Dead States | Year Zero | Nebraska

by Marty Brockschmidt

  Stuart shuffled off to take his position at the wall again and Amy turned to Travis, “Trav should I ask to help you in the morning.”

  Travis hung his head and answered in almost a sigh, “No I can handle it by myself.”

  “Your sure, the two of us could knock it out right quick”, Amy pressed.

  “You're not my Mom”, Travis started

  Seeing Amy recoil back as if slapped, he softened, “Let me finish. If they find out you're one of Granddad's regiment you could be killed to. I couldn't handle losing you.”

  Amy squeezed Travis' hand and gave him a sad smile. Matt put his arm around her shoulders and Amy leaned against him, “I never thought about it like that. I guess I'm the last of your Grandfather's regiment. I'm all by myself now.”

  Chapter 15 – The Price

  Mac jammed the accelerator to the floor. He'd never run from a fight in his life and now, to be running away with Ivy and the girls in so much danger went against every fiber in his being. He took his anger and frustration out by speeding the Challenger down the highway. Mac knew it wasn't smart it wasted gas he didn't have, but right now he didn't want to be smart, he wanted to be mad.

  “Oh shit”, Mac exclaimed as he slammed on the brakes to avoid piling into the neatly parked convoy of vehicles.

  Mac had just come over a rise just before the intersection to route 283, coming from Kansas, to see the ten vehicles. A mixture of cars, pickup trucks and minivans, all neatly parked in the middle of the intersection. With brakes squealing and the smell of burning rubber filling the interior of the car, Mac stopped just yards from the parked vehicles.

  Fearing a trap, Mac pulled a shotgun into his lap and surveyed the area for several minutes, through binoculars. Satisfying himself the way was clear, Mac got out to examine the vehicles. They were all pointed heading east onto route 6. From the leaf litter, dust and flattening tires Mac assumed they had been here several weeks maybe a couple of months. Each of the vehicles had a CB radio all tuned to the same channel and several had personal items haphazardly strewn inside. Mac punctured a hole in each gas tank to recover any gas, but retrieved less than a gallon.

  “Guess they siphoned the gas into other vehicles and moved on with only the necessary supplies.”, Mac muttered to himself.

  Mac poured the recovered gas into his tank and climbed back into the Challenger. He assumed this group was headed to the WWII ammo bunkers east of here and considered turning around to look for them. However, that way brought him close to Timshel and his luck may not hold out if he ran into another patrol. Besides there was no telling if that is where this group was headed or if they would be willing to help. If he could find Sergeant Andrews and his men Mac knew he would stand a better chance to rescue his family and his town.

  “Fight fire with fire.”, Mac told himself.

  That was all a problem for tomorrow, for today Mac had been running on adrenalin for the better part of two days and he needed to find a safe place to hole up. First he had to put some miles between here and wherever he stopped. If a patrol came along his skid marks would be a clear sign he had come this way. Mac continued heading west on route 6, skirted around McCook, too many dead there, and took route 34 when he came to that intersection.

  Outside of Benkelman, a roadside sign caught Mac's attention, 'One Man's Junk Auto Salvage ½ Mile Ahead'. This sounded like a good place to stop. Junkyards were usually fenced off, made it so folks didn't have to look at a pile of junk. The metal fencing ended up being a canvas for the local graffiti artist. Depending on the local talent pool that was either better or worse than looking at the junk. Mac also figured a good place to hide a car would be with other cars.

  Mac pulled into the junkyard, a small office jutted out from a large pole building, where he assumed car parts were stored. As a bonus there were gas pumps in front of the office, a hand painted, cardboard sign declared, 'No Gas', but Mac hoped he could still pull a few gallons from the tank. Mac would worry about that in the morning, for now he just wanted to get the gate open and get under cover for the night. Mac walked up to the gate with a pair of bolt cutters to cut the chain when a flash of movement caught his attention.

  “Settle down Otter, anybody drivin a car like that, has got some standards.” A voice on the other side of the gate called out.

  “Sorry I didn't mean to cause a fuss, I thought the place was vacant.” Mac answered.

  “You alone?” The voice asked.

  “Yep just me.” Mac answered.

  Another question came from the other side of the gate, “You runnin to or from?”

  Mac was trying to determine if the persons on the other side were a threat, “A bit of both, I guess.”

  Mac heard a short laugh and then another flatly stated question, “What do you need?”

  Mac decided to trust whomever was on the other side, “I need a lot, but right now I'll settle for a safe place to sleep and any gas you can spare.”

  The voice softened, “What's your name?”

  “Ivan … McPherson … uhh Mac to my friends.” Mac said hoping for the best.

  The gate rolled open and Mac was met by a man approximately sixty years old leveling a shotgun at his chest. Mac raised his hands, “Not looking for any trouble friend.”

  The old man slipped the shotgun over his left arm and extended his right hand, “J. W. Coop, welcome to One Man's Junk.”

  Mac looked warily around for the other person the old man was talking to as he shook the man's hand, “Thank you.”

  J. W. gave a whistle and a black cat ran up to him, “Me and Otter can help you out Mac, but it'll cost ya.”

  Mac nodded, “I don't have much, but tell me what you need.”

  J.W. smiled kindly, “I've spent the last few months talking to a cat, conversation been a bit one sided. The price of room and board round here, is a story.”

  Mac let out a boisterous laugh that sent Otter scooting, “J.W. this is your lucky day. I got one hell of a story for you.”

  J.W. had Mac park his Challenger in one of the service bays of the garage, used to part out cars, then directed Mac to his home in the middle of the salvage yard. The home was more of a bunker than a traditional house.

  J.W. snorted a laugh at Mac's expression, “I'm not really a survivalist type, but it was only me and Otter lookin after the yard at night and we're known for twisters in this part of the country. Just seemed to make sense.”

  “No I get it, fortune favors the prepared mind.” Mac acknowledged.

  Once settled inside J.W. prompted, “You said something about a doozy of a story.”

  Tired as he was Mac began by telling J.W. of their rescue by Colonel Osgood and their journey to the remote resort. With pride he told J.W. how they had made the resort a secure town, rescued other survivors and made plans for their town to be the hub to rebuild civilization. Finally, he told him how that was now threatened, by the rogue military commander and his men, followed by his exile from the community and desperate hopes to find help.

  After listening intently to Mac's story, J.W. made them a meal and then showed Mac to a cot for the night. Taking his cat into his lap J.W. mused, “Otter we need to do something to help these people.”

  Mac woke the next morning to the smell of coffee and the sounds of breakfast being prepared. When he opened his eyes he was greeted by Otter looking back at him, “Oh hey... Otter, good morning to you too.”

  “Looks like you made a friend there.”, J.W. observed.

  “I appreciate you taking me in J.W., I was starting to run on ‘E’.” Mac replied.

  “I wasn't sure how long to let you sleep, so I decided I'd clank a couple of pans around and let you make up your own mind.” J.W. responded.

  Mac smiled at the older man, “I needed the rest no doubt about that, but I begrudge every minute I'm not traveling. You'd figure I could fly down the road, but I've got to keep dodging towns full of the dead and there are so many cars, just left on the road to pile into. ”

>   As Mac hurriedly ate the breakfast, J.W. spoke, “I hope you don't mind, I topped off your tank and your spares. I also gave you some extra water and I dug up some snow chains, the plows are a little off schedule these days.”

  Mac wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, “You're a good man J.W. Coop, I'm grateful there are still folks like you left.”

  J.W. waved off the praise, “I wish I could be more help. Business is pretty slow nowadays, take me with you and I could be a spare set of eyes and Otter always knows when somebody is about, living or dead.”

  Mac gave the other man a sad smile, “Lord knows I could use the help, but I got another chore for you. We have a cache of supplies near Lexington. We already got one opportunist in town and desperation may cause others to let slip the location of our extra weapons to Mayhue. Its asking a lot, but could you retrieve them and hold them safe for me here.”

  J.W. extended his hand, “You can count on me, just let me know where to find them.”

  A short while later Mac was leaving Nebraska behind him and heading into Colorado. The monotony of the drive gave him time to think. He was starting to reconsider his choice to leave J.W. behind. The task to move the cache was sincere and Mac was certain J.W. would be exposed to minimal risks accomplishing it.

  The fact that Sergeant Andrews hadn't returned to them encouraged Mac into thinking that the Sergeant had located his family and was safely residing in the New Mexico army base. Barring a freak snow storm or some other impediment he'll know in a few days.

  Mac had barely traveled thirty miles before his progress was halted by a washed out bridge. Mac became increasingly frustrated as the continual circling back to find a way ahead wasted the day and burned through his fuel reserve.

  Mac set up camp for the night near the 385 and I70 junction. Needing to replenish his spent fuel reserves Mac checked nearby vehicles quickly before dark. Many of the abandoned vehicles at the crossroads were empty, folks idled their gas away trying to decide which direction to go. However, Mac was able to scrounge enough gas to see him a ways further along to his destination.

  Mac spent the night in the car and woke the next morning to a droning sound he couldn't quite place. The sun was just barely starting to rise and there was a light fog misting up the windshield. Mac hit the wipers to get a better look.

  “Hooooly crap”, exclaimed Mac seeing thousands, no tens of thousands of the dead stumbling down I70.

  From inside the car Mac was not able to see how far the herd stretched. Mac exited carefully from the car and climbed to the top of a small knoll. Laying on his stomach he glassed the line of shambling dead. The herd stretched in both directions as far as he could see. The noise of their shuffling feet and incessant moans was deafening.

  “Looks like I'm stuck here until this clears. Must be snowing up in Denver, the dead must have something against the cold”, Mac told himself.

  Mac watched the migration for a bit trying to assess how long it would take to clear. The cacophony of the herd's passage masked the sound of three Dee's that had broken off from the main group. Mac's first indication of the threat was a tug at his boot.

  Mac quickly rolled over and almost without thinking kicked the nearest Dee in the knee causing an audible cracking of bone. He hurled his binoculars at the second Dee and knocked it back into the final creature. Mac got his feet under him and drew his knife. The first Dee was still on the ground so Mac dispatched it with a couple of stomps of his heavy boot. As the other two were still attempting to disentangle from each other Mac ran his knife through the temple of one than the other.

  Mac cursed himself for allowing the spectacle to distract him and made his way back to the car and hopped back in. As the sun rose the car began to heat up, forcing Mac to cover the windows with anything at hand. As the dead continued to parade by, Mac filled his time studying his atlas to avoid further washouts and fitful bouts of sleep.

  Chapter 16 – The Lord of Death

  The following morning the herd had finally passed and Mac was able to continue on his way. Before leaving Mac went to one of the nearby cars and removed its mirrors. The next time he as away from the car he could keep an eye behind him. Mac continued going south on 385 until heading west on 50. Eventually he reached I25, taking it south into New Mexico.

  As Mac drove past the outskirts of Albuquerque graffiti on a sign advertising one of the many old missions caught his attention. The graffiti showed a skeletal figure dressed in robes, seated on a throne of skulls and holding a large scythe in its right hand. The caption below the figure read 'Propiedad de Señor De La Muerte'.

  Mac struggled with what little Spanish he knew, “Property of the Lord of Death.”

  Mac wasn't sure if the painting was meant to ward off strangers or advertise a sanctuary. Turning in the direction of the mission Mac meant to find out if the Lord of Death could be an ally or another threat.

  Jenny Cortez had devoted her life to the family business. Her grandfather, Sebastian, had started it upon his return from World War I. He had made a promise to God that if he returned home safe that he would dedicate his life to him. He chose to do that by building a chapel on a parcel of family property outside of Albuquerque. To honor his heritage he chose to build the chapel like one of the old Spanish missions.

  It was Jenny's father, Oliver, that started booking out the chapel for weddings and special events. This supplemented the family income earned from Oliver's construction business. By the time Oliver had sold his construction business and retired, he and Jenny had grown their events business to include a small motel and restaurant. Everything was built to fit old Spanish mission architecture. Even though Albuquerque had sprawled considerably since Jenny's Grandfather built the chapel they were still a distance from the city. Taking advantage of the near constant sunshine of New Mexico they built for sustainability.

  Jenny was the one to name their place simply, The Mission. The Mission had solar panels, water catching cisterns and its own well. The Mission was entirely surrounded by an eight foot high adobe wall, which was also the back wall of the ten room motel, small cantina, kitchen garden, caretaker apartment, and the Cortez family home, with the original chapel the centerpiece. While Oliver was pleased that he had passed a livelihood onto his daughter, it bothered him that she had so thrown herself into building the business to such a degree that she had not taken time to have a family of her own.

  Jenny first became aware of the outbreak, when the tour company that had booked their current two families failed to come by to conduct the days tour. Jenny offered their guests, the Jarvis family a couple in their late thirties and two teenage daughters who had come from Colorado, and the Peterson's a newlywed couple in their twenties that had traveled from North Dakota, refreshments while she made some calls. However, the frightening newscasts were more telling than the unanswered calls.

  Jenny quelled her guests concerns and urged them to follow that last directives from the newscasts and stay put. A few days later and the dead showed up outside their walls convincing everyone to stay put. Here they had food, water, and shelter, who knew what they would find outside these walls. Eventually help would come and rescue them.

  Colin Schwartz had a much different upbringing then Jenny Cortez. He was the bastard son of Peggy Schwartz. Peggy did her best to take care of her son, but could only afford an apartment in the rougher part of Albuquerque. She worked two jobs just to make ends meet, but was forced to leave Colin alone in their apartment. At an early age, he began hanging out with the kids of the local street gang. They became his family, his Father, Brothers and Sisters.

  At fourteen any youth seeking membership in the gang needed to perform an attack on a neighboring gang. Generally this was a drive by shooting, which more often than not caused no real harm. In fact surviving the bullet wound served to escalate the status of the attacked gang member. Colin had bigger plans and on his fourteenth birthday he sought out the leader of a rival gang. When he found him he strode up raised hi
s pistol, said, 'Mi jefe envía sus saludos' and fired a single round between the eyes of the gang leader. Colin dove into the car waiting to take him to the Angel's leader, Dante.

  Dante pleased to be able to increase the Angel's turf gave Colin his gang name Muerte and made Colin one of his enforcers. Over the next few years, Meurte or, El ángel de muerte as Dante often referred to him, rose to second in command. When the outbreak occurred, the gangs used to operating outside of authority, actually responded quicker to the threat erecting barriers in the streets to close off their territories.

  However, with hundreds of thousands of the dead always about Dante's crew grew smaller. After a few months with only Meurte and a handful of their vatos left Dante began to plan an escape. On a supply run a new recruit brought back an advertising flier for The Mission, giving them a destination.

  The first month after the outbreak was a roller coaster of emotions for the people at The Mission. Jenny still looked at the Jarvis and Peterson families as guests that she needed to see to. It was Carl Jarvis that convinced Jenny to quit thinking of their situation as temporary and to share the load.