Travis knew how to pack a bag. I looked at him again, shaking my head and sighing. I would bury him in the morning.
I covered Travis with the sleeping bag, ate some jerky, drank some water, and sacked out on the cot. Much like the dude who lived in this shack, the cot looked weak but was quite strong.
I had no sheet, and I always have trouble sleeping without a covering. By that, I mean I’m more comfy with a blanket. When it’s a billion degrees outside, and there’s no AC, it’s tough for me to get to sleep because I want at least a sheet on me. I don’t know where that stems from, but I was always like that, pre-plague and pre-prison. I had a conversation about this with Ship once, and he told me a bit about why he thinks I need the sheet. He said it is a feeling of vulnerability when I sleep, and that it wasn’t uncommon.
I was feeling pretty vulnerable. Travis had set and bandaged my arm while I was sleeping, but it still fucking hurt, as it had recently been broken. It was hot as balls, and I was friendless and far from home. I felt even more vulnerable when I woke up after sleeping for God knows how long, and there were dogs scratching at my shack. Except they weren’t dogs, and you can see exactly where this is going.
I don’t know if they smelled me, or they had followed Travis as he carried me, or if they had come to investigate the candlelight, but I could only assume that these were the vanguard of a larger force on the way, or these were desert roamers searching for a quick snack. There were three of them, two on the right side and one behind my position. I was hot, tired, and broken, but these fuckers had to go. They weren’t making much noise, but as soon as I made any sound, they would follow suit and bring anything in the area to me. Unless there was nothing in the area, I had no idea where I was.
The door to the shack was as rickety as the rest of it. I picked up my MP5, but it would be a tough go, as I was in a sling. I opted for the suppressed Sig, and had to thank Travis again for not leaving my shit behind. I ejected the mag to inspect my rounds by the flickering candle, and when I did, all three of them stopped scratching. They must have heard me eject the magazine. They continued scratching in a moment, not yowling or moaning any louder. I could only see the top two rounds, and tried to load another but the magazine wouldn’t take it. I slid it back into the weapon as quietly as possible, but it still made a snick! sound, and the things stopped again, listening. It wasn’t until I opened the door that they went off with their awful cries.
I plugged number one quickly, moved around the side of the shack, and found two and three. I gave a low whistle, and of course, they both turned around. The second one had no face, and I shot her first. The third was down one second later, and a second after that, the fourth one hit me from the side. Of course, I stumbled, and of course, I fell, and of course, that dead bastard landed on me, squishing my broken fucking arm between us.
I saw stars, both in the quiet night sky, and in my own private agony. The pus bag didn’t give a rat’s ass about stars, and leaned in to make my Adam’s apple his own personal piece of fruit. I thumped him on the side of the dome with the butt of my weapon, and it stunned him. It was awkward to get the long-barreled suppressor up to his head, but I did, and put a bullet through it. He collapsed on me, and I got his melon juice in my mouth. I had been gritting my teeth with a grimace, but his goo still got in there.
You obviously haven’t sampled zombie tar-tar, or you’d be dead, but I have to tell you, for posterity: it ain’t nice. I pushed the fucker off me, spitting, and proceeded to gag. It was a totality of horrible, as the flavor of death just overwhelmed everything else. The pain in my arm wasn’t forgotten, but it took second fiddle, at least for a solid minute, to the disgust of what was happening to me.
It was fucking gross.
It was so debilitating, that it took me a moment to remember I should be afraid. When the fear came back, so did the arm pain, and the trifecta was complete. I pushed him off me, scrambled up, still spitting, and sought out more creatures in every direction at once. I couldn’t see shit in the darkness, and didn’t want to risk looking with a flashlight.
I got back inside and quickly extinguished the candle. Hopefully, the stench of the dead outside would mask my smell. I lay down on the cot, but sleep didn’t come.
My eyes were burning when I realized that the sun was poking through the gaps between the barn board. I got up, got a quick drink of water, and took a peek outside. When I opened the door, the heat of the day hit me hard. It was palpable, and I had to take a step back inside for a moment. I slid quickly through the portal again, doing a circuit of the shack to check just how alone I was.
I was greeted by the scrub. There was nothing else except the bodies of the dead I had smoked last night.
I had to go, and sooner rather than later. I found a shovel, and began to dig a grave for Travis. The other four assholes could rot. That’s what I was thinking at least, until I got to about the tenth shovel full of dirt. I only had one arm and it was a hundred degrees in the shade. I simply couldn’t do it.
In the end, I put him inside the sleeping bag and covered his face with one of his shirts. I felt bad, but I could literally kill myself trying to bury him, and Travis had actually killed himself in saving me, so I wouldn’t fuck that up for either of us. I apologized to him, took a swig of the bottle of whiskey he had on a work bench, and poured the rest on the ground next to him. I still hate whiskey, but drinking to Travis had been a moral imperative.
I packed as much shit as I could in his pack, including what he had in there already, and all the water. There was some food I had to leave behind, but it wasn’t much. I attached the hunting rifle to the side of the pack as well. I conducted another search for a map, preferably with a big YOU ARE HERE stamp, but came up empty again. I closed the door on the shack, and put two rocks in front of it after I shut the little wooden latch.
I couldn’t put the back pack on with the sling, and it was too bulky to have on one arm, so I had to take the sling off to put the pack on. That sucked, but I was able to do it. I grabbed the pack strap with my left hand, but it hurt too much, so I jury rigged the sling to the pack to make my own sling, and it worked okay.
I glanced at the shack, looked at the compass on the pack flap, and started moving southwest. If I didn’t find a road or town, I would eventually hit the Gulf of Mexico or the Mexican border, and I would be able to backtrack and find the Double Hoof from there. Unless I got eaten, or cooked in this oppressive heat. Aren’t there a crapload of rattlesnakes and scorpions and shit out here too? Fuck.
I took the first step to the southwest and dared another glance back at the little house I had called home for… I don’t know how long. How long had I been there? Something else to contemplate other than my imminent demise.
I took my first rest about five hours after I had started. If I were walking at about three miles per hour, then I was more than halfway home. I hadn’t seen so much as a sand flea on the ground, but I did see some kind of big bird flying way up above me. I couldn’t tell what kind because it was right in the sun. I stopped for a sip of water another hour or so in, and now I could see three of the fuckers right above me, circling. I took the rifle out of the backpack holster I had fashioned and took aim at one of them to see what it was.
I don’t know birds. I mean, I think I can tell the difference between a hawk and a seagull, but that’s about it. These were big and they kept flying in and out of my scope, so I couldn’t tell. There were five when it started to get dark, then they took off. Fucking vultures are what is flying around up there, waiting for me to die. Assholes. These douches were worse than the zombies. They were going to wait until I was too weak to defend myself, fly their feathered asses down here, and tear into me. I’ve never been anti-buzzard before, but fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all. All I can think of is that stupid vulture from the Bugs Bunny cartoons saying: Oh no! Noo, nooooo, noope! Sanctimonious prick. Hey, I watched a lot of cartoons in prison. I also saw the Arnold version of Conan. Hashtag tastes like chicken.
Last night, I had stayed in a shack and not slept. Tonight, I was going to not-sleep on the dirt in east Texas with no shack around me. I thought of every western movie I had ever seen, when they camp out and have that awesome fire with the rocks around it, and they bust out a harmonica and lay down on their bedrolls.
Fuck that.
All I could think about was how a fire would draw the living dead, snakes would bite me, or scorpions would sting my balls. Were there any nasty scorpions or tarantulas out here? They freak me the hell out. I had to lay down on Travis’ blanket and hope none of that scary shit came near me.
Sorry, Dear Reader, but nothing did. I actually did fall asleep. If anything nibbled on me, I didn’t know about it, and nothing looked swollen or bitten. I stood up and stretched, looking for a place to shake the weasel, and I looked right at the back of a dead guy not fifty feet away. He was walking away from me at such an angle that he must have stumbled by less than twenty feet from me.
Remo, when you read this, realize I have had some traumatic experiences lately and was exhausted.
Spit out toothpick. “That’s how you get dead, dumbass,” is what he’s going to say.
I picked up my Sig, drew on him, and whistled. It was over in a couple of seconds. Any other time and I would have gone with the knife, but I was fucked up. I made a radio call, no joy. Nobody loves me.
A few hours later, and I saw the road and signs for Raymondville. I realized I had gone too far south and headed north.
It only took a half hour to start recognizing stuff. The dusty road from the Double Hoof was under my feet a bit after that, and I smiled a big shit eater. Another hour and I was looking at the gates.
I couldn’t see anybody in the tower, so I cupped my hands over my mouth and shouted, “Little pig, little pig, let me the fuck in!”
I was expecting a sweet nursery rhyme come-back, but nope. I called on the radio again and nope. With this gate, and Ship’s improved wall design, I wasn’t getting in this way, so I circled to the left. In about half a mile, I followed a ramp into the moat and stood in front of a spot where we hadn’t shored up the earth wall. I had to leave the backpack behind, but I was able to scale the dirt on the second try, broken arm and all. I was to the east of the compound and couldn’t see it, so I began my trek west. I saw the smoke in just a few minutes, and it chilled me to the bone.
Creeping slowly past a stand of Acacia trees, I busted out my little binoculars. I could see there was nothing left of the barn but smoldering embers. Two dead horses lay just outside where the big doors to the barn used to be. I couldn’t tell from here how they had died, but there was blood on the grass. The main house had been spared, but the front door was gone. There were no dead here, either living or true, other than the horses that I could see.
I surveyed the area for a while, then cut around to the north to the solar array. The shed was fine, but nobody was around. I couldn’t see through the trees on the far side of the array, so I used them as cover to get a little closer.
A Blackhawk helicopter sat behind the trees with two Humvees. Two guys in black pants with their shirts off sat by the chopper playing cards in the shade of the shadow of one of the vehicles. Definitely military, or ex-military.
Two reasons they would be here: To take what Deek had, or they were looking for someone. I nodded to myself, the ire rising. I wondered if my eyes were going red, but I forced myself to calm down, flexing my fingers into fists slowly. I moved back through the solar panels, into the far tree line, and waited for darkness.
Rescue, Sort Of
The light of the mostly full moon glinted off of the black paint of the helicopter. I watched the same two guys I had seen earlier still playing cards by lantern light. Two Hummers and a helo meant that these guys were just on guard watching the vehicles. I was about twenty feet away, behind one of the big piles of firewood that I had covered with a blue tarp myself, not a week ago.
“Did the L.T. say where they took the prisoners?”
Prisoners? Now I don’t know what a fucking doornail is, but my mom used to say Dead as a doornail to me all the time. When your father gets home and sees this, you’re dead as a doornail. Yup, fuck these assholes. Doornails. All of ‘em.
“No, but it’s gotta be back at the Herc.”
“What about the hot one?”
“Same I would think.”
The first one sighed. “Shame.”
“Time is it?” the first one asked a couple of minutes later.
Guy looked at his watch, flipping his cards so the other guy could see. Second guy was oblivious. “Time to check in.” He picked up a radio and made a call. “Command, this is One checking in, over.”
One, Command copies, check in confirmed.
They went back to playing their game, and I moved back into the tree line and waited some more.
Ten minutes or so later one of them stood, throwing his hand down and stretching. “Fuckin’ cheater. Gotta see a man about a horse.” The other guy laughed and leaned back in his camp chair.
Finally, luck was on my side. This asshole was coming straight at me. He moved into the trees, unbuckled his pants, and squatted down. The only sound he or I made was a muffled MMMFFF! as I covered his mouth and jerked his head back with my left hand. Pain shot through my broken left arm, but I’m thinking his pain was worse when I drove my SOG hilt deep into his throat and sawed back like I had seen Remo do before. He struggled briefly, more pain shooting through my arm, but he bled out in less than fifteen seconds. I drove the knife into both eyes to make sure he wouldn’t surprise me later. I checked him over, but the only thing I took were his radio and six fat zip ties.
“Come on, man, pinch it off, I’m kicking your ass here!”
Oh, I’ma pinch something off, you dirty pouch full of dick tips. Maybe your nuts. I felt a tear come to my eye, but I was pissed, not sad. I wiped it away, but in the darkness couldn’t see my hand. Let’s face it, Dear Reader, we both know what color it was.
In the movies, either the good guy or the bad guy is always able to sneak up on the guards. I mean, do they have a Stupid Guard Farm where they purchase these dick heads? Why are they always oblivious?
Me? I wouldn’t have gone off by myself in unfamiliar territory to drop a deuce anyway, for fear of getting something important chomped off by a wayward zombie. Even if one of my buddies did, I would have watched his ass (literally) while he was so vulnerable. AND, when this guy called out to his pal, and his pal didn’t answer, all sorts of red flags would have gone up.
I had my suppressor on the back of his head as he looked down at a weak two pair in his poker hand. Aces and eights. Fucking classic.
“Please start to yell or something so I can blow your fucking mind out.”
The guy swallowed, but smartly said nothing.
“On your knees, Fuckknuckles, hands on your head.” He complied and I kicked him forward so he was on his belly. “Hands behind your back.” I sat on him and used the zip ties to bind his wrists, then his ankles. I used a second one to double up on his wrists. I yanked him up, a bit unkindly, and began my questioning.
He didn’t even look at me.
“How many men did you bring? Where are they? Where are my friends? Did you kill any of them? Why are you here?”
Standard questions that you knew I was going to ask him. He didn’t say shit.
“Fine.” I pulled out my knife and showed it to him, wiggling it in front of his face. His eyes got big, but he didn’t say anything. I moved behind him and cut a piece of cloth from his shirt which was draped over the open window of one of the Hummers. I also liberated a black balaclava.
“Open your mouth.”
He looked away from me, so I thumped him on the temple with the butt of the SOG. He opened his mouth, and when he did, I shoved the big hunk of shirt in it. Duct tape would have been ideal, but I didn’t have the time to go fishing through the vehicles for some. I fastened two of the zip ties together, then threaded it t
hrough his mouth securing at the back of his head. He wouldn’t be making any sounds.
“Do I really have to do this?”
He looked away, so I stood him up. I sighed, shook my head, and shot him in the left foot. The suppressed shot seemed loud, but I knew nobody would hear it out here. He screamed a muffled scream and collapsed, trying to inch away from me.
“And just so you know I’m not fucking around…” I shot him in the right foot.
I had never tortured anyone before. I didn’t know if I was good at it or not, but as previously stated, I didn’t have tons of time.
“Listen up, Chief, I put holes in your feet, that’s all. They’ll heal. Next are your knees, and when that happens, you’re dead. At some point, you’re going to have to run, everybody does, and you’ll never run again with no knees. After your knees, we move up a tad. You with me, Dog?” He nodded quickly.
Okay, so trying to cut off a thick zip tie from around a guy’s head is damn difficult with a knife. I was able to do it, but he was bleeding from the scalp before I was done.
“How many are you?” I asked him in my calmest voice.
“Eighteen,” he said between teeth that were clamped shut, “but six went back to the plane when we were done.”
“Where’s the plane?”
“At an airfield near Raymondville. Bell Airfield, I think.”
“Did you kill any of my friends?”
He looked at me for the briefest of seconds, hesitated, and said, “No.”
The Zombie Theories (Book 3): Conversion Theory Page 28