by Dave Lund
Jessie wiped the tear off her cheek. No more. I can’t be sentimental any more, never again. I can’t afford to be weak for my new baby.
Sarah climbed out of the tent, waking a groggy Erin. Teenagers, no matter how hard core, no matter that the world had ended, still had problems waking up in the morning. Coffee and another breakfast of MREs finished, with only the crackers for Jessie—the smell of the food pouches turned her stomach—the three began to break camp. Jessie used, then filled in the slit latrine, and brought the shovel back to camp. By the time she returned, the tent was collapsed, folded, and back in the big plastic box it was stored in. The poles went back into their canvas bag, and all of it was being loaded into and onto the FJ.
The sun pierced the wispy morning clouds as they drove down the dirt road back to I-40, Jessie taking her turn behind the wheel. One of the fuel cans was now empty, but the FJ’s fuel gauge showed a full tank, and they still had five more full gas cans on the roof rack, twenty-five gallons in all. After a bit of discussion they decided to wait until they were down to ten gallons to replenish the supply, otherwise they would be stopping every few hours to scavenge fuel. All of them were excited to get to Groom Lake and off the road.
The Interstate was still mostly clear, the stampede of undead having paved the way for easy travels before them, but the random groups of shambling dead were more numerous than they were the day before. Jessie wasn’t sure if it was because the undead were excited by the noise of the truck as they passed, slowly marching out and onto the Interstate to find the source, or if these groups just formed the tail end of the stampede. Regardless, Jessie knew it didn’t matter; she drove around each group as they appeared in the windshield, trying to keep the speedometer as close to sixty as she could.
Cortez, CO
“His blood pressure is finally up, closer to normal. His pulse is steady; I think he’s going to make it.” Chivo checked the IV bag that hung from a nail in the wall above the bed; the blood pressure cuff remained on Cliff’s arm. Chivo stood up, stowing the stethoscope in the MOLLE webbing of his chest carrier in a manner that made Bexar think he had carried medical equipment in his gear before, probably more than a few times.
The one thing that they didn’t have was a catheter, so they “solved” the problem with bath towels, which could be replaced and dried more easily than bedding. The room smelled like piss for their efforts.
“His temperature is 101, so he’s much better in that regard; we’ve got that moving in the right direction.” Chivo checked the bandage on Cliff’s thigh, unwrapping it and inspecting the wound. The previous night, they had scrubbed it clean, applied antibiotic ointment, and re-bandaged the wound, using vet-wrap that Bexar brought back from the animal clinic. The syringes that Bexar grabbed turned out to be a good thought on his part; Chivo was able to draw from the glass vial with the antibiotics, unscrew the needle, screw the needle into the IV tubing, and inject the medication with ease.
“Where in the fuck did you come from?”
“My mother, so she claims.”
“No asshole, how did you learn all of this?”
“The Army. Special Forces, specifically. Before Apollo and I both got out, got dipped, and went to work fighting our secret-but-important conflicts.”
“What secret conflicts? Pakistan?”
“No, not Pakistan, although that conflict isn’t much of a secret. The last few years we were in southern Mexico and Central America mostly, fighting a war against the cartels, mainly the Zetas. Before that, we rotated through Afghanistan a few times. I ended up spending a total of four hundred seventy-five days in country with that.”
“I’m guessing you weren’t married then.”
“Ha—no. My first and only marriage fell apart fifteen years ago when I first made The Unit.”
“What unit?”
“Delta.”
“What are we going to do here?”
“Once Cliff is mobile, we’re taking our new truck and heading back to the SSC.”
“Did you know him or something?”
“Yeah, well sort of, he was a training officer at The Farm when Apollo and I were dipped. He taught a lot of our transition school.”
“You were already a Special Forces guy; what else did you need to know?”
“All the spy stuff—communications, encryption, dead drops, nothing too James Bond, just standard working knowledge stuff.”
“What’s his background?”
“I have no idea. Talking about anything ‘real’ was highly discouraged. Best I can figure is that he had been a part of the SpecOp community at some point; he knew the right things. To be fair, I don’t even know if ‘Cliff’ is his real name. The cloak and dagger shit is very real to guys like him. Me, I’m just a knuckle dragger putting bullets into bad guys.”
“How long until we can get driving again?”
“I don’t know ... maybe a day, maybe a few days. I’d say we should be ready to sit in place for a week to be safe.”
“But you trust him?”
“I’m not sure.”
The FJ
Bored, Erin played with the shortwave radio in the back seat of the FJ. She slowly flipped through the frequencies, moving the antenna around and trying to get the best signal if she thought she heard something. She stopped on the repeating message from Groom Lake.
“… upon arriving, if you have no means of communicating on the return frequency, locate hanger seven, near the dry lake bed on the southwest corner of the lake bed. Enter the hangar and dial 973555. You will be greeted by one of the civilian residents ...”
With a marker from her bag, Erin wrote 973555 on her arm before moving up frequencies. She stopped on a frequency that had a computer-generated voice reading a series of numbers again. Erin looked at the frequency and noticed it was different than before. Listening closely, she realized that the numbers were no longer only odd numbers. She turned the hand crank and left the station playing when it was interrupted by a loud cartoon voice: “I’ll get you, you varmint!”
Everyone in the SUV jumped at the sudden change, which was followed by a series of tones and then more numbers.
Erin stared at the radio, as if waiting for an explanation. Jessie shook her head and took a deep breath, trying to slow down her breathing after being startled.
“What do you think that was about?”
“I don’t know, Mom, but that was weird.”
Fallbrook, CA
The convoy, short one M-ATV, drove near the town of Fallbrook, which appeared to be mostly destroyed by fire and owned only by the dead, before driving off the paved road, following the directions that Ski had given them. The GPS wasn’t working either. It was like everything in space had failed.
The drive straight through the town should have taken less than half an hour in traffic, but it took three hours due to dodging Zeds and making an attempt to drive the walking corpses in a direction away from where they were going to be operating from. What I wouldn’t give to have some engineers, heavy equipment, and some Hesco. We could build a real FOB and have a place to truly base operations.
On the military crest of a ridge line between Fallbrook and Camp Pendleton, Aymond and what was left of his MSOT set camp. It was close enough that recon patrols could run into Pendleton and still return, but far enough away that their chances of being overrun were low. At least they had escape routes available if things went sideways. At this point, Aymond’s primary concern wasn’t trying to resupply the team; they were still set well for provisions, except for diesel fuel, which they would have to gather while on patrol. The main priority was trying to locate any command structure that remained, or any surviving Marines. For all he knew, he was now the Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps, whatever that was worth anymore. My luck the only surviving officer is some new kid fresh out of the fucking Academy … fuck’m. I’m in charge.
Holding his hand to the horizon, he estimated another two hours until sunset. He told the team to set watch an
d stand down for rest, which meant most of the team wouldn’t really rest, they would just get to switch-off for a bit while they cleaned their M4s and the rest of their gear. Marines, especially Recon Marines, were never really “off”—they just slowed down for a little while to clean gear, PT, or train.
An hour later, security elements lay on the roofs of the trucks watching for any approaching threats, while in the wagon circle, some of his Marines were doing push-ups and buddy squats: squats for reps with their buddy on their shoulders for weight. If they’d had a legitimate FOB, someone would have fashioned a bench and made a barbell out of something, sand-filled gas cans, or water cans ... or something. Never underestimate a Marine’s resourcefulness as well as his need to PT.
Realizing that he had been awake for nearly thirty-six hours, Aymond climbed into the back of his M-ATV and fell asleep, using the gear bags for a bed and pillow.
I-40
Only a few hours went by before the women passed the entrance for the Petrified Forest National Park. That was one park that Jessie and Bexar had never visited, but always wanted to. Even though it killed the small towns along the way, it was helpful for Jessie and her group that I-40 bypassed the hamlets. In each town they entered they found nothing but walking corpses, no survivors, nothing. Despair began to set in each of them. They had assumed that they would have found other survivors as they drove across a good chunk of the western United States, but so far, nothing turned up. Maybe they’re not by the Interstate. I know if I had been by the Interstate when the stampede came through, I would have run for the hills. Hell, I did run for the hills with Bexar. We would still be living safely in The Basin if it wasn’t for that damned biker gang.
Jessie took a few deep breaths and worked to get her thoughts under control as she drove onto the shoulder to pass another group of shambling dead. On the upside, if we ever defeat the dead, this Interstate is clear. Jessie looked at the map and the marks she’d made on it for their route. Even with their early start, she wasn’t sure they could make Groom Lake today; they would need to stop and camp again. Each of the larger towns was circled on the roadmap. Flagstaff, Arizona was the next big hurdle to cross, but that was also the waypoint where they would turn north. Otherwise, they would have to drive through Las Vegas, and as much fun as a gambling fling with the girls sounded, this would not be that kind of trip. At least Erin had quit messing with the shortwave radio; the “numbers” station was creeping her out. Even at the end of the world there were spies and governments doing secret things and it made her feel like someone was watching her. Looking side to side out the windows, she knew that the only eyes following her were already dead, but those eyes didn’t creep her out anymore. They were a nuisance to be dealt with, an aggravation, like fire ants in her yard. No, Jessie had quit worrying about the dead after meeting up with Sarah and Erin. Her only fear was of other people, the school bus being the new threat. With an extra day of camping to rest up, she hoped that the school bus and the crazy family that Sarah described would be long gone and that they wouldn’t meet up with them again.
Jessie glanced at the atlas and the circle around Flagstaff. She saw where the Petrified Forest National Park was noted on the map, so she at least knew where she was; she just wasn’t very sure about how far away the park was or how long it would take to get there.
We can’t do Flagstaff in the dark. We shouldn’t do any large city in the dark, or any small town for that matter; it is just too dangerous. Jessie decided that if they hit the edge of Flagstaff and it was still within a couple hours of sunset, they would backtrack and find a safe place to sleep for the night. Otherwise, they could find a spot on the highway northbound.
Cortez, CO
Cliff woke up with a start, but after years of training and conditioning he was unlike most people. He could control it. With his eyes closed, he took stock of what his body felt like, knowing something was different. Slowly, he opened his eyes and scanned the room. There was an IV in his arm, and his head hurt, but not as badly as his leg, which throbbed with each beat of his heart.
Two men in the room with me, both wearing tactical gear, one white, one Hispanic, both with heavy beards and rifles. The Hispanic man stood near the window, staring outside but standing back from the window so he couldn’t be seen from below. Smart man; he’s been trained. The other man sat in a chair against the wall, dozing, his rifle propped up against the wall. That guy isn’t trained right. Taking stock of his body, Cliff realized that he wasn’t wearing pants or a shirt and that his weapons were nowhere near him. The Hispanic man by the window turned and looked at Cliff, which caused Cliff to smile.
“Chivo, you fucking wetback, what are you doing this far north? There’s no taqueria up here!”
Chivo laughed. “Fuck you WASP. I came up here because I heard you needed help with your golf game. All your friends from the country club were making fun of you for your small putter.”
The laughter woke Bexar. The laughter also made Cliff’s head and leg hurt worse, but he was happy to see a familiar face. Slowly, the memory of the burning bus and driving out to the firefight came back into focus, but Cliff couldn’t remember how he’d gotten back to the house or how he’d ended up naked with an IV.
“You were in a bad way, mano, but we were lucky to have you come pull our asses out of that fire. Once we got back here, I sent Bexar on a supply run. If you feel like eating some hay it’s probably from the vet clinic meds we gave you.”
Cliff moo’ed and laughed. It had been years since Chivo showed up to The Farm and years since Cliff took Chivo out on his first OGA operations, which ran differently than he was used to with The Unit.
“Where’s Odin? Who’s this guy?”
“Valhalla—guarding the gates. Same with Apollo and Zennie. This is Bexar.”
Bexar stared at Cliff. “So you’re the asshole in Groom Lake.”
“Yup ... at least I was, until I was stranded in this shithole. Why are you here with this short asshole? Shouldn’t you be with your family and at the SSC?”
Bexar stared at Cliff and walked out of the room. Chivo tossed Cliff his clothing as he pulled the IV out of his arm.
“He’s all that’s left, mano; bikers killed his daughter and his wife. When we plucked his ass out of south Texas, he was in a hell of a battle with them. An IED went off and leveled the place; all we found was him, and he nearly died too. Drove him to the SSC where he recovered. Apollo and his chick, Lindsey, formed the rest of the team that left to come get you. In Albuquerque, a fucking massive herd of undead blew through and knocked a bridge out from under us, killed Apollo and Lindsey. Zennie was killed leaving Mexico, Odin died in El Paso. It’s been a complete shit storm, a damned clusterfuck from the beginning.”
“So how does he do?”
“Bexar? He’s solid. Needs more training, but he’s got it and doesn’t hesitate to get in the shit. He pulled my ass out of the bus. They ambushed us with an RPG. Who are these people?”
“Some sort of cult—a very well-armed cult—mostly hopped up on meth. We rescued a group of survivors who’d been living in the middle school; they were on the run from these cultists. They’re sick fucks; they decapitated bodies and left the reanimated heads in a basketball rack. The Herc we were on was put down by an RPG as well. I’m not sure what else they have, but every member has been armed with an M4 and I’ve seen some M2s in trucks. After I took shelter, I started running recon ops, but so far I only have a couple of places marked and I don’t even have them figured out yet.”
“So cut and run or what?”
“No, we need to find the rest of the survivor group if we can. Fuck this cult. We get our people and we get out of here. With you two here we can do it better. You guys got commo?”
“Sort of. Bexar’s headset was destroyed with his bump helmet, but the rest of his gear looks to be fine; my gear is fine. Also, SATCOM is down.”
“Huh. OK, so no commo. We’ll have to adapt and overcome … where’s my map and my n
otebook? There’s a church we need to check first.”
Near Fallbrook, CA
Aymond woke and wiped the drool off his face. The sun was down, and the moon shone brightly against the hillside. He checked the windup watch hanging from his gear and it showed eleven p.m. Winding it, he climbed out of the back of the truck to check on the security team.
“All quiet, Chief. We haven’t had anything moving near us all afternoon.”
“OK. Tomorrow we start sending patrols.”
Aymond walked around the perimeter of his camp; the darkness was incredible. There should be lights from the town, lights from the installation, light pollution everywhere, but there wasn’t. There was no artificial light to be seen in any direction; only the moonlight brought the hills to life. It reminded him of northern Afghanistan, except that the hills in California were much smaller, and there weren’t any cooking fires that he could see. The star-filled sky was just as staggering and impressive, quickly making a thinking man feel small and insignificant to the universe.
Maybe this is man’s extinction event; maybe our turn is over. No, this isn’t nature. This isn’t the natural course; this is an attack. We failed to protect our own home soil, and now we have to take it back. Aymond looked at the trucks around him. There is no way I can do it with so few, but we’ll have to try. If we find nothing, no other survivors, we’ll start clearing towns, using every last piece of weaponry we can scavenge. When the last round on earth is fired, we’ll use machetes; when the machetes are gone, we will use rocks; when the rocks are gone, we will use our hands. We will win. We have to win.
I-40, the FJ
The sun fell lower and lower against the horizon. Jessie was still behind the wheel, and she was enjoying the time more so than if she had been just sitting. At least she had the driving to keep her occupied. Erin slept out of boredom, which was understandable—no radio, no books, nothing to keep you occupied as you sit in the back of an old SUV rolling across the great American West. For a while, they all played a game of trying to label some of the walking corpses they passed with what they did before they died. Some were easy; police uniforms for example, sort of gave it away. Others, such as the severely obese and nude, were harder but often gave funny results. One man had a long, inexplicably neon pink beard and hair that led to a wild speculative discussion lasting at least twenty minutes. Erin referred to the popular buffet-based restaurants as “Golden Trough,” and the larger the person, the more likely they would be labeled as the “live-in roll tester,” or the perpetual “white trash mobility scooter racing driver.” At times it was hilarious, but others, like the woman who carried her reanimated infant in a backpack, were far from funny.