of allegiance, heedless of cost and alternatives, well past the point that any reasonable person would persist. That quality had saved them all.
She didn’t just want him, she respected him. Knowing that he felt her responsible for Durante was an intense, painful ache. Acknowledging that he was right doubled it.
Still, she knew that her decision to save the girl was the right one. There hadn’t been any good decisions available. Durante himself had said that the best definition for combat was a fight where one could do everything right and still die.
The enemy always got a vote.
Risky knew that as their world fell ever deeper under the assault of the virus Tom would continue to honor his word. He would put his promise to his former employer foremost, even if there was no more bank left to rescue. Risky knew, knew deep inside, that saving something that didn’t really exist any longer wasn’t the answer.
Maybe there was an alternative, something that else that Smith could consider worthy of his oath. Maybe.
Outside, the ruined countryside flowed past, a repeating loop of fire-blackened buildings, tangles of ruined vehicles and the occasional infected lurching into view before disappearing into the distance, behind them.
And now she knew that there were even worse monsters just out of sight, for now.
Though it cost her any chance to reach him, she knew that she could never, would never leave a child to the beast that they had slain in the first exchange of fire. A world where that transaction was satisfactory wasn’t any world that Risky wanted to live in.
The dying light that filtered through the pines flickered on the inside of her window. She looked ahead, at the reflection of Tom in the driver side window. The mirror image of his face rapidly alternated between shadow and light.
* * *
The depleted two-vehicle convoy pressed on for a few hours, passengers and drivers alike anxiously scanning for signs of pursuit. As the shadows lengthened over the road, she watched Tom reach for the handheld radio to warn Kaplan that they were going to pull over for a map check, make repairs and prepare for the next leg of driving.
&
nbsp; They found a truckers’ rest area that was sparsely populated by a few burned out vehicles, including the skeleton of one that had been driven into the restroom building, burning it too. The driver was still in his seat, but no one commented on it, or seemed particularly disturbed.
While Smith awaited full dark, the group set security, quietly ate and replaced damaged tires. Risky watched Tom and Kaplan don peculiar cranials that vaguely resembled bicycle helmets. Once they snapped the night vision devices onto a clip, each swung the electronic devices upwards and Tom circled the group up for a quick brief.
“There isn’t any point in waiting here for that group to pursue,” Smith announced. “The risk of driving at night is outweighed by our need to completely break contact. Once we pass a few more major interchanges any pursuer will have difficulty guessing at our direction of travel.”
“How far to the next place we can stop?” asked Dina petulantly.
“Pre-Fall, I woulda said that it’s an hour, maybe two till we reach the next SAFE,” Smith said patiently. “Now? A day? Day and a half?”
“This is such bullshit,” the schoolteacher said, folding her arms across her chest.
“You want to stay here?” Emily offered. “The men we fought were collecting camp followers, like an old-fashioned army. Despite your age, you might qualify.”
“Savage!” chirped the short soldier, holding a fist bump out to Emily, who stared at it, nonplussed.
“Oh, you bitch!” said Dina Bua, her hands balling into fists. “You did not just—”
“Aaaand you two are riding in separate cars from now on.” Smith sighed. “Astroga, you got Bua. Emily, you and the kids are in the back of my vehicle. We’re going to be really squeezed together for the next day or so, so we’ll have to work at getting along.”
