by Shane Woods
Almost as soon as the stereo stopped its forward progress, the shrieks and growls began. Both runners, and the slower variety, began coming out of the woodwork to greet whatever was creating such a cacophony in their neighborhood. Though in much smaller numbers than at the beginning, probably thanks to the military’s earlier actions, there was still plenty enough to give pause and cause a bit of concern.
Upon realization of my success, I turned, and spoke firmly, but not loudly enough for the monsters to hear us, “Remote start’s going on my truck, it’ll fire up as soon as the glow plugs cycle, we need to move, NOW PEOPLE!!!”
Everybody rushed the stairs, me in the back of the group now, and through the house. Opening the garage door only enough to duck under, one group went to Henry’s, and mine stepped to my truck. A short moment after mine fired up, and we got the doors closed, we heard a horn blasting. I immediately began to dread the worst had happened, and we were being signaled for help.
It was not so.
No sooner had the horn began, Henry’s wine-red SUV burst between the gap between his house and his garage, and the whole vehicle listed and began sliding sideways as he applied full throttle through my back yard, closing rapidly.
I threw my truck into drive, shouting, “Fuck! Hang on tight!” as we smoked the rear tires the short length of my driveway, drifting the eight-thousand pound crew cab sideways onto the street, as Henry’s Escalade slid dead sideways, across the sidewalk, and out onto the street in the same direction as me, both of his rear tires billowing smoke in answer to mine as four infected runners rounded the front corner of my house.
“They fucking made it!” I shouted, high-fiving my wife before gripping the wheel once again to take the next hard right, again sliding the truck, combining white tire smoke with heavy black clouds of roiling smoke from my exhaust, the entire scene sounding like the world’s angriest jetliner at full take-off. Melissa buckled herself into her seat with Gwen squeezed right up against her, looking bewildered, excited, and scared shitless all at the same time as both trucks formed one long wine-red and chrome blur, rocketing down the street.
One more right onto North Howard a few blocks later and easing our pace now that our escape was won, we made our way back to Cuyahoga, hoping and praying that the way my semi had cleared was still open.
A few blocks down Cuyahoga revealed that we weren’t the only ones to attempt escape. The intersection I’d scraped through previously had been reclogged, a pair of pickup trucks wedged soundly in what was once free and clear. Bodies, or, more accurately, puddles of half-dried gristle and gore wearing scraps of clothing, littered the intersection, as well as the bodies of several infected, and a liberal smattering of discarded weapons and spent casings.
Looking around from my vantage point, the only way around, without backtracking, was the driveway next to me. I reversed a few feet, cut my wheel left, and rumbled up the concrete strip toward the flimsy privacy fence, crossing my fingers that somebody hadn’t built a barbecue pit on the other side.
My luck held out as thin wood beams shattered and splintered like toothpicks, and I wrenched the wheel, the truck sliding on the slick grass, catching, and whipping to the other side as we made another Wile E. Coyote hole through the next fence, and back out onto the road in time to take a pair of running infected head-on, splattering their bodies across the front of the truck. I watched them tumble as Henry’s SUV burst in much the same way through the gap, onto the street, and leaving roadkill-esque tire tracks over the bodies as he kept pursuit.
After travelling a couple of blocks further, I steered toward the right of the road, and slowed to a stop. Rolling down the window, and motioning for Henry to pull alongside, I waited. He slowed to a stop next to me, rolling his window down, looking expectantly.
“Let’s take it slow,” I advised. “We were kind of bottle-necked back there, and I would like to keep an eye open for other survivors if we can.”
“Sounds good to me, my brother,” he replied. “You lead, I follow.”
As we progressed at a much slower rate, the rapid degradation of the neighborhood became startlingly apparent. Cuyahoga Falls was typically a largely peaceful place. Warm clear evenings saw senior citizens walking little yippy dogs, children playing in yards, people going for jogs or bike rides around the lazy streets.
There was none of that now. The streets were still largely quiet, save for the steady rumble and long low whistle of my turbo-diesel pickup stalking its way through the dead avenues. The shining new vehicles usually parked on the sides of the street were less in number, instead having been replaced with wrecked vehicles, a few of which were nothing more than burnt-out husks of Fords and Kias. Apparently, no matter who made them, they burnt the same.
The same thing went for the houses. Some shutters hanging loose, doors swung wide open here and there, windows smashed open, some with garage doors in various states of revealing their interiors. Once clean, freshly power washed siding and sidewalks were crisscrossed with smears of blood. Smoke rising lazily from a pair near one corner that had burnt to the foundations, the siding on the next nearest house melted and running toward the ground in thick, now dried, drips.
The thing that got to each of us the most were the distinct lack of bodies. Oh, the carnage was there, but there were almost zero whole bodies. A handful of dead infected lay intact, sure, but nothing else. A memory of a scene outside of my own home could be had in front of one house, a large splattered puddle of blood, as if it had been placed right dead center of the driveway. In the puddle lay a still bright blue collar, surrounded by clumps of golden-yellow fur. A few bones, very little gristle left on them, and having been chewed stark white in spots.
I tried to turn my head and focus on something, anything else besides Fido, but scenes like this and worse were a dime-a-dozen here. A car interior filled with arterial spatter, nothing but torn jeans left in the driver’s seat. Nearby that, a Little Tikes Cozy Coupe in much the same condition, not so much in stark contrast as it was blatant mimicry, both vehicles exhibiting long trails of blood which led into the front door of the nearest home. Were they homes any more, or just houses? Surely, they were homes to somebody still, as every bit of our progress made still was not enough to shake the feeling of being watched.
We neared the point where we needed to turn onto the main road, out of the neighborhood and back in between rows of businesses advertising sales that were no longer relevant. It’s kind of ironic, you get that vehicle, find a financier with the lowest APR, go to work to pay for that and many similar items, make sure every payment is in on time, tracked, accounted for, and how much does it matter now? None. Already it was apparent to me that survival was the only thing that mattered.
As we approached the overpass that traversed the width of the highway, our smooth cruise hit another snag. Somebody had moved a number of vehicles across the narrow roadway, creating a funnel that almost imperceptibly narrowed to the point of being impassible. Obviously meant to entrap, but while they were focused on robbing people that were just passing through, they seemed to have met their own well-deserved fate. A handful of bullet casings littered the scene, alongside the obligatory compliment of gore and blood.
I parked the truck, instructing Jennifer and the others to watch over us and provide 360-degree cover while I hooked up a tow rope and Chris rounded up any weapons that looked to be in fair shape, as well as any ammunition.
Retrieving the heavy tow rope from behind the crew cab’s back seat, I looped one end through one of the tow hooks in my front bumper, and the other end around the rear wheel of a Honda CRV to the side of the road block. Motioning to Henry to move his Cadillac to the side as I got back in my driver’s seat.
Dropping the transmission into reverse, the truck backed up until the tow rope was held nice and taught, then stopped. Pressing on the throttle just a bit, the big pickup grunted, the bumper of the CRV scraped against the vehicle it sat against, and the tires began to squeal as the vehicle w
as dragged sideways out of its resting spot with minimal effort.
I throttled down a bit harder and completed moving the vehicle out of our path before getting out and retrieving my tow rope, looking up to catch a nod from Henry that was half approval, half vehicular admiration. Dropping the rope lazily onto the floorboards in case it was needed again, I climbed back into the seat and proceeded forward.
We started up the incline, passing the old Riverfront Mall, and at the crest of the hill, the highway was clearly visible. Stretching on in both directions, absolutely jam-packed with vehicles that would never move again in both directions, as well as plenty of infected. The problem, on their end, was that they could see us, but could not figure out how to get to us. Some of them were definitely of the quicker variety, but the large majority were either the laziest freaks we’d encountered yet, or the slow type. It didn’t matter to me. This overpass? This is the VIP section. They can have the dance floor.
Dropping down the decline of the raised roadway, we continued through the last leg of our journey. Back into residential areas, it was the same scenes that had played out earlier. The one nuance was a home with ‘HELP’ scrawled across the garage door in bright red spray paint that dribbled down the door, much like the blood across the living room windows. Some comedian had come along, hopefully after the fact, and scrawled a big ‘NO’ underneath the plea in their own black paint. I quickly decided the front door hanging open, leaning on a single hinge, had intended to tell me that it’s too late to find anything alive inside of that structure.
Our final destination visible through the trees and some houses on the left, we continued on another block east, and one north. Here, we stopped about halfway down the block, in front of a single-story ranch home with a two-car garage. The home looked intact and unmolested, save for the garage door a fraction of the way open, exposing nothing but ample empty space for our vehicles. Henry pulled alongside my vehicle, rolling his window down to communicate.
“This the spot?” he asked.
“Yep,” I replied evenly. “Rich and Chris, you two sweep that house. Attic and basement, too, if it has one. We’ll circle the apartments and come back, should give you plenty of time. Once you’re done, open the garage door up and we’ll pull in. Be quick but be thorough and safe.”
The passenger door opened, and Chris’ large frame stepped out, followed by the back door disgorging Rich, before both doors were pushed quietly closed. They nodded, and embarked for the next hideout, while Henry and I pulled away from the scene.
We rounded the corner to pass around behind the north building. The apartment complex was fairly large. A pair of 9-story brick buildings, both positioned longitudinally parallel to one another, and separated by a split driveway that straddled a large swimming pool and led back to an above-ground parking lot, and an underground parking garage.
Both buildings sat a couple of blocks into the neighborhood from the main road, but had a clear view of the highway, and sat only a block’s worth of tenant parking off of the Cuyahoga River. They offered space, sturdy construction, nearby water, and the surrounding neighborhoods would offer plenty of scavenging. Perfect, right?
We passed slowly behind the north building, trying to be as quiet as we could with the vehicle we had. Rounding the next corner, we started heading south.
Both buildings seemed empty. No movement to be had from any of the windows or balconies, the parking lot was empty of life, roof tops empty. Looked good so far, God willing, the insides would be devoid of issues as well. The good news was, both buildings had no apparent damage. No fires, broken windows, nothing. Sitting just far enough outside of the main area of town, and a bit into the neighborhood, it seemed as though most of the chaos had forgotten the large structures.
We rounded the next corner, heading back toward our hideout again, and were relieved to find a row of trees and houses blocked much of the buildings from view of the main thoroughfare. I was beginning to feel pretty damned good about this, but that still didn’t say much. Looking back at my line of ex-girlfriends was proof on its own that an initial good feeling, when I’m involved, means absolutely dick.
Upon returning to the point where we’d dropped the guys off, we found the garage door of the house we’d chosen wide open, and could just barely make out Chris and Rich, one to each side of the opening, standing guard and waiting for our return.
Pulling both vehicles inside, the guys worked in tandem to lower the heavy rolling door back into place. I stepped out of my truck into the middle of every garage in every city in the country. It was very basic, a few shelves and tool racks holding the usual display of shovels, rakes, some hand wrenches, and a couple of racks that seemed to have once held canned goods, though they were bare now. Nothing but the rings of cans left behind in a thin layer of dust.
Rich was the first to speak up.
“Looks clear. No food in here though, only one gun in an upstairs closet. I think the people that lived here cleared it out looking for somewhere to go.”
“What gives you that impression?” I asked him.
“All the doors going outside were locked. Nothing’s been broken, but all the food has been taken, except for a bunch left to rot in the refrigerator.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Henry added.
“So now what do we do?” Jennifer asked.
“Well,” I began, “kids look tired and hungry. So am I. Let’s camp out here for the night, we’ll go to the towers in the morning and start sweeping them. They looked good from the outside.”
“Seemed like as good a spot as any,” Henry opined.
“Good,” Rich stated. “Well let’s eat and sleep then.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, then, to Jennifer, “hey, grab heavier foods, canned goods and stuff. We’ll save the jerky and stuff for travelling light.”
“You just want all the jerky to yourself,” she teased.
“Ha-ha, funny, woman,” I shot back. “Rich, you said y’all found a gun?”
“Here,” Chris said in his typically wordy manner, “Shotgun.”
He handed it to me from where he had it leaning against the wall. It was a very basic twelve-gauge, single shot with a break barrel. Not much good here, as our opponents were either very fast, or travelled in groups, or both, and the gun would simply be too slow to do much with. Much like Rich’s .32 revolver, it was better than nothing, but we already had better.
“Shells?” I asked, eyeing Chris.
“Yeah, some slugs,” he stated and handed me a small stack of 5 round boxes of 1 oz Remington slugs.
I tossed the gun aside and received the rounds from Chris’ outstretched hand. I explained, “A single shot is junk, especially for clearing buildings and stuff. We ain’t hunting deer here, I’ll keep my pump. We have a Mossberg pump gun, too, so that…” I trailed off, shrugging.
Jennifer began handing out cans of food, and we realized our first mistake in our supply packing. No can opener. Shit. Nobody said anything, and Rich got up, grinning, and disappeared through the door into the house. A moment later he returned, still grinning, and handed out forks and spoons. He produced a can opener, opened his green beans, and passed the can opener to Jennifer so she could open the girls’ food first.
“Didn’t think of that,” I said sheepishly.
“I know,” Rich said, ribbing me, “but I don’t think the people that lived here thought of that, either. This is their can opener.”
We all laughed about the irony. Once all of our cans were opened, we began to eat. Jennifer was taking turns eating her own and feeding bites to little Gwen so she didn’t cut her hand on the can. The toddler didn’t seem too pleased with the cold food, but she accepted it anyway. Probably same as the rest of us, too hungry to be picky.
While we ate, I began laying out the plan for the next morning.
“So, we’re going to leave for the apartments around dawn. Rich and Chris, you’ll go with me. We can’t take the kids to sweep a building, so that leaves
my wife, Carolyn, and Henry to stay here and hold down the fort until we get back.”
“I don’t like you guys going off alone,” Carolyn immediately objected.
“He’s right though,” Henry interrupted. “Gotta watch the babies, we need to make a safe place to live.”
“Exactly,” I continued, “Rich, Chris, either of you familiar with stack and clear?”
“I mean,” Rich said, “I know the theory, but I’ve never done it.”
“So, we have the same experience level,” I smiled. “Chris?”
“Nah.” The man of many words said, “I mean, I know a little, but…”
“That’s fine. You’re rear guard,” I directed. “All you gotta do is watch our backs and make sure nothing sneaks up. Easy job, but if I get bit in the ass, you’re the first fucker I attack when I turn.”
Soft laughter all around, then I continued, “We’ll take two days each worth of food and water. Pack light. Small foods, minimal water, guns, ammo, and a light if your gun ain’t got one. Rich, you’ll get the Mossberg, Chris, you have the Beretta, and you can use the Sig 220 as backup. Sorry, we’re kind of limited on bigger weapons. The wife has her AR-15, but I doubt she’s giving it up.”
“Nope!” Jennifer said, smiling.
“This girl…” Henry trailed off, shaking a finger at her and laughing.
“Yeah, she’s a trip,” I said, chuckling as my darling wife stuck her tongue out at me.
“So, what’s the rest of the plan?” Chris asked.
“We pick a building, and make sure there’s nothing that can hurt us in it. Then we find a way to secure it and start turning it into a home,” I explained. “Once it’s safe, we clear it of supplies, then do the next building. Eventually we should have this neighborhood cleared, and hopefully pick up some help along the way.”
“Simple.” Rich added, “I like simple.”
“Well, let’s get some sleep,” I instructed, throwing my empty food can in the trash can. “Tonight’s last watch shift, wake us all up an hour before dawn. We’ll pack and head out with the sun. Count on one day or less, but we’ll prepare for two. I don’t know how much can happen one block from here, but I don’t wanna take chances.”