‘They were broken anyway. Andrew and I found something way sketchier. Down by cache three, there is a crashed car, still smoking. The driver seemed to have succumbed to infection as he drove. What is strange is that he was splayed out neatly outside the car, head smashed.’
The other survivor whistled, impressed. ‘Seems we have a lone wolf out here, let’s just hope he doesn’t cross the Children. I wouldn’t like to kill someone who could be used to stem infected.’
There was silence, where Peter assumed they nodded agreement.
‘Anyway, we need to get back to the Grove. Sighted were quiet tonight, but they may very well decide to block our way this dawn.’
‘Then let’s move,’ a third voice stated, Peter assumed it belonged to Andrew.
Peter could hear the group move as boot shod feet trod on concrete and then subsided as they moved onward.
Once he could no longer hear them, he went to retrieve his belongings - thinking about the conversation.
It seems his actions had been noticed. He obviously hadn’t meant to hurt anyone; he had honestly believed he was the only person left. The three survivors didn’t sound angry, however. If anything, they sounded impressed. They also spoke of a place called ‘the Grove’. Peter recognized the name as a school in the Southern Suburbs. He had been past it once or twice and now that he thought about it, if someone could secure a few of the weaker points, it would become akin to a fortress.
There was almost no doubt that it had become a holdout, a haven for survivors…and people. He felt uncomfortable thinking about the last part. He had so enjoyed the last two weeks, not having to deal with anyone. But he also did know that he did know that he could not sustain this lifestyle.
Humans, even if a few of them didn’t like it, were pack animals. They survived because they worked together. Peter may have managed to live his old life alone and self-sufficiently, but he had to get it into his head that this was a new world. He would have to adapt as such.
‘So, what are you waiting for?’ he asked himself. He stopped his slow packing. What was he waiting for? Then he answered. ‘It’s just that…everything I have done in my life; I did by myself. Whenever I worked with someone, it always fell apart. Friends are baggage, heavy unnecessary baggage. They may be fun for a while, but all that can result from them is loss. Not even my family…they weren’t around for me.’
There was silence, where he didn’t even answer himself. Then it was broken.
‘No one is telling you to make friends; all we need is a source of food and some strong walls. Do you really think you can live on rooftops forever?’
He had a point and Peter always gave himself credence for his own points. He may have hated people, but if there were two things he hated more, it was starvation and zombies.
Peter had packed up properly after that. The utility ladder had thankfully been oiled, and didn’t make too much noise when he lowered it. He had followed the group after that, but had never managed to get close enough to actually group up with them. Part of him honestly didn’t want to. Not only because he generally just didn’t like people, but also, because he still had suspicions about the group. He had never been one to rush into things, and would prefer to observe this holdout unknown before he attempted to join it.
For all he knew, these survivors could be blood thirsty rapists and criminals. He didn’t want to make the mistake of not making sure.
Part of him did hope that they weren’t evil. On observation, Peter could see that they were way more skilled and better equipped than he. Each wore a blue or khaki vest of sorts, lined with pockets. Peter had seen similar stuff worn by police, soldiers or in games. They also wore doctor’s masks and goggles, something he sorely needed if he was to keep the zombie blood out of his orifices. He had been lucky at Cavendish, but he couldn’t guarantee that he would be lucky again. His own attacks upon zombies could be as dangerous as their attacks upon him.
Last, but not least, one of the survivors was carrying a shotgun – the traditional zombie killer. After seeing that, Peter realised that he would have to at least try to get involved with this holdout. The question was: would they accept him?
These were the thoughts that clouded his mind as he followed the group. He knew that he had to do something in his day, and scavenging aimlessly was not something he desired, nor was it at all practical.
As he wordlessly tailed the group, he found himself growing impressed by his own skill at keeping quiet and unnoticed. It seemed that trying to keep as unknown as possible before Z-Day really helped one’s stealth skills. The group ahead of him was just a bit louder, but that was probably due to there being more of them.
They had reached an intersection, taking a few detours to avoid a group of blind zombies. It hadn’t taken them too out of the way, but it was still an inconvenience.
The intersection and roads connecting to it was filled with cars, burnt barrels and emptied shells. The burnt out husk of an armoured car could be seen near the pavement. Peter noticed how the cars seemed to be arranged in such a fashion that they could be used as cover. The armoured car blocked a small bit of the one street, while cars had been parked deliberately to allow whoever was inside the circle a little bit of safety.
As the group moved into the circle, he saw something wrong. He just couldn’t quite place his finger on what that wrong thing really was. And then he figured it out as one of the survivors bumped into a damaged Toyota. The seemingly dead car was not out of power, and it seemed someone had set an alarm on it. The sirens started blaring and the group looked shocked. They spared the car a glance until the leader shouted, ‘Sighted incoming!’
And the man was right. Even from his hiding place, Peter could hear the hisses and phlegm-filled roars as hordes of infected heard their breakfast. Blood-stained people of all ages, races and appearance started pouring into the streets. Their eyes were ruby red and they snarled as they ran towards the survivors.
As the first, a clean shaven man wearing a business suit, reached the cars, he was soon dispatched by the shotgun-wielding survivor. The other pulled out a pistol and began firing on the zombies which came too close for comfort. The last used a metal baseball bat to fend off zombies which tried to attack the shot gunner.
Peter just watched. More zombies came, but the efficiency of the group kept them alive. He had found himself drawing closer and closer, out of reach of the zombies.
It was when he was barely ten metres away, hidden behind a half wall on a veranda, that he saw the hole in the survivor’s defences. They had been focusing too much on defending from the major threats, but had not had sufficient men to defend from the rear, the armoured car. Due to that, a blood-stained infected wielding a pipe had now mounted the roof of the burnt vehicle and was preparing to leap onto the unsuspecting group.
Peter didn’t think twice before drawing his pistol and firing. He had never fired one of these before, but he knew the gist of it. He released the safety, lined up the crosshairs and pulled the trigger. A second later, the zombie fell. He turned his sights onto another zombie, and fired. Now that he had started, he didn’t want to stop. He fired until his magazine was empty. He had missed a few, but most that he had aimed for had died soon after.
The zombie horde gradually thinned, till Peter realized that he had at first severely overestimated the group. Now only three zombies remained, and they were made short work of by a bat and the stock of the shotgun.
After all, had gone quiet, and all threats had been silenced, the group turned to him. Peter suddenly started regretting his decision to help, but he could do nothing about it now. He holstered his pistol as a sign of good will and went forward. The survivors lowered their weapons, and one even smiled.
The pistol wielder was the first to speak. He advanced as Peter did and offered his hand. Peter reluctantly shook it; he hated human contact.
‘Greetings, stranger, I am Knight Captain David DeWit of the Knighthood of the Grove. May I ask your name and the
holdout you hail from?’
Peter was taken aback by the formality and the titles, but answered.
‘Peter Swart…of Rondebosch.’
David frowned. ‘They actually survived up there? All reports said the Red Zone had boiled over, engulfing it.’
‘I wouldn’t know. Last time I was there was the morning of the 15th.’
‘Ah, that was a tough day - for all of us.’
Peter nodded hesitantly. David seemed content to continue.
‘I assume that you have been holing yourself up in Claremont this time. No matter, if you’ve survived this long, you got some real iron.’
Peter didn’t know if to thank him for the compliment or keep quiet. Lucky for him, David decided for him.
‘But forgive my rudeness. We should introduce ourselves properly. I have already said my name and title, but here are my companions. The one on the left is Andrew Small, a Squire of the Knighthood. The shot gunner is named Sesikweni Songo, he is a Knight.’
Peter didn’t answer, he didn’t see how to. David, once again, avoided an awkward silence and went on.
‘You no doubt saved us here, and that means that we are in your debt. Must be hard surviving on your own out here, even with your skills…would you be interested in joining the Knighthood?’
The question had come suddenly and all Peter could stammer out was a small, ‘Yes, please.’
That seemed good enough for them, and they set off down the avenue, leaving the carnage behind them. Peter turned back one last time and thought he could see something strange, a glint of glass far off down the opposite road. He dismissed those thoughts, as it was probably just glass. Even if it was a problem, it wasn’t his anymore. Like people or not, he now had these people’s protection. He was glad for that, even if they were people.
7. Holdout
It wasn’t long before the group arrived at the wall of the holdout. It had been a long time since Peter had been there, but he could easily spot the difference. The one easily scalable wall had been raised by scrap metal and mesh fencing, spikes crafted of scrap metal had been placed facing outwards to hopefully impale any wandering blind zombies. Peter doubted that they would do much to deter Sighted.
Near the corner wall was one of the buildings on the campus and, built atop, was a deck, where two men sat, one with a rifle and one keeping watch with a pair of binoculars. They waved to the group and gave Peter a few odd looks before going back to their task.
They stood at a four-way intersection, two roads leading past the school campus. They took the one to the right.
Trees flanked either side of the street, making it an avenue. Under different circumstances, Peter noted that he may have enjoyed the sight of the old wood, but right now he didn’t really care. To him, the trees just blotted out the sun and left a foreboding shadow.
The group walked slowly and grimly. He could see why. Signs of violence and death were much more prevalent here than further down the suburb. Much fresher, in fact. If one was rushing past, they would easily miss the signs, but at their pace, Peter could effortlessly see the bright red splatter upon a wall, or a body crushed under a car. Even a few corpses were displayed further down the streets. He raised his eyebrow at that. He was sure that zombies would not let a meal go to waste or the survivors would at least clear the corpses.
Andrew saw his expression and commented, ‘Booby-traps, we stick grenades under them so Sighted’ll get a nasty surprise at dinner. Also acts as a warning of sorts. If we hear a boom, we know they’re coming.’
Peter nodded. Appreciating the answer but feeling irritated that he needed another person to state it.
The street wasn’t long and it was only a few minutes later when they arrived at an iron bar gate, the metal from the front of a car being utilised to secure it and block out the view from the other side. The entire fence had been secured with similar material, and Peter found himself growing more and more thankful that he had found such a haven – he just hoped they had food.
The group waited at the door without knocking or raising any sort of alarm.
Seeing Peter’s impatience, David spoke, ‘The watchmen from earlier will be sending word to the gatekeeper. We can’t risk making any noise.’
As if the words had been a passphrase, the gate was opened soon after a small eye hole was opened and closed. The gate released slowly, probably due to a multitude of blocking mechanisms on the other side. Once it opened far enough for at least one person to enter, David took the lead. Andrew followed and Sesikweni indicated for Peter to go next.
He wasn’t concentrating as he entered, but he was awoken from his conscious doze quite unpleasantly as he was met with the barrel of a rifle levelled straight at his head.
David looked angry and Andrew looked distressed. Sesikweni looked surprised as he entered but then his expression changed to one of irritation.
The man holding the rifle was filthy. He wore a dirty brown jacket and beanie - assorted food-stuffs had managed to store themselves within his grotesquely unkempt beard.
‘Bruno! Let me fucking explain before you go blasting the poor bastard’s head off!’
Bruno inclined his head to the side and spat scathingly.
‘You’re too fucking trusting, David. This here boy may be our undoing! Better I shoot him now and save you the trouble of telling the Grandmaster how you infected the Knighthood!’
Peter kept his mouth shut. He had never been one to talk idly, but he shamefully felt this was more out of fear than a lack of desire. He could even feel a bead of sweat, chilled by the morning air, falling down his cheek, disappearing off his chin to hit the ground in silence.
‘You never give anyone a single chance; do you, ‘Porter’?’ David spat out the title, reminding Bruno that he was lower than him. ‘You’ve shot five potential knights since the Fall and most people have let it slide! I owe a favour to Peter here, and will not let you force me to renege on that deal.’
The courtyard went silent, but Bruno still had his rifle aimed at Peter’s head. David finally spoke, his hands now on his hips as if he was scolding a child.
‘If I didn’t make myself clear, Porter: l-o-w-e-r your gun!’
Bruno gave Peter a harsh look, but then did as David had asked. Peter couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief.
The scruffy Porter gave one final look to both Peter and David and then trod off. A crowd of armed men and woman had formed, but were now dispersing.
David shook his head as Bruno finally disappeared around the corner of one of the buildings.
‘I hope your welcome wasn’t too unpleasant. Bruno there means well, but this predicament has been hard on him. Hell, it’s been hard on all of us.’
‘No problem, having a rifle pointed at your cranium is always a pleasant experience,’ Peter replied snidely, while Danny ignored the remark.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Knight Captain, Bruno has stepped way out of line,’ Andrew remarked, to which Peter felt himself nodding slowly in agreement.
‘The Porter may have been able to hide behind the excuse of positive intent all this time, but if I was you, I would report him to the Grandmaster. He cannot be allowed to carry on like this!’ Sesikweni announced as if the event had been personal. For all Peter knew, Bruno could have been responsible for much more than just this little hold up.
David had his eyes closed, deep in thought. The others went quiet, but Peter noted that Andrew had begun to start tapping his foot as if impatient.
Finally, the Knight Captain emerged from his daze and spoke.
‘You all have a point. But by Order law, the victim chooses the punishment.’
He turned to Peter. ‘You were the one wronged. What say you?’
Startled, he racked his brain for an answer. He realized that David was consulting him on what to do about Bruno, but he didn’t really know how to react. Besides the fact that he didn’t know the general punishment for the somewhat rude greeting, he was disconcerted at being
asked at all. No one cared about his opinion and never went as far as even to ask for it.
David looked concerned at Peter’s lack of a response.
‘Well, you don’t need to decide anything now. We should go see the Grandmaster.’
The group ceased their calculating stares and followed David as he turned and entered one of the entrances of the old school building.
Peter followed after they had all turned away from him. He was slightly embarrassed at his lack of reaction. This had always been a problem in social situations. He could never find the right words or correct things to do in conversation, and when he was engaged by another, he tended to just freeze on the spot. He knew he would have to get over that if he was to survive. Peter clenched his fist hard, his nails biting into his palm, as he tried to steel himself against his worst fear – that he may very well have to live with these people.
He didn’t only ponder his coy behaviour while walking as, on the way, he noted how the inside of the school had practically been converted into a village. Classrooms were utilised as barracks or workshops, larger rooms had been divided into smaller rooms for ‘more important’ residents and the hall had been turned into a staging area. It looked like this place could work as a self-sustaining settlement, if only they had a source of food.
They passed people along the way of all ages, races and classes. A few children played - an inappropriate action in these circumstances. These people gave him curious looks, and no few scathing ones at that. A group of children ran past them, almost bumping an old man who was sharpening what looked to be a kitchen knife attached to a long stick. David caught one of them by the back of his shirt and stopped him dead in his tracks.
The boy faced him and David smiled. ‘How about a greeting for your dad?’
The blonde haired boy, who had seemingly not noticed his father before, grinned half-heartedly and gave him a hug. Appeased, David let him continue the raucous game down the hallway.
Cape Zero- the Fall Page 4
