1.
Jack Harper winced as the truck bounced over the gravel of the breakdown lane, swerving to avoid the sign lying across the road welcoming him to Monroe county. The RG&E truck that had knocked it over lay on it’s side. Jack could see movement through the windshield, But the dried bloodstains on the glass told him it’s occupants were beyond help.
The driver, Keith Bauer, slide open the window separating the cab from the cargo area; “Almost there man, ‘bout fifteen more minutes”
“thank God, ” Jack groaned, stiffly shifting his weight to his other buttock, “my ass is beginning to feel like raw hamburger.”
“ah man, don’t mention hamburgers, all I have in my tank is another one of those damn MREs. They better have a stocked grocery store up here somewhere, that’s all I can say.”
There was a collective moan from the dozen or so men and women in the back of the stake-body Chevy as they stretched and shifted, attempting to work five hours of bumpy road on a plank floor out of their muscles. Before the infection eight months ago they had been mailmen, secretaries, telemarketers, week day commuters; now they all bore the faces of hardened soldiers. Watching your loved ones die, then get up and try to eat you will do that to a person, in jack’s opinion. His thoughts went briefly to his daughter before he could shut them out. There was a time and place for grief and mourning. This wasn’t it.
The truck drove under a large banner still hanging by it’s nylon cords from an overpass, advising Jack to change his smoke detector batteries when he set his clocks back. Even after eight months, he marveled at how fast things had gone downhill.
When the attacks first started, they were passed off as random acts of violence. As the incidents grew in number, the CDC released a statement that so called “crazed attackers” may be victims a form of virus. Experiments were conducted, men in white lab coats scribbled on clipboards, moved things from one test tube to another, and finally surmised that it was indeed a virus, one that targets the frontal lobe of the brain. One with a one hundred percent fatality rate.
By the time the nature of the virus was determined, that it brought it’s victims back from the dead as murderous cannibals, there were five walking corpses for every living human left on earth. The last thing jack remembered ever seeing on television was a haggard looking Anderson Cooper informing the nation that the only way to stop one of the infected was to sever the head or destroy the brain. That had been September fourteenth.
Keith pulled the truck to the side of the road as the first signs of civilization began to appear, about a quarter mile up the road. Jack stood up, grunting as his bones protested the movement with loud pops and creaks. He checked over his weapon, a Romanian WASR 10 AK-47, chambered for a 7.62 x 39 cartridge. His before the infection, though now modified to fully automatic. He also carried a Glock 17 9mm on his right hip, and a Smith and Wesson model 19 Combat Magnum chambered for a .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster under his left arm. Though considering what may be awaiting them up ahead in town, he felt slightly under gunned.
Keith hopped down from the cab of the truck and lit a cigarette; ”Should be just over this next hill. Whole stretch of stores, looked absolutely pristine from the chopper, like nobody had any time at all to loot it.”
“Which probably means there’s a whole town’s population of rotties down there.”
Keith clapped him on the shoulder; ”or, maybe they got evacuated. See why I’m around? Someone needs to offset your negativity.”
Jack ignored this; “and you’re sure you saw a hospital?”
“completely sure. Small one, but it had a Mercy Flight heli pad on the roof. Big red cross and everything. They may even have something to get that pesky stick out of your ass.”
Jack smiled in spite of himself. He’d feel better once they had the supplies they came for, and were on their way back home to the Green Zone. A young man whose name Jack couldn’t remember sat on the back bumper of the stake-body, nervously fiddling with the M4 he was holding. He looked to Jack to be all of nineteen or twenty.
“That kid going to be alright?”
Keith glanced over to him; ”oh, Mike Hughes. sure he will. I wouldn’t have brought him otherwise. Little ****’s a crack shot with that thing. Watched him pop a rottie in the head at 300 yards when he was on sentry duty back in the Green Zone.”
“I can do better.” a slim brunette, Amy Lockett, stated as she ambled over, handing a 12 gauge Mossberg 590 to Keith.
“What do you have there?” Jack asked, indicating the rifle slung across her back.
“My baby,” she replied primly, “Sako TRG-42 338 Lapua Magnum. Was my dad’s before the infection. Built it himself.”
“that’s a lot of gun for you, isn’t it?” Keith asked, looking over the Mossberg.
“aww, jealous? I Bet no woman’s ever said that to YOU, huh?”
Before Jack could intervene, Amy had reached over and yanked the muzzle of Mike Hughes’ gun down;
“what the hell do you think your doing?”
“Rottie! Over there!” the boy stammered, pointing north.
“he’s not bothering us” Keith said, not unkindly ,“but if you start cracking of rounds, a whole lot more of ‘em will be. Gunfire’s like a dinner bell to these things, remember?”
“enough.” Jack said, “lets get moving. And no one shoots at anything unless absolutely necessary, understand?”
2.
Two hours later finds our crew loading the last few boxes of canned goods from a grocery chain store into the back of an abandoned semi that Keith had gotten running. As they had gotten into town, Amy spotted a large bell tower on top of The United Church of Christ, and decided it was time for a climb. Keith had muttered “snipers”, shook his head and wandered off to find the semi.
Now Jack and Keith were sitting on a couple of crates by the loading dock drinking warm Coke and discussing their next move.
Jack said, “doesn’t it bother you that we’ve only come across one rottie since we got into this town?”
Keith shook his head, “no, that only bothers you. I for one, am happy to not see another damn zombie today. Lets hit the hospital and get the hell home, I‘d like a beer.”
“I guess so.” Jack pulling a radio out of his pocket, “Amy? We’re heading over to the hospital now, how’s the road look?”
The radio crackled, and they heard Amy’s voice, “clear as day my friend, not a rottie in sight.”
Jack raised his eyebrows, and Keith puts his hands out palms up in a “I don’t know” gesture.
“ok Amy, keep us posted.” Jack said.
As he was stuffing the radio back into his pocket, the air was suddenly filled with automatic rifle fire.
“what the hell is that?!” Keith shouted as they both jumped up. They ran around the corner of the store in time to see a shambling figure in a plaid shirt with a button that said “ask me about our box wine specials!!” pinned to the front of it tearing a good sized piece of meat out of Mike Hughes’ arm. Mike was firing wildly into the air with the M4. The bloody strip of meat dripped red starbursts on the broken glass from the liquor store window Mike had smashed in with a planter, which lay spilling dirt onto the side walk at the pair’s feet.
Jack went for his Glock, but Keith was faster. The 145 grain bullet from Keith’s 1911 entered the man’s head just below the temple, blowing fetid chucks of greenish grey brain and skull against the brick wall. Mike’s wild shooting and screaming was cut off abruptly as Keith’s second shot put a smoking black hole in his forehead, and added a splash of red to the already gory wall.
Jack stared at Keith, disbelievingly.
“What did you want me to do?!” Keith bellowed, ”the kid would’ve been dead in an hour anyway, and we don’t need every rottie in the tri-county area thinking there’s a buffet from the racket going on here!”
“shut up!” Jack said quickly, “you hear that?”
A low guttural moaning could be heard, barely, across the night air. They looked at each other, wide-eyed “rotties!”
They heard a muffled blast, like thunder, which couldn’t be anything other than Amy’s rifle. Jack patted his pocket, and cursed as he realized he must have dropped the radio in the grocery store loading dock. He broke into a run, hearing Keith huffing behind him, getting to the loading dock in time to hear;
“-asement! Get the hell out of there, rotties, hundreds of them busted out of the hospital basement, must have been a refuge down there, crisis center or something, Jesus is anybody on this thing, get out of there!”
The others had heard Amy on the radio and were tearing into the loading dock, dumping boxes of supplies and jumping into the truck. Keith jumped behind the wheel, and Jack climbed into the passenger seat as Keith threw the truck into gear and floored the gas.
As they rounded the corner onto the street, they saw the whole group of them: mailmen, secretaries, telemarketers, weekday commuters, all shambling, reaching towards them with one basic need: food.
“Jesus.” Jack murmured.
“their between us and the church” Keith moaned.
Just then something hit the roof of the truck, and jack’s hand was halfway to his holster when Amy’s head appeared upside down in the window;
“hi there!” she said, demurely.
Jack gasped, “how did you--?”
“Hopped rooftops. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
