by Smith, S. L.
“I wasn’t! I didn’t mean – aahhh!” Isherwood grimaced. “Every. Stinking. Time.”
“No, but really,” Justin said, quickly changing tact. “There’s just this padlock, and then we can pull it up. There’s some hooks or something in the floor, but those just wiggle out. It’s all yours, axe-man.”
“Man,” Isherwood said. “This is gonna notch the heck out of this nice, new axe. But,” he hesitated. His face suddenly brightened. “But, I’ll soon have my pick of replacements.” At the last word, he let the axe fly without even a practice swing. It missed the mark by several inches, so he tried again squaring his feet perpendicular to the gate. He took a practice swing. And then another swing. And another. Sparks kept flying, but the padlock was holding.
“Trouble in paradise,” Justin asked.
“Yup.” Isherwood said, lowering the axe to the floor and catching his breath. “This isn’t working.”
“Hey, guys.” Patrick called out. “Before you get too far along raising this thing, we got company.” Black figures were beginning to emerge from the shadows and rake their rotting fingertips against the far side of the security grill. “Gross,” Patrick continued. “They’re drooling all over the place. If I slip in this crap,” he trailed off, mumbling to himself about eye juices.
“Look here,” Justin said. “I’ve got an idea. Might’ve seen this on Die Hard Five or Six, I can’t remember. Or maybe it was Kindergarten Cop? Who knows. Let me see that axe and your mini-sledge.”
Patrick handed over the sledgehammer, leaving his friends at the gate to rummage among the spare tools in the maintenance bays. “I’m gonna get myself a sweet hunting knife out of that cabinet in sporting goods,” he was saying to himself. “Always loved looking at all those knives as a kid, but never had much money or use for a second pocket knife, let alone one of those nice, long Bowie knives. Oh yeah, gonna get a hit holster for it, too. But,” he said, grabbing a long tool out of the drawers of a red steel mechanic’s tool chest. “This will be nicely until I get one.”
Patrick walked calmly back to the security grill carrying a 28-inch Phillips head screwdriver. “Guys, look. This is like the perfect tool for this. Watch.”
Justin turned away from his efforts at unsuccessfully stuffing the handle of the axe into the shackle of the padlock. As he and Isherwood watched, Patrick rammed the screwdriver into the eye socket of one of the Wal-Mart zombies.
“That’s probably the longest screwdriver I’ve ever—” Isherwood began.
“Shhh!” Patrick raised a finger. “Watch this part.”
The zombie fell backwards as the metal shaft of the screwdriver hit home, but as it fell, Patrick let go, and the zombie’s head slid off the screwdriver as the grip caught between the horizontal metal rods of the security grill. The screwdriver was just resting on the grill, waiting for its next target. “Awesome, right?” Patrick smiled, admiring his handiwork.
Isherwood nodded, too, in admiration. “Gnarly,” Justin added.
“I know, right?” Patrick said, thrusting the screwdriver into another Walmartian skull.
“This isn’t gonna work,” Justin said. “But all I need a piece of metal that tapers to a point, and I’m home free.”
“Go look through the drawers of the tool boxes.” Patrick advised. “There’re like a million different tools in the shop.”
Justin came back a couple seconds later with a handful of tools. “You were right, dude. This place is loaded. This file should work.”
“I’m almost done here, guys,” Patrick said. “Do your worst.”
Justin shoved the point of the file down into the shackle of the padlock. “Wanna hold this for me?” He smiled, winking at Isherwood. He then took the sledge hammer and pounded down on the wider end of the file. After three or so knocks, the padlock clattered open.
“Nice,” Isherwood said. “Didn’t even need my umbrella.”
They waited a while longer rattling the bars of the grill until the trickle of oncoming zombies finally stopped. “Alright, fat kids.” Justin said, “Welcome to the candy store!”
They rolled up the grill and shoved the bodies to the side, so they could lower the grill back in place. They decided to stack up the bodies later. Isherwood sprinted off to the gun cases in the sporting goods department, and Patrick followed after him. Patrick still arrived several strides ahead of Isherwood. Justin, for his part, walked and stood in the middle of one of the five main side aisles, letting the moment soak in. He, too, definitely felt the itch to help raid the firearms and ammunition, but there was something else, too.
Isherwood also took a moment of his own to behold the glory of the gun displays. Patrick, for his part, took the sledge hammer to the knife display upon arrival.
“I can’t believe it, Patty O’Hooligan. It’s untouched. Completely, actually untouched. All at our fingertips. Ohhh, man.” He whacked the latches and padlocks off all the plexi-glass doors and sliding cabinets. He paused for a second, thinking. “Dangit. One sec – I need just one more thing to make this perfect.”
Isherwood made to run off but stopped. “Looking for some of these?” Justin smiled, as he rolled five or six nested shopping carts down the aisle.
“Yes! Justin, you magnificent man, you read my mind. How can we have a shopping spree without shopping carts? Now, it’s perfect.” He hurried back over to one of the glass cabinets. “First, a stocking stuffer: one awesome set of binoculars.”
“Here,” Patrick said, handing a hunting knife and sheath to each of them. “Loop these into your belts, just in case we get any more surprise visitors.”
There were two rotating displays of guns, and Isherwood and Justin were each at one of them, slowly turning the rotating gun racks, mesmerized. “No ARs, of course.” Justin observed, “it’s Wal-Mart after all, but dang. Just dang.”
Isherwood picked up another .308 Winchester with scope like Monsignor’s, but newer, and placed it in his basket. Next, he added a .30-06 Springfield with a hard rubber stock and scope, bolt-action. He picked up a 270 next. It didn’t have a scope, but it was camouflaged. Isherwood really wanted to raid the pistols next, but needed to get Sara’s bow next. Then he noticed, frowning, that Wal-Mart didn’t sell handguns.
He took an empty basket with him to the fishing aisle and filled it with every bowfishing product imaginable, including the store’s entire stock of broadheads and arrows. He ran the cart over to the automotive section, and hurried back to the guns. This time, he starting tapping all the padlocks off the ammunition cases. At first, he was careful. But soon, he was dropping armloads into the basket. He quickly regressed, though, when he saw the mess he was making.
“Alright, guys.” Patrick said and had to repeat himself. When Isherwood and Justin finally pulled themselves away from the gun displays and ammo cases, they noticed that Patrick’s entire belt was full of knives.
“Where’re you headed, Dundee?” Justin asked him.
“I’m gonna grab every big plastic container I can and fill them with salt, curing salt, sea salt – basically all the salt in the store – plus vinegar and water. Then, I’m gonna dump in whatever meat still looks salvageable. Oh, and I’ll probably use the knives, too.”
“Wow, that’s genius.” Isherwood said. “How’d you know to do all that?”
“Well, your Gran and I were talking about it after our trip to Langlois yesterday, plus there’s a set of encyclopedias in Monsignor’s study. I just scaled it up a bit. Actually, you know, it was the bard that inspired me: ‘She hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub.’ Measure for Measure.”
“Whoa.” Isherwood was shaking his head. “That’s all – wow. I’m super impressed. We’ll do that at Langlois, too, then.”
“What’s a bard?” Justin asked, looking through a scope up at one of the sky lights.
Patrick didn’t answer him, but started mumbling something about a “tub of infamy.”
CHAPTER TWELVE: NEW GREEN
Jerry, it h
ad turned out, wasn’t able to take the nap he had wanted in the truck while the boys went on their shopping spree. Instead, he had spent his time making some modifications to Justin’s blue Chevy, or what used to be a blue Chevy. He had grabbed an armful of black matte finish spray paint cans from the Paint department, spurning the rolls of blue painter’s tape that were also within easy reach. After giving the truck a new coat of paint, concealing the bright blue and the chrome accents, he located a full set of replacement tires. Finding a battery-operated drill that still held a charge, he installed mounting brackets all around the sides of the truck. He hung four spare tires and wheels on each side of the truck, two whole sets. Next, he tore apart and disassembled a chain link enclosure and metal pole that stood at the corner of the automotive department. It had probably been used at some point to store returned items or unruly customers, but was now empty. He sprayed all that down with the black spray paint, as well, and mounted it along the inside of the bed of the truck. Jerry was able to screw in or bolt most of the fencing onto the truck, but he secured the rest with his welding supplies. He added a couple more mounting brackets to the top of the cab to snap an aluminum ladder onto. He was just putting the finishing touches on a grill guard when the creaking wheels of shopping carts signaled the return of the shoppers.
“Whoa,” Isherwood said, leaning against the door frame in amazement. The sun had moved past noon, and the light from the skylights was starting to fade, but they could still see the truck clear enough.
“What’s that?” Justin said in confusion. “Where’d my truck go?”
“That is your truck,” Isherwood explained. Justin only needed momentary consoling, as he began to wrap his mind about the magnitude of the job Jerry had done.
Jerry eventually noticed them and pulled up his welding hood. “Couldn’t fall asleep,” he explained, standing back to admire his handiwork. “It’s no Old Red, but it’ll do.”
“It needs a name,” Patrick decided aloud, as began loading up the bed of the truck with all their new acquisitions. “Man, we’ve got a lot more storage room now. I’m gonna run back and grab every box of cereal and bag of rice I can. We can just throw it atop all our new gear since we’ve got this metal cage now.”
“How about the zombie-mobile or the Mystery Machine?” Isherwood offered lamely.
“Let Justin name it,” Jerry said, as he went about picking up his tools.
“How about Old Blue?” Justin said, bowing his head in reverence.
Isherwood raised an eyebrow. “It’s really not blue at all anymore, though, is it?”
Justin shook his head. “That’s why it’s ‘OLD Blue.’ Sheesh.”
“Whatever, man.” Isherwood clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s load up. We may still have time to make a pass by the car dealership.”
Jerry perked up. “The tractor dealership?”
Isherwood grimace, thinking about it. The John Deere dealership was at the other end of Hospital Road. He didn’t want to risk driving up Hospital Road in broad daylight, but they could probably take the back way. They could go north up Major Parkway as they had the other day, but instead of turning right for the bridge, go left towards the Morganza Highway. That would also take them by a couple gas stations.
“Okay. Let’s grab some extra fuel cans while we’re here in the Automotive Department. We’ll make a gas run, and use the opportunity to check out the zed situation around the end of Hospital Road.”
“Grab a hand pump, too.” Jerry added. “That should work on those underground tanks. Gasoline will be crap soon. Diesel lasts a hell of a lot longer. Less volatile.”
“The airport’s out that way, too.” Patrick added, returning with his first cart of cereal boxes. “We’ll need to check that out eventually.”
Isherwood’s head was starting to swim with ideas and things that still needed doing. He hadn’t even thought about the airport yet. He doubted the planes still left in the hangars would be much good for anything without adhering to a regular maintenance schedule. Hadn’t his Grandad and Uncle Jimmy always talked about that? Both were pilots. Jimmy was pretty close in age to Isherwood despite being his uncle. He was a helicopter pilot for the Louisiana National Guard, actually he was the battalion commander for the state’s whole fleet of assault and rescue helicopters. When everything started going down, they knew Jimmy would be in the thick of it, for better or worse, and they hadn’t heard from his family since. Isherwood knew that if Jimmy were still alive, he’d be trying to get to Gran, his mother, as soon as humanly possible. Gran and Lizzy had left a note on the kitchen counter telling whoever might come by that they’d moved to St. Mary’s. But it had been a long time since they’d heard helicopter blades overhead.
A thought like a stroke of thunder just reverberated through Isherwood’s mind. “Oh my God!” He said aloud to no one in particular. “The National Guard outpost. I forgot all about it. We’ve got to go there next. Screw the car dealership. They’ve got armored vehicles, transports, and –”
“An armory,” Justin said, his eyes lighting up.
*****
It turned out that there was a more zombie activity at the end of Hospital Road than they had hoped to encounter. Jerry was helping Isherwood locate the underground tanks and figure out how to use the hand pump. Justin and Patrick circled around them taking out the two or three zombies that were coming every five minutes or so. Patrick was testing out the dozen or so knives he had slipped onto his belt. Justin was sighting in the scope of a Savage Mark II .22 rifle he had taken from Wal-Mart, using exploding zombie heads to test his accuracy.
After about half an hour, they were able to fill the tank of the truck, which was still at half a tank, with the hand pump. After filling one of the spare fuel tanks almost halfway, Justin called over to Isherwood that the zombie action was getting a little too hot. Instead of twos and threes, the zombies were beginning to come, mostly from the direction of Hospital Road, in groups of five or more.
They packed up quickly and stowed their gear in Old Blue. Before they left, Isherwood grabbed one of the cans of black spray paint that Jerry had been using to paint the truck. He ran over to the entrance of the gas station where there was a broad expanse of concrete. He began by drawing a long line roughly pointed in the direction of St. Mary’s. He added a loop to the line making it a giant ‘P’ and then added another two lines. These formed an ‘X’ which intersected with the ‘P’. It was a giant Chi-Rho.
Justin was slowly backing away from a growing crowd of zombies. “That’s enough doodling, Isherwood.”
*****
Jerry was insistent that, since they were within spitting distance of the John Deere dealership, that they find a way to pass by it. Isherwood resisted as daylight was growing short, but eventually relented. He led them onto the Morganza Highway heading west. They laid on the horn, trying to get as many of the zombies to follow them as possible. Next, they turned up Airport Road with a fair crop of followers. This gave Patrick the chance he had wanted to survey the airstrip, hangars, and support buildings of the rural airport. They were going slowly again, less than ten miles per hour, so the hoard could keep up with them.
When Airport Road ended at the River Road – the same road wound around past the bridge and on all the way to New Orleans – they turned south onto the River Road. After another half mile or so, they gunned it, making the loop back to the Morganza Highway and Hospital Road. They cross over a set of railroad tracks which marked the northern end of Hospital Road. The John Deere dealership was just on the other side of the tracks.
They turned into a u-shaped driveway of the John Deere place. It was nearing 4pm. The driveway marked the edges of a man-made hill on which several models of tractors were displayed.
“The one out front would do just fine,” Jerry said, as they rummaged through the front office. “It’s got the right tilling implement already latched on. It’s probably got some fuel in it already, too.”
Isherwood was starting to unde
rstand. Uncle Jerry had passed by those display models probably a hundred thousand times in his life. He had seen other farmers, bigger and more successful farmers, buying tractors right off the showroom floor. All the while, buying a brand new tractor had been unthinkable. He had been fighting with the same old tractor for decades. That bright green John Deere paint had been teasing this man, Isherwood thought, his whole life. But not anymore.
“Got it,” Isherwood called out, pulling a set of keys out of a desk drawer. “The tag says DISPLAY.”
The young men fanned out around the small hill as Jerry climbed the hill and into the cab of a large green tractor. It seemed more like a tank than a tractor, Isherwood thought. Instead of tires, the tractor had four sets of tracks. It seemed a little big for the church grounds. He didn’t know if Jerry planned on plowing fields or zombies.
Jerry locked himself in the Command View cab, and turned the key in the ignition. Amazingly, the tractor roared to life. He drove the tractor clear off the hill and onto Hospital Road. The tractor was disappearing over the railroad tracks before the rest of them realized what was happening.
“Alright, guys. We better follow him, because I don’t think he plans on stopping.”
“He, uh –? Hey, what about the –?” Patrick stammered. “He gave us back the keys to Old Blue, right?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: INDEFECTABILITY
“I’m really enjoying our coffee dates, Smithy.” Sara said pretending to be bashful. She and Isherwood were strolling through the Prayer Garden.
The garden was situated nearly at the center of the church grounds. The rectory, the church office, and the parish hall formed sort of an ‘L’ shape and the prayer garden was tucked into the corner of the ‘L’. It was the spot where they had helped hide Easter eggs for the kids. A tall cross stood on a brick plinth at the center of the garden. The cross rose from the center of a rectangular green lawn, which was surrounded by rings of azaleas and crape myrtles. A grove of tall pine trees led away from the garden into open fields.