by J E Moore
"Damn!" he cursed. He repositioned himself directly in front and placed her hand back on the wound but it dropped away - listless. The blood kept spurting, but not as far as before. He peered into her eyes and saw she was slipping into shock. Warren grabbed her jaw and shook her head. "Clare, Clare!" She blinked; her dazed eyes tried to focus on him. "Clare, can you hear me?" She gave a weak nod. Ironsmith, all too familiar with the face of death, knew she would be gone soon. "I want you to know that you served your country and president well. Do you hear me, Clare? You served me well."
A spark of life, fired by deep hatred, flashed momentarily, she whispered, "You depraved bastard." Her chin dropped to her chest and she faded away.
Warren rose to his feet and stared down at his deceased assistant, "Poor confused woman. I forgive you." The President surveyed the immediate area while thinking, "I probably should bury her, but I don't have any tools. He laid Clare on the side of the road, closed her eyes and folded her hands across her stomach. "What a shame. If it weren't for the bloody clothing, you would think she was sleeping."
He climbed into the mower seat and turned the ignition key. The engine sputtered, creating a blue-gray cloud which drifted up as fuel leaked from the right side. 'Pow!' The motor died. "What the ...?" Warren hopped down and inspected the outside casing. A bullet hole. "Uh-oh." He rapidly removed the covering by using a wrench from the tool box and discovered the carburetor had been damaged beyond repair by a slug which had missed its mark. "Crap!" and many more obscenities. Warren scanned the roadway; there were numerous abandoned cars available for salvage but their carburetor parts certainly wouldn't fit the mower. Resigned to now having to walk, he emptied the satchel of clothing and refilled it with the MREs and his two ammo clips. Ironsmith retrieved the dead man's knife and sheath and was about to slip the satchel strap over his shoulder when he paused for a final look at Miss Hightower. Warren leaned over and gently touched her cheek. "Hmm, how about that. Her body's still warm." He dropped the satchel to the ground. "She's always been satisfying, why pass up the last opportunity just because she's dead?"
Two hours later, Ironsmith had grown tired from walking and stopped for a break. He had leaned over to unlace his work boots when he heard a noise in the distance. It sounded like a truck engine and the high pitched whine of heavy tires on asphalt. "Yes!" He could distinguish a dot on the highway coming in his direction. Warren stood waiting, wearing a confident smile.
The vehicle, an Army Humvee, slowed to a stop a hundred yards away. The two men inside did not hurry to exit - they obviously were giving the President and the surrounding area the once-over. They finally dismounted their vehicle, weapons in hand and most noticeable, they weren't wearing military uniforms. The younger, shorter man had a toothpick in his mouth: his mannerism reminded Warren of the 'good old boys' he had met on his campaign tour through the Carolinas and West Virginia. The older fellow, maybe in his mid-forties, sported a 'Titans' cap and seemed to be in charge. Concern crossed Ironsmith's brow for a brief moment then he gave his winsome grin and a little wave. His .45 was tucked in his back waistband again, out of sight. Surprise and recognition flashed on the faces of the two men which prompted them into a hasty conference. When finished, they shouldered their M21's and advanced.
"Pardon my French, stranger," stated the leader, Mike, "but you look an awful lot like that son of a bitch, Warren Ironsmith."
Shrugging off the denouncement as good-natured, redneck humor he responded, "That makes sense. I am he. I am the President of your United States, partner."
Neither appeared pleased by the confirmation - they hadn't forgotten the government's unwarranted escalations which led to the last days of modern civilization. "Thought you were daid," said Duane.
Warren offered a handshake and remarked, "That's quite an accent you have there young man. Where ya'll boys from?"
Accepting his gesture without enthusiasm, they answered, 'Alabama' and 'Ohio.'
Then Warren asked , "Are you fellows alone and whar you headed?" Ironsmith offered, "I'm the only one left of eight original survivors and I'm on my way to Harrisonburg. I hope to locate other people there."
"Forget it, no one's there," stated Mike. "It's abandoned... a ghost town... like most of America."
"Yeah, nobody lives in the cities no more, too dangerous," finished Duane as he bit off a plug of tobacco.
"No? Then where do you gentlemen reside? Did you establish your own community?" queried the President.
"Yes, of a sort. It's in woodland on the west side of the Shenandoah River thirty miles south of here," gestured Mike. "We constructed a fort with wood picketed walls similar to those of the early seventeen hundreds. It's antiquated but effective."
"Helps keep the bad un's out," added Duane.
"Bad un's? Do you mean undesirable people?" questioned Warren. "But I would think everyone would be welcome."
"Not hardly," spat Duane. "We gots to shoot most of em."
A moment of awkward silence passed before Mike continued, "We're going to Arlington General Hospital to search for medical supplies. You're welcome to ride with us if you wish."
"Arlington?" repeated Ironsmith as he took a rear seat in the humvee. "That's right across the Potomac from Washington. Is the radiation safe there? Our instruments in the bunker indicated dangerous levels were still present to the east."
The engine roared to life. Duane, the driver, retorted, "Dangerous, yeah, but not from radiation. The real danger is Zombies. We gots to get away from there 'fore nightfall. The Zombies mostly prowl at night... and sometimes in the daytime too, if'n they're chasing food. We being the food," and gave his shoulders an uncomfortable shiver as if he were all too familiar with the experience.
Warren looked to Mike for an explanation, who then proceeded, "The need for medical supplies is never-ending; we've depleted the local supplies. The other obstacles are another matter."
"I understand the medical needs but what's this about Zombies?" posed Ironsmith.
"That's the name we've given the 'walking dead' who inhabit the greater D.C. area," explained Mike.
"Yea, walkin' dead," echoed Duane. "Frig'n maniac freaks."
"They're ill? From the fall-out?" speculated the President.
"Not that kinda poisoning... 'neutrons' is our guess," said Duane. "Ain't that right, Mike?"
"Yes, I believe so. Washington itself, for the most part, is intact. The infrastructure remains... the buildings are still standing," informed his partner. "As far as we can tell, everyone, every living thing, died in D.C. proper. It was the fringe of the blast zone which created the physical and mental degeneration of those who were unlucky enough to survive."
"Yeah, them be degenerates. They're worse than animals, them Zombies. They don't do nothin' but kill and eat. Frig'n cannibals is what they are," added Duane. "Thousands of them. More than thousands."
Warren pondered this, "A neutron bomb? That could very well be true. It's never been tested by either side. The bomb's purpose was to destroy the enemy and leave the structures undamaged. Of course, research and development had no idea what the effects would be on the perimeters." He crossed his arms and muttered, "Interesting," which prompted a hard look from Mike and Duane. Warren ignored their visual objections. After all, what did they know about modern warfare? They were just in-the-trenches grunts.
"These people, the mutants have no regard for life or anything else for that matter," intoned Mike. "They devour their own to survive - the weakest first. They don't mate... few women are left. No children. I expect they'll die off one way or another within a few more years. Hopefully sooner."
"I find this hard to believe... the extent you're implying. Have you in earnest, tried to help them... reason with them?" tendered the President."
"Cain't be done. They cain't think straight no more," explained Duane. "They gots one track minds... that's how I got away."
"Pardon?"
"Mike, my good buddy here, rescued me I reckon 'bout a year ago. I was barricaded i
nside a Seventy-Eleven (7-11) stock room. Good thing it wasn't a big store or Mike woulda never noticed it when he was passin' by on a supply run. He saw right off them Zombies was actin' funny - as if they had cornered a meal. He lobbed in a coupla grenades, blasted the hell outta them bastards and got me free. The damn Zombies still standin' were so busy attackin' and chewin' up their own wounded and daid that we slipped right through em." He paused and shuddered... "They had me trapped in that hole for four weeks. More and more o' them animals kept coming. I tell you one thing I learned right off. They never leave food. Never."
"That's true," confirmed Mike.
Warren's disabled riding mower came into view. Duane slowed the humvee to a walk speed. "Your wheels?"
"Yes. Mine and Miss Hightower's, she was my assistant."
The President proceeded to expound on his bravery as he conveyed the details of how he dispatched the assailant while unsuccessfully attempting to save Clare. "The man wouldn't listen to reason. He viciously slashed her throat... the poor girl never had a chance. She bled to death in my arms."
Duane stopped; both men leaned toward the fallen attacker. "Blackburn," identified Mike. His sidekick nodded agreement.
"You know him?" asked Ironsmith.
"Yeah, he got banished," answered Duane.
Mike went on to explain how Blackburn was forced to leave their camp because he wouldn't