by Jones, K. J.
“So, they really didn’t get ‘em all,” said Brandon. He aimed.
“Don’t fire. Female.”
“So?”
“Emily, step up.”
“No!” Brandon’s voice reverberated against the houses. He stepped in front of her.
“Get outta my way,” she protested.
“Too dangerous.”
“Get outta my way!”
Their voices excited the incoming more.
“Zom’s wearing BDUs,” Tyler said to Matt.
“Copy that.”
“National Guard’s still around?”
“Shoot it,” Stanton shrieked. “Shoot all of them!”
“Calm down,” Angela demanded.
“Give Emily your M4,” ordered Matt. “Make it hot.”
Brandon obeyed, making sure his riffle was readied.
“Cripple and crown,” said Matt. “You know what that means?”
“Yes.” She aimed. Squeeze of the trigger. A buck against her shoulder.
“Perfect.”
The zom slid on its face from the abrupt loss of a leg’s function.
“Now crown?”
“No.” Matt pulled out his knife. “Cut its brainstem.”
Emily took the handle of the knife and proceeded forwarded. She had been wanting to learn this since they left North Carolina. But there were no infected on the refugee island, or so they had believed.
Brandon asked, “You know where it is? It’s –”
“Shut up,” she ordered.
With no hesitation, Emily grabbed the zom’s hair and rammed the blade beneath the bottom of the skull. The zom went lights out, dead on the street.
“Good job,” said Matt. “Give the knife to Nia.”
“What?” Angela asked. “No, no.”
Emily handed it to the girl.
“Take out this one,” said Matt. “Right in the brainstem.”
“Back of the head,” her brother said.
“I know where it is.”
“Nie.”
“Mama, I gotta.”
“Should we get off of it?” Jayce asked.
“No,” answered Matt.
Though more hesitant, Nia shoved the knife into the back of the adult male zom’s head. Jayce placed his hand over hers and shoved it further in. The zom fell still.
“See how that felt?”
She nodded to her big brother.
“Good teamwork, guys,” said Matt. “Now, next step, since there’s no more incoming, search for anything of use to us.” He looked over to Stanton and Manuel, holding each other and not participating. “You two. Search the female.”
“Robert always did that for us,” Manuel protested.
“Tough shit. What if he dies? Who’s gonna protect and do the heavy lifting for you?”
“Well, y’all would.”
“No. Get over here. If the fucking women aren’t acting dependent, why should you?”
“Totally ignoring that sexism,” said Emily.
Matt ignored her.
Tyler was already at the female zom’s body. He rolled her over. “Matt? She’s a Marine. Not Guard.”
“Shit.”
Brandon, at the male zom’s body, “We got a USMC tat on this one. He must have ripped off his uniform.”
“As they do,” Angela said. Her eyes hardened staring at the dead monster. A deep frown on her lips. Pure hatred.
“Tyler, show them what we take,” said Matt.
Tyler unbuckled the female zom’s belt. “We take the gun belt, with or without a gun in the holster.” He untied the holster from her thigh. “Any knives. Any guns. Any bullets. She has a flak jacket and a utility vest, so we take that too.”
“What about all the slobber on these things?” Manuel pointed.
“That can be cleaned off. We put viral hot items in the sun for a while. UV rays fuck up cells. Just like it does with making the cancer in people’s skin.”
Matt watched and listened with pride. Tyler learned well. When he needed to be serious, he was thirteen going on thirty.
“When all else has been checked, you take the boots, if they’re there.”
“She only has one.” Manuel air touched the body, about three inches away from actually making contact. Stanton wouldn’t get even that close.
“Then we don’t take it. Only pairs.”
“Do we have a bag for these?”
“Always carry a bag for looting purposes.” Tyler pulled out a flexible duffel bag, the kind able to fold up into a small pouch. He flapped it open and inserted the items. “Since I did that without disposable gloves on, I use a disinfectant on my hands. Always carry that, too.”
Manuel and Stanton disinfected their hands, despite not touching anything.
Matt announced, “We’re going back to home base for lunch. Then we’re going on a loot. Tyler will be in the teaching lead.” He nodded his approval to the kid.
Tyler smiled.
6.
“Female? What did she look like?” Mazy asked at the dining room table as they ate lunch.
“Black woman,” Brandon said. “Young. Younger than me and Emily.”
“Slim build?”
“Yeah.”
“What shade of black?”
“A little darker than the Jacksons.” He glanced over at them. “Sorry if that was -- ”
“Not a worry.” Angela cut him off.
“One of these days, the white boy won’t be so white,” Mazy said to Angela.
“He is from Montana. They’re organic white boys in the Midwest. Farm to table.”
They chuckled together.
Mazy turned to Brandon. “I think I know her. She should have evac’d Parris Camp with the others.”
“They ran into trouble then.”
“Apparently. Damn it that we don’t have any heads up on what’s west of us. That’s where they were going. Into the interior. The male was young?”
“Oh, yeah. Below his thirtieth birthday for sure.”
“Too many white guys on the base for me to narrow that down. But females were rare. We have to assume its virus hot to the west. We’ll after-action debrief before y’all go on your loot training. Where’s Matt?”
“Being sulky on the deck.”
“The piazza.”
“Whatever it’s called.”
“We’ll teach you Southern, too, Brandon. One of these days.”
Nia asked, “Could Phebe have killed the zoms in Z-C-Q-C?”
The two Marines smiled at her. Kids learned so fast. Like combat sponges.
Mullen answered. “Yeah, nowadays, I’d bet she could.”
“The next training needs to be mixed martial arts,” said Mazy. “Just as Sully trained her to do.”
“And me,” said Tyler.
“Of course you, honey.”
Nia said, “But I’m taller than Tyler. Does that make a difference? Like with breaking necks.”
Emily said, “Breaking necks as women is apparently hard to do.”
“It is,” confirmed Mazy.
“But,” said Nia, “our legs are very strong.”
“Too vulnerable.” Mazy spooned beans and rice into her mouth. “More often, we’d use a knife. Going forward, all of you should wear a knife.”
“Before the loot training?” Nia asked.
“Yes. So check the armory.” Mazy pointed to the china cabinet.
It used to hold expensive Wedgewood bone china dishes with a delicate floral pattern. Where that had gone, Mazy did not know. But now the glass shelves held weapons and ammo. Rupert would disapprove.
7.
There was no one, healthy or zom, in the house they looted. Mullen went with them. He and Tyler taught the others how to enter and clear, then loot from top to bottom as fast as possible, right down to turning framed photos and disregarding personal sentimental items. Matt beamed with pride as he watched the instructors.
Duffels flew out the door.
Then onto the next
house. Still no one.
Stanton was forced to participate. Robert would not back him up in avoidance of training. Manuel learned, but Stanton preferred to look at sentimentals and critique decorating and clothes. He was filled with opinionated narration. Mullen and Tyler reprimanded him several times and called him useless. Matt’s name for Stanton by the end of the training was princess with a declaration that he was more useless than a woman.
Emily threatened to spit in Matt’s food if he ever said such a sexist thing again.
Peter and a newly awake Eric sat on the second-floor piazza. They made comments as the group filed in.
“What are you two?” asked Mazy from below. “The old guys on the Muppets?”
Peter laughed. “Oh, I so want to be them.”
“Who? What?” Eric the Young asked. Peter explained the show.
The civilian group was tired from all this activity and learning. But Matt would not let up. They never let up on recruits in basic training, and especially not in Ranger training. Brandon was game. They were worse in Marine Corps basic training than Army boot.
The next round was with Phebe as the instructor, since Peter was not physically fit for the job. He watched intently as she trained, yelling down advice.
The mixed martial arts training only consisted of what the civilians needed to know. Today’s training was on healthy people. Much easier than zoms.
“What about the roundhouse she does?” Eric asked.
Peter smirked. Everyone was so impressed with that, but it hadn’t done much for her against zoms. “Not a lot of them are that flexible to do it.”
Phebe showed them how to knock a healthy hostile down and kill them. They learned methods of knocking out legs, but everything depended on speed. She kept saying, “Faster, or they can use a counter move.”
“But zoms won’t respond?” asked Angela, enjoying this self-defense class.
“Correct,” Phebe responded. “Always remember, guys, zoms that are injured, including fatally injured, will keep coming and or keep biting right up until they drop dead. But healthy people will instantly react to the damage you do to them. They react to pain. A broken wrist can go a long way with a healthy person.”
Matt, with his new sidekick of Brandon, checked on Chris at the trawler. When they returned, they carried a punching bag.
“That’s from my boat,” said peanut gallery Peter. “Basta’d’s looting the Molly now.”
“Thought this could help,” Matt said.
“It will,” responded Phebe. “Where will you hang it?”
Brandon answered, “We found battery-operated tools. A drill. We can hang it from either the rafters of the deck or from a tree limb back there.”
Peter said, “I think Midwestern no-wheres-ville guys have bonded.”
Eric hollered, “Make it a tree branch, so we can see. We can’t see below us.”
“Eric lives,” said Mullen.
“Come on down,” Tyler yelled up.
“Too weak. Doctor’s orders to rest and rehydrate.”
“Wimp.”
Peter chuckled. “Ty’s cleaning up his language. He’s afraid the girls will drop kick him.”
The punching bag hung below a large live oak branch in the area they called the backyard, which was further back in the double plot land towards the small greenhouse. Chickens ran to the front yard now that their backyard area was invaded.
Brandon eyed the rooster. “Keep on walking, buddy.”
The rooster flapped his wings and ran to follow the hens.
Mazy sat at the outdoor table, sorting through the loot, in between watching the training. Phebe and Mullen’s loot from earlier produced seed packets of vegetables. Gardening trawls and small bags of fertilizer. Mazy checked the map the pair had produced. A tourist map with the historic places marked. The home base house was on it. Since the pair lacked a pen, they had punched a hole in the location of the store.
Matt held the punching bag from behind as the group practiced their punches and kicks.
Tyler kept wanting another turn. He worked on the roundhouse, but where he landed his foot would be merely annoying to a healthy adult male opponent. He needed to get air as Phebe did. And a much greater amount of vertical to compensate for his height.
She took him aside. His target: the leaves of a low hanging branch.
“I want to learn that,” said Nia.
Matt responded, “You need to get these kicks down first.”
“But eventually?”
“Sure. Ask her when you’re ready.”
“Can you do that kick?”
“I don’t think anymore. My muscles haven’t recovered.”
“Will they recover?”
“I hope, eventually.”
“Good.”
He cocked a half-smile at her, wondering why she cared so much.
8.
“He woke for a couple of minutes,” Dr. Jenkins reported at dinner. Matt was with Chris. “That’s a good sign.”
“Why is he still asleep then?” asked Peter.
With help, Eric and he had gotten down the stairs to the dining room. They wore old man button-down cardigans that belonged to Rupert. Both felt the chill in the late winter nights. Peter’s own internal coldness from withdrawal decreased through the day, but he was still bad off and very weak.
Eric was quiet at the table, listening sometimes, drifting off into his own torturous thoughts other times.
“His body is very weakened,” answered the doctor. “But it is fighting off the blood infection now.”
Phebe said, “So it’s sleep, not coma?”
“Correct. He’s in REM sleep even.”
“He’ll survive?” asked Peter.
“He will, I believe. The antibiotics are doing their work. And the saline bag is washing away both infection and dysentery that’s causing diarrhea.”
“Please,” groaned Phebe. “Not while I am eating.”
“Oh,” said Mullen. “Reminds me. We have a present for Sully.”
Peter cocked a brow. “Should I be afraid?”
“Yes.” Tyler smiled. “Very afraid. Give it to him.”
Mullen retrieved a fancy gift bag and placed it in front of Peter.
He looked into the bag, expecting something to jump out at him. “Youse people suck so bad.” He laughed.
“What is it?” asked Emily.
Peter pulled it out and placed it on the table. A clown figurine.
They laughed.
“Just need it riding a pig,” said Mazy.
“Or a pig dressed up as a clown.” Ben was passing through to collect dinner and return to his nest.
“Very funny,” said Peter. “And I call youse people friends.”
“Oh, the present for Mazy,” said Tyler.
“Okay.” Mullen leaned over and reached for something under his chair.
He flung a rubber big ass spider at Mazy.
She screeched and flew backwards, knocking her chair over. “You motherfuckers suck!”
The boys laughed.
Emily picked it up by one of its rubber legs. “Really, guys?”
The pair laughed harder.
“Burn that fucking thing,” Mazy demanded.
Chapter Four
1.
“I’ve heard of South Boston,” said Henderson.
“Have ya now?” Peter cleaned his newly acquired sunglasses with his blanket. He wore an oversized yellow shirt. An alligator emblem on the chest. A fat golfer probably owned it.
“Yeah. Southie, right?”
Peter nodded, replacing the sunglasses on his face against the rising BOB.
The Big Orange Ball was the primary means of telling time. But time had lost all meaning for Peter as of late. His life consisted of different comfortable places to lie down. Rather like a cat
Henderson’s gaze scanned the group. The recruits worked on dismantling weapons, cleaning them, and rebuilding them.
“I’m surprised a man from the
re lives among such, um, diversity here.” Henderson emphasized as if diversity meant something other than its definition.
“Are ya?”
“Hmm-mmm.”
Peter cocked a dark brow from Henderson’s wink-wink-nod-nod innuendos.
“A lot of pride in that area.”
“Irish pride. I don’t think we’ve expanded to anyone else. Let me think. Nope. We still hate everyone.”
Henderson laughed. “I get ya.”
“Probably not. Look, man. I’m all for certain stereotypes and clichés. That we drink hard. Fight easily. Great lovers. But, um –”
“And a gift for the blarney.”
“That, too. But, um, I do know what you’re implying and, um, I don’t really give a shit. One political wing creates and fuels the other. How I feel about it is both wings should work together and fly the fuck away. Because dogs are by far better people than humans are. Ya get my meaning?”
“No.”
“You’re just owning your -isms, aren’t you, man?”
Henderson’s brows raised. “My -isms?”
“You really are an old dude. Oh. Look. My beautiful and massively intimidating wife has come out to grace us with her presence.”
“I’m what?” Phebe eyed Peter with suspicion.
“Come, dear. Sit with us.” He patted the cushion of a chair. “My dearest wife just sees humans as animated skeletons. Don’t ya dear?”
“No.” She sat. “Skeletons talk less.”
Peter laughed. “See. We hate everyone. We’re a family unit of it.”
“What are we talking about, um, dear?”
“Well, dear, we’re discussing -isms.”
“Are these -isms of the Before or have we made up new ones, dear?”
“I haven’t had time to work on new ones, dear.”
“Well, dear, you need to get on that. Lazybones.”
“Yes, dear. I shall.”
Henderson scowled at the couple’s strange, possibly encoded, conversation.
“He brought up Southie, dear.”
“Ah. I see, dear. Can’t say I’m surprised.” She cut a glare at Henderson, not hiding her disdain.
Henderson readjusted his seat, cleared his throat, and met her stern gaze.
Peter smiled. A man with a bunch of -isms usually had sexism on the list. He hoped she’d have an opportunity to kick Henderson’s ass. It would do wonders for group morale. Perhaps she could do the roundhouse they so admired.