by Eddie Austin
“Hey, can I borrow your rifle today? My plan is to make for the clinic once she’s up. You can drive and she’ll give you directions. I’ll stay in the bed of the truck and pick off any zombies that I see. Is that scope dialed in?”
“Not really, I haven’t messed with it in a while, and I’m used to compensating for how it shoots. High and right. You can borrow it, but you need to replace the ammo you use, or give me some compensation.”
“Right. Well, first off, I’ll let you keep that apartment in town that you want. Second, you can come in for any of the medical supplies you might need since you’re a contributing member of the town now. As far as getting ammo out of me, I think you should stop being greedy and consider that I’ll be covering your ass with the rounds I shoot. You volunteered to be here, and it’s your ticket into our society.”
Not the answer I was hoping for.
“Fine, but I think you should be more forgiving. You folks trade with ammo and treat it like money. Just seems wrong to use up my personal stash and just expect it without asking. I’m helping you out by being here.”
“I’m grateful for your help. Look, I’m asking to use it; not telling you. If you really want, you can take your truck and all your stuff and go now. I never wanted to run the show, but I’m good at it. I think we can make a nice place to live if people will just get along and help each other out. If you don’t want to be part of that, then go back to your barn and have a nice life.”
I stop to think. Having a stable buffer of civilization between me and the chaos/hordes of undead out west can only benefit me. I just hope when all this is over, I can cut ties if I want and go back to my old routines. I hand him the rifle and give him a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“All right, you lead the way, man. Just remember me the next time you guys knock off a coffee warehouse.”
He smiles and it looks genuine. “Kyle, if I have it my way, you’ll be there with us picking the beans. Anyway, I’m going to go adjust this sight. If she’s not up in ten, get her going.”
And with that, he makes his way out past the scrub and marks off an “X” on the trunk of a young oak with his knife. I decide that if the AR-15 doesn’t wake her up, there was no way I can.
A moment later, I hear Molly screaming upstairs. I swing the door open and call up the stairs, “You ok up there?”
I wait at the door hesitantly, hearing no reply before going up the stairs. When I do, I can see she is curled up on her back staring at the slant of the roof. Slats of sunlight light her blanket as she lies there. “Hey.” I say softly.
She turns and looks at me before she answers in a hoarse voice, “I spilled my whiskey.”
“That sucks. Bryce wants to get moving. You’re supposed to ride with me and give directions. He’s going to sharp-shoot from the back of the truck.”
She groans and turns the empty bottle upside down looking for another drop. Giving up, she stands, wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. She raises an eyebrow at me. “You going to help me get dressed?”
“Can’t I just watch?”
She smiles, kicks the bottle away and hops into her pants.
“I miss my Johns.”
“I bet”
I turn and make my way back to the truck, make sure my gear is stowed, and check under the hood. Bryce walks back over and is looking appreciatively at my rifle.
“Well. It shoots straight now. I hope I don’t need to use it too much.”
“Lord willing and the dead don’t rise.”
Chapter 14
It is close to mid-morning when we pull out of the driveway, Bryce holding on to the roof when the truck rocks, tires rolling over bodies. I turn right and Molly says that we are ten or twelve miles from the clinic. I turn some music on and concentrate on my driving. Not a mile down the road, Bryce slaps his hand on the roof for me to stop. We both sit up and look around, but don’t see anything. The rifle cracks, and I hear a round ping off the pavement. Bryce hollers:
“Got it!”
I start back down the road, nice and slow. I have a couple of fresh joints left and a couple of roaches snuggled in the ash tray. I light one of the bigger ones and pass it to Molly. She says, “thanks” and we continue on our way, passing the remains of cars and people on the road, and the remains of the roach between our hands. My mind hums in time with the stuttering chug of the truck’s engine.
One summer back when I was first in college, I’d worked for a moving company. For a kid right out of high school, the pay was decent and there was the promise of plenty hours, tips and a chance to see the country. The long hauls were my best shot of seeing the road, so I volunteered for these trips when they came up. What I saw out on those big interstates was startling repetition; the same chain stores every fifteen miles. Never could one be in danger of going without cheap food or huge stores packed to the gills with crap from China. It was our new culture and it spread like milfoil, turning a glassy pond into a weed choked dessert. America.
It seems that Preston, California had been isolated from this effect. Pulling into town, I recognize the rotting hulk of one fast-food place and there is a drugstore that bears the scars of changing corporate hands, CVS to Walgreens to Rite-Aid, each giving it a go in town before moving on, but most of the other places look local. We move past this small commercial zone and turn onto the main street. Most of it looks like a touristy anachronism; a wild-west silver town in the middle of nowhere.
Turning off Main St., away from the tourist attractions and saloons, I am directed by Molly on which turns to make. Not two blocks from the main street the roads turn to gravel and small whippy trees have begun to grow in the road. Potholes, dips and washouts make our route veer right and left, the truck like a great vessel tacking for wind, driven by a half-wasted captain, me, and I am about half wasted.
I pull over when Bryce pounds the roof again. Rather than the crack of the rifle that I expect, he leans his face through the back sliding window and asks, “Molly, is there a garage around here? I want to get Kyle some proper shocks for this rig, and it is going to need some basic repairs at some point if we’re going to keep it on the road.”
She said yes and that we could hit it on the way back out of town. Bryce retreats back up to his ready position snapping a quick, “Keep your eyes open. We’re not alone.”
I weave past old rotting cars, skeletons, and the mess that is the road all the way to the front entrance of the clinic. It is a big spread-out modern looking affair about the size of a high school building. It seems out of place in such a small town. When I remark about this Molly explains that it was a regional center, and that along with ambulances, the facility had maintained a helicopter as well, making LA and the coast hospitals an option.
The drive to the emergency entrance is blocked by the blackened remains of an ambulance that had crashed through the sliding glass doors. A skeleton lays across the hood where it had come to rest after exploding through the windshield. I turn to Molly.
“Where was that big crowd of zombies?”
“We came across them in the cafeteria. There were almost two hundred of them standing around; some still sitting in their chairs. We didn’t hear much when we pressed our ears to the doors; just a couple scrabbling at the walls, one knocked over a chair. We thought we could peek in then decide if we could take them. As soon as the door opened, it was like an avalanche. They’d sensed us and started moving to the doors, packing themselves in tight. The smell…”
She trails off, and remains silent. I put the truck in park, bed facing the doors again in case we have to leave quickly. I poke my head out the window and see Bryce looking over at the flag pole. The rope makes a clanging noise as the wind pulls the remains of the flag; sun-bleached, frayed and wrapped around the middle of the pole. I cut the engine and leave the keys in the ignition.
Stepping out onto the grey pavement, I test my ankle. It hurts, but I feel ok to walk or maybe even jog. This may become a pressing issue if I have to run for my
life. I hear Molly get out of the passenger side, and I turn to meet Bryce at the tail gate, and we begin to check our gear.
I am still wearing the same get up from before, my sensible filthy clothes. I have my Glock 21 belted on my waist with two spare thirteen-round clips in my pocket; forty rounds total with one round chambered. I hang my hammer back in its loop, and grab a spare backpack; empty except for some scavenge essentials; small pry bar, multi-bit screw driver, and a knife. Bryce hands me an LED head lamp.
“Here, you can borrow this. The batteries are fresh, so please don’t lose it.”
He pulls out one for himself, and I see that Molly has one, too. Handy things to have. I wonder where they have gotten them. LED’s last forever and are super efficient. Four AAA’s give the lamp 120 hours of light at full power. If I can walk off with one of these, that will make the whole trip worth it.
Bryce makes a show of double-checking the rifle and getting his gear together. Molly shakes her head. She doesn’t seem concerned with our preparations, seemingly only needing a good stretch and limbering up, bouncing on her heels as we adjust our packs. Bryce nods his head to himself, then turns to us.
“Ok. This place is crawling with zombies. They must be locked in rooms, because it doesn’t seem like they can get to us. Wait. Here comes one.”
We turn to the doors and I see it/her. She has wild blond hair, and her yellow skin is covered in tattoos; even her hands. Her clothing is a hospital gown; an IV trailing behind her. The crack of the AR going off makes me jump. The thing’s hair whips forward or rather, its head whips back obliterated by the .223 round. Molly lets out a slow whistle, turns to me and winks. Bryce chimes up:
“Right, Molly, you lead the way to the supplies. I’ll be right up front with you. Try to point out the bad areas. Kyle, you bring up the rear. I’ll keep your rifle and try to do the best I can with it in these close quarters. Molly, do you need anything?”
She shakes her head, “I’m good. I want to have my hands free anyway. Just keep them off me.”
Bryce sets his jaw. “Alright, remember, meds in fridges are useless. Try for stuff with a shelf life. Sterile bandages, scalpels, the emergency supplies back in the café where the crowd was—that’s gold. Let’s go get it.”
Stepping over the corpse of the tattoo chick and through the entrance, my boots crunch on the fine chunks of tempered glass and grind them into the tiles with a nails-on-the-chalkboard effect. We all pause in the reception area and let our eyes adjust. The sun is bright outside; almost noon, and this lends a fair amount of light to the corridor ahead of us. Still, I click on the LED and position the beam on the floor ahead of me.
I poke my head into the receptionist’s area. I dump a huge white leather purse that I see behind the counter. Old cigarettes and a lighter go into my pocket.
Molly leads us on. She steps lightly; her arms at her sides, palms parallel to the ground. Bryce walks beside her; my AR-15 held at his shoulder, pointing ahead. He puts his left hand up, and we stop. Around the corner, a zombie dressed as an orderly walks out in front of us. Crack! The sound of the rifle makes my ears ring. The rifle is loud as hell indoors. We continue.
Turning the corner, Molly leads us through double doors into a dispensary. We ignore the glass and stainless steel fridge and check shelves instead; aspirin, Motrin, muscle relaxers, antibiotics, Cipro. Expired, but it might still work. We fill Molly’s backpack. She walks in front of us with it open, and when it is full of pills, antiseptic, gauze, etc, we move on.
The next stop is a supply closet behind the nurse’s station. Another purse, another lighter. Nurses were smokers, I guess. This time we fill up Bryce; gauze, sterile compresses, rubbing alcohol, bandages, scissors, syringes, and yes, even some surgical implements freshly repacked from the autoclave. Bryce is looking worried.
“OK, some zombies are moving toward us. We must have passed a barrier that was stopping them.” He notices our puzzled expression. “I know, but if one was walking face against a wall, and we pass the line of the wall, it will turn and be able to move toward us.”
I nod.
“So, keep an eye out, and I’ll try to make sense of this jumble in my head. No promises.”
It looks like Bryce’s ability is a great warning system outside, but, packed in here, it is obviously not as effective. I snap the strap that holds my Glock, and ease it in the holster. Sometimes the snap sticks, and in these tight halls, I want it to be ready.
Our shoes and boots click on the smooth tiles of the hallway. Click, click, click—echoing down the hall. Bryce raises his left hand. We stop. The clicking continues. It echoes around us; louder now.
From in front of us, walking into the hallway on both sides, a half dozen zombies appear; a nurse, a few patients, and another of those soldiers with a UN helmet on. And again, behind us somewhere, more clicking heels.
Bryce raises his voice above a whisper, “Don’t panic, don’t run. Do not let yourself get cornered. Molly, take my pack. I’m going to check up ahead, and deal with these zombies. You two go back the way we came. There are only one or two back there. Don’t open any doors that we haven’t checked. OK?”
Molly taps my arm. “Fuck this, can I borrow that hammer?”
“Yeah, of course.”
I pull it from the loop and hand it to her. Why the hell had she wanted to come in here empty handed anyway? She grips the handle and takes a practice swing, holding it before her with both hands, like a talisman.
Bryce calls over his shoulder, “I’ll see you at the truck. And don’t come back in here for me. I have a plan, but it will only work if they go after you guys. If you have to take off, honk the horn and I’ll find my own way out and meet up with you later. Go!”
Bryce keeps walking toward the six or seven zombies that shuffle down the hall. He braces himself, leaning on a tipped gurney. Ejected shells flash past the avocado-green tile stripe running hip high the whole way along the wall; ugly, obligatory hospice décor. Crack, crack, crack. The AR-15 thunders in the hallway. My ears ring, barely able to make out the sound of the zoms violent second deaths, as heads explode and bullets rip through walls behind their marks. The spent casings ring on the tiles, and I realize I am walking backwards; enrapt, watching the spectacle. Shocking pain brings me back to my senses.
My ankle! I must have stepped on something sharp, I think. I try to raise my leg and it won’t budge, Molly screams, “No!” Looking down at my ankle, I see there is latched to my leg, a skinny naked man, chewing on me.
⃰ ⃰ ⃰
The handle of my Glock always feels big in my hands but in a comforting way. A .45 hollow point is an evil round; a man stopper. At point blank range, it makes the head of the zombie that is biting my leg explode like a melon. More pain accompanies this event. Perhaps too late, I realize that I have caught some fragments. My heart pounds and I realize. I am totally fucked.
Molly looks dazed for all of five seconds before she books it up the hallway to Bryce. His foot lays on the chest of the last zombie as he finishes it with a head shot. He spins on Molly when she grabs him; so intent is he on his business. The butt of the AR catches her jaw, and I realize, as she slides down the wall to rest on her side, that I too am sinking, slowly, into a slumped position.
I go to my pack to get a knife, only it isn’t my pack. It is Bryce’s. My leg bleeds steadily, but I don’t think it has hit an artery or anything. It just oozes. I can feel it filling my boot. The bastard had lifted my pant leg somehow, or bitten through it. Dark. Too dark in here to get a good look at my leg. The floor tiles feel good; cold and smooth. My head feels light. The more I fight the rising panic, the more it secures me in its grip. Voices are buzzing around me. Bryce and Molly. I struggle as hands pry my Glock free from my hand and push me down. A tightness around my calf, and now; lifting. My vision; black and grey. I’m flying.
Chapter 15
Leaning against the tile wall of the hallway, I look upon the forms moving toward me. Kyle’s AR-15 is top q
uality; all the bells and whistles. Even in low light, the bare pin point of tritium on the red-dot sight makes a wondrous glow. Radioactive material in gun sights had been illegal in California. It is a blessing for me now.
At fifteen feet, I begin taking head shots, and the bodies fall; wicked destruction behind them. Tile pieces fly, wood doors splinter. The Chinese soldier is now closest. I aim just below the rim of his blue UN helmet. Face shot. His ammo belt looks like it is full. I will check it for 7.62mm for the AK’s. Not for the first time, I wonder about China. Had they really avoided the zombie contagion? As the last member state of the UN, they had claimed they offered aid, but many suspected it was really a salvage mission or perhaps, debt collection. Sterilize the coast and bring back services; settlers would follow. Wealthy high-ups in the communist party getting their own America—a people’s America.
With a bit of luck, Kyle and Molly will make it to the truck without any major problems. Their presence there will begin to draw the zombies away from the back of the clinic and the lab. Molly was foolish to come in here bare handed, but if she’d rather run and dodge than destroy, that is her business.
The torso of one nurse rises as I pass, her jaw torn off, but skull intact. I push her down with my heavy boot feeling her putrefied flesh squish and roll away from ribs. I bring the AR-15 to bear on her forehead and finished her off.
Just then, a hand begins to pull at my back. Before I can stop myself, I bring the butt of the rifle back and into Molly’s jaw. What is going on?
Molly slides down the wall slowly. She looks dazed, but her eyes are open. I can make out a few forms down the hall. Kyle lies next to a thin form. He is holding his leg; the zombie is motionless, possessed of no presence in my mind. The one walking down the hall behind him is. First things first. Red dot resting over black form of head, let out breath, squeeze. The butt snaps against my shoulder and the zombie falls; strings cut. That resistance eases, but others press against me from all around--some faint, some terrifyingly close; behind walls, down the halls.