Our trip south made a quick pit stop at a tower just south of Elizabethtown, right next to the county airport. It was a small community of twenty three that had plans to fence in the airport, and attempt to bring it into some form of use. There were a couple of airplanes there, and they had contact with two individuals in Cliffdale who were pilots. They had also been in contact with the Military at Fort Fisher, with a possible use for the strip as an outpost. With only twenty three of them though, the work was going to take the entire year, if not more. It was critical to fence it in, and even out here, they would get interrupted from time to time by the wandering zombies. Their main business though, had been fuel. They were using the airport fuel tanks to store fuel they scavenged.
This tower had been established by one of the three men, Max included, that had established the tower in Cliffdale, along with my father. He had a lot of good things to say about him, plus a small tidbit of information I found curious. Apparently, Max had a large sailboat docked in Wilmington, on the coast, and that my father had talked about using it. But he had never told the founder here why he wanted the boat.
After eating lunch with them, we arrived an hour later at a rather impressive water tower (I’ve come a long way to be able to give my own opinion on water towers). It was a county water tower, based in the countryside to provide water pressure for the rural areas, but now served as the easternmost tower city, in the little network my father had created.
It was located just twenty miles from the edge of Wilmington, and about five hundred feet from a rail line, which they claimed, would connect them to the tower in eastern Fayetteville. When we arrived, we encountered a large group that was grading the land. They were planning to build a spur off the rail line, to go right up to the edge of the fenced area of the tower. The fenced in area wasn’t nearly as large as the one in eastern Fayetteville, but it was still large enough to house their own form of crops, solar panels.
We were instantly impressed with the large solar array they had set up facing south, along the southern line of their fence. They had moved a part of the array from where it had been located, near Wilmington, out to the tower and set it back up. The electricity it produced became their currency. They provided electricity in the form of charged batteries in trade, generally, for food. They were also in the works to take apart another large section of the solar array, to move to the eastern Fayetteville tower. I had been keeping my notepad charged up by using the truck, but I obliged them by plugging it into one of their “charging stations”.
The tower was on Highway 87, really close to what had been some kind of factory. So, the residents of the Cape Fear Tower, as they called themselves, due to their proximity to the river, I can only assume, had found a large store of materials that they could scavenge to rig up their tower. With the electricity they had, they even powered large fans inside, to move the cool air from deep within the pipes through. Again, the radio network allowed these little communities to share ideas, in this case, on how to deal with hot, muggy North Carolina summers, especially while locked into a metal case.
There had been three founders here, along with my father. One of them had been the one poisoned in the accident that had turned him, and managed to kill my father. The other two, a couple, Silvio and Samantha, or Sammy, greeted us warmly. While the rest of my group took a moment to walk the grounds, Tague especially, taking in and asking a lot of questions about the solar array, the two founders led me away to an area on the north eastern corner of the fence. Here, they left me at a small, metal tombstone stuck in the ground. On it the words Richard Arche, Thank You for Saving Us, had been melted into the metal.
I’ve been at somewhat of a loss since then. Back when my father first left, so many months ago, I had essentially assumed that he had chosen to end his life, by risking it on the outside. I had thought I understood then, that he had wanted to see what he had dreamed about, and written about so many times, before dying. It turns out it had not been that way. Instead, he had hoped to help people out.
After I had found out the references to him in the Follower’s logs, I had really hoped to see him alive. In fact, I thought for sure that if anyone out there was an expert in surviving this kind of world ending event, my father would be the one. Instead, I’ve come upon his grave here. He was killed, just like any one of us could have, by the living dead. It was something that could happen to any one of us, regardless of how much guard we put up. It was just that death was even more deadly now, than before. Before, death just took you, but now it could take you, and everyone else around you.
I wanted to ask him so many things, and I wouldn’t have that chance. It wasn’t just that I wanted to ask him what the Followers might be after, but I had created, in his absence, a true connection to him. Before, he was just my book writing, movie making, very distant, dad. Now, I was a character in one of his books, I was a part of his imagination. I was his creation come to life, in the truest sense of the word. Well, I was biologically, but the point is that I seemed to understand him so much more now, and I wanted to share that connection with him, and I wouldn’t be able to now.
The people here worshipped my old man. By now, everyone knew who I was, and whenever I walked by anyone, they would always mention how special my dad was, and how he had saved them. It was unnervingly messianic, and although it was very flattering to hear such good things about my father, it was still a little odd. I knew most of the basic ideas about the towers had been his, but it certainly wasn’t all his own. He had built the towers, along with other people, and these men and women were equally worthy of the praise my father seemed to be getting.
I would find out later the real source of the worship.
Tonight, they held a mini feast, under a large shelter they had built for their tables. There were sixty seven people here, of whom six were missing, as they were out doing scavenging, or looking for more survivors. There were many toasts to my father, and everyone was listening to Silvio and Sammy telling stories of things they had done together with my father. As the feast wore on in the evening, and many of the men went out for “guard” duty, the rest of us broke down into telling our stories, as well.
I was having a conversation about my father with Sammy, when I asked something I had wanted to know since I had left the grave.
“So, who did the deed with my dad?”
Sammy looked at me, confused.
“Who shot him in the head? I know I wouldn’t have been able to.”
Sammy called Silvio over, telling him what I had just asked.
“You didn’t know?” She asked.
I could only shake my head. I couldn’t know, and didn’t know, what they were even talking about.
“We didn’t have to,” stated Silvio.
I'm sure I raised an eyebrow.
They told me how they had found him that morning, a few hundred feet away from the tower, sitting up against a tree. He had several bad wounds on his arm and torso, and had apparently bled to death. He was clearly dead, and had been so for ten or more hours, and yet, he was still there, dead. There had been no wound to the head.
They thought that maybe he was just slow in turning, but out of respect for him, they decided to wait and see. They tied the body up to the tree, and went about finding those people who had run off in the middle of the night in all the chaos. When they came back again that evening, he was still there, and still dead.
My father had not turned. He had been buried, unlike any other zombies they eliminated, which they burned if they could. Other than the stark realization that my dad was either more than he let on, or knew more than we realized, it finally became clear the kind of worship they had for him here at this tower. The man that had saved them from the undead was himself, somehow, immune to the rest of the disease.
I didn’t tell anyone else that night, not even Heather. I’m not sure why I didn’t, but if someone finds this journal in the future, then perhaps you should come and find out, if you can, why he di
dn’t turn.
Entry 48 – A Boat[45]
Today, I was able to go through my father’s belongings. Sammy had kept them, just in case someone might have some use for them, or, according to my father, in case I ever came looking. I wonder if he actually thought I would come after him at some point. Maybe that is what he had wanted; for me to come along with him in the first place.
Among his things, other than some clothes, some radios, some assorted maps and books, was one tattered notebook, which he had been writing what initially seemed like random notes about things he saw, and ideas he had, that the people could use in the towers. Most of it seemed like things that had been implemented in the towers; ideas for electricity, solar panels, wind turbines, steam engines and even river mills. There were all sorts of notes on plants to grow; herbs that could be used for medicines, and just a whole assorted bunch of random drawings and ideas. It was the kind of book of which he had thousands of when I was growing up. It’s how he came up with his stories.
There was one entry though, Tague found it, that seemed different from all the others. Towards the end, he had a page with a few things written on it.
Abraham.
Haiti.
Maxie’s boat.
He had scribbled a large X on the bottom half of the page, and that was it.
Tague, the ever mindful, went through the maps, and pulled out one that seemed like a navigational map of the northern half of the Caribbean. There were notes scribbled on there about supplies, and navigational time from Wilmington to a Fort Liberte in Haiti. There were no clues whatsoever about why my father had made these notes, and even after essentially reading every page of his notebook out loud, there was simply nothing else that would possibly give a hint as to what my father wanted in Haiti.
I then decided to ask someone who might know.
We were two radio jumps away from the Cliffdale tower, which made communication not nearly as lengthy as I had thought. They were even working on trying to find the right equipment, so that they could boost their signal, and reach any of the towers in one shot. It would still take them however many jumps it was to get a message down to us, but it would still be better.
We sent a message to Cliffdale, and received a reply about thirty minutes later, that Maxie was on the other end, ready to talk. The jumps were being relayed by a tower somewhere in the Grays Creek area, a place I was unfamiliar with. Essentially, I gave my message to the radio guy, who then read it over to the radio man at the Grays Creek tower, who then repeated it on to the Cliffdale tower. It was like, advanced Morse code, except, not really. Here are the messages,
“Maxie, I found out about my father here. Thank you for the news. I did find something among his belongings. Did he ever mention anything about Haiti to you?”
Reply “Sorry you had to see it for yourself. Better that way. Richard never mentioned Haiti, why?”
“He said something about an Abraham, Haiti, and supposedly a boat you have?”
Reply “Never heard of Abraham, or any plans for Haiti, but I do certainly have a large forty four foot sloop, docked in Wilmington. It should still be there. Your father did ask many questions about it, wanted me to teach him how to use it. I tried telling him it was virtually impossible to sail with only one man.”
After some talk on our end “Would you be able to sail it to Haiti?”
Reply “I don’t see why not. I’ve sailed it to the Bahamas plenty of times.”
“If I needed to, would you teach me?”
Reply “So that you could sail to Haiti? You better have a good reason to. No, I wouldn’t teach you. I would take you myself.”
So, there it was. I found myself thinking, over and over again, that I needed to make my way to Haiti, but when I talked it over with the rest of the group, it was easy to see that without any more information, that seemed like a really bad idea. It probably was. Besides, having found my father, it was probably time for us to head back to the house.
First though, Silvio and Sammy had a request for us.
Apparently, they had been trying, rather unsuccessfully, for some time, to make contact with the military and their ships down at Fort Fisher. It wasn’t that they couldn’t make contact, but that apparently, the military didn’t appear to want to have anything to do with them. I found this a little contradicting with what the soldiers had told us. According to them, they were on the lookout for any and all survivors. I wonder why they were shunning the tower people.
In either case, I hoped we still had a standing invitation from Captain Rhodes, and the two founders were asking if we would drive down there, and see if they could get a meeting, or something of that nature, set up for them. They had food to offer, and once they connected the rail line and found a working train, they would be able to send them food they were growing. I did tell them that the soldiers had told us they had around two thousand people there, but they only countered with the fact that next year they would have large fields of corn, enough to supply many thousands.
After all they had done, and I guess, more in the memory of my father, I agreed to it. It was an hour away, so it wasn’t as if we would waste away days trying to get there. Tague also mentioned that it would be good to have some concrete connections with the military types, in case we ever needed any help from them. Heather also pointed out the obvious. Who better to talk to about going to Haiti, than the Navy.
We witnessed that night, as well, how they dealt with zombies. As my father had set up, they routinely went out on patrols, and made sure an area of about a five mile radius around the tower, was clear of walkers. If a large horde was spotted, depending on the size, they would either draw them away with the “drive slowly, until they are all following” technique, then when far enough away, speed off, or, as in tonight’s case, if the horde was smaller, they would actually draw them towards the tower. When the zombies came at the fence, everyone that could, armed with spears and other sharp objects, would walk around and spear them through the head to kill them. Heather and I walked with them, with our own spears, doing our small part.
That night, they killed around ninety zombies. When no more were coming, they would go out in groups, and pile them up to burn them. Since it was late already, they would take care of them the next morning.
The whole mood was calm. These people had lived through the initial rising of the dead, and had managed to turn this place into an actual working community. They lived their own daily lives, with jobs and tasks. The only difference here was that instead of walking the dog, you speared the zombie. Next thing you knew, someone would open up a Starbucks.
Evan’s Notes: I think there actually was an old Starbucks really close to there, in a small commercial area.
Entry 49 – In the Navy[46]
We left early this morning to the sight of men and women piling up the zombie carcasses from the previous night. We had the radio frequencies, and Silvio and Sammy either awaited a message from us, or our return. I could only hope for the better.
Finding them wasn’t too hard. As indicated by Captain Rhodes, we headed towards Wilmington and turned south, just before the bridge into the city, and headed towards the military ocean terminal. Sunny Point, the name of the military terminal there, is, or was, essentially the largest military shipping station on the Atlantic. If bombs and guns were needed in huge quantities anywhere in the world, odds are they were being shipped from Sunny Point. It made sense that one of the spots the Navy chose to base its ships at, would be here. Not only did it already have the existing docks, but it still had vast stores of weapons that they could use to resupply, or simply use. According to Silvio, the terminal also had a rail line terminal, which tied into the line that came out of Wilmington, right next to their tower. It was a built in highway. Well, railway, actually.
Before we even arrived at Sunny Point, we were quickly blocked off by soldiers in their Humvees. They were clearly keeping a close eye on anyone approaching. They had guns pointed at us, and we, logical
ly, stopped. The first soldier that came up to the truck, held his rifle pointed at us the entire time, and, in a quite hostile tone, asked us who we were, and what we wanted here.
At first, the hostility was kind of surprising, but Lucy just pointed to the back of the truck. Clearly, an armed truck had just come tearing down the highway at them. They weren’t going to take any chances. I tried to point out to them that the gun was only for protection on the road, and that, in fact, we hadn’t even fired it once. I even tried to explain how we had gotten it, and that we knew Captain Rhodes, and that he had told us how to get here. It was probably not the best idea to mention the water towers just yet.
“Captain Rhodes? What unit is he in?” asked the soldier.
“Unit? I don’t even know what that means,” was my rather sorry reply.
I had to explain that Rhodes had been a helicopter pilot, quickly retelling the story of the battle up at Black Mountain.
He asked us to step out, and we, hoping our trust wasn’t about to get us gunned down, complied. As he moved away, two more soldiers, still pointing their rifles at us, took his place.
“Our CO there is going to try to verify your story. I think I’ve heard of this battle you're talking about, but, I have to warn you, if he comes back and says that there is either no Captain Rhodes, or that he doesn’t know you, we’re going to shoot you.”
After months of dodging the living dead, we were about to be shot by our own military.
Deadfall: Survivors Page 28