Man Eaters (Book 2): The Horde

by Linda Kay Silva

  The locked cells were most disturbing.

  Not every cell managed to get open during the exodus. One side was open; the left hand side was still closed, and rotting in those cells were unlucky inmates who had died in a variety of gruesome ways. Some had hanged themselves using their pants, but most must have died the horrible death of hunger or dehydration. Decomposition from bugs and being eaten by smaller animals left quite a mess. Some bodies were intact, while others had had limbs or digits carried away by critters. However they ended their lives, it hadn’t been easy and I can only imagine the conversations these men had before succumbing to a ghastly death.

  According to Gary, several criminals had been brought in and, before they could be processed, had bitten a number of the guards before they could be put down. It was too late after that. The guards went to the medical unit to have their wounds treated. Some turned on their way, others turned while being treated. It was a cautionary tale of how quickly one infected person could infect, directly or indirectly, hundreds or thousands of people in a short amount of time and in a confined space.

  Gary had gotten out in the first wave of guards who could see the battle already lost. He had barely escaped with his life. The guard driving the Jeep had been bitten and turned as he was driving. Gary had leapt from the moving vehicle just before it rammed into a telephone pole and burst into flames.

  Thinking he was at least safe from the newly turned driver, Gary had started walking home when the flaming zombie started after him. Without a weapon, Gary had grabbed a piece of wood and beat the crap out of his hot-headed friend, until he finally killed him. He’d suffered burns to his hands and forearms, but he lived. The same couldn’t be said about his buddies or most of the inmates, and we could see by cleaning the area out how many had turned during the pandemonium.

  Hundreds. Maybe thousands.

  For our part, we built a huge bonfire and, one-by-one, started tossing the old bones and rotten flesh into the flames. It took us all week to clear out the souls who’d probably deserved their fate, but still, that was a horrific job. Dallas required it of everyone. No one escaped cleaning out the dead, no matter how gross.

  And there were some gross ones.

  One can only imagine the horror of realizing you were trapped in a cell with no way out and no one coming to get you while zombies reached for you day in and day out, moaning, pressing their rotting heads against the bars, not understanding they could never get to you. Night and day they would reach into your cell…moaning…longing to eat you. Twenty-four/seven, moaning, reaching, longing even as the flesh fell from their bones. Even Dante’s Inferno would be heavenly compared to that fate.

  And many of these inmates suffered that horror.

  Yeah, the first three zombies we killed in the main area were reaching through the bars from the inside of the cell, the flesh gone from their faces from the constant banging against the bars. We had to shoot a total of twenty undead—which was a lot less than I’d expected until I realized the front and back doors had been left open so the inmates could escape into the yard.

  There were a couple other oddities that took us all a minute to figure out: Nearly a thousand of the inmates locked in their cells were zombies. I thought, “What the fuck?” And then I saw the bite marks—on arms and on legs.

  That’s when I got it.

  If I knew I would die a slow, grueling death from dehydration, I’d let a zombie bite me, too. It was a much swifter death. So, instead of languishing and waiting for help that would never come, these inmates had stuck an arm or leg out to be bitten. Being bitten was preferable to the alternatives of dying a death from dehydration or listening to that moaning day in and day out.

  When we got to the cells housing zombies, they threw themselves over and over into the bars, reaching for us with that hideous gurgling sound. The CGIs used them for target practice and shot them in the head with one arrow. Dallas let some of the less experienced “soldiers” practice because eaters aren’t human, after all, and if using them can save a life, we’re all for it.

  Fletcher took a liking to our little Zoe, and soon, she was drawing back a crossbow like a pro and delivering the death blow with but one bolt, which was good since she was a piss poor shot with a rifle compared to some of the others. She really seemed to gravitate toward Hunter and Fletcher, but Hunter in particular. I am not sure why, but they bonded right away and he was incredibly patient showing her how to use a crossbow. He even promised to find a way to paint hers pink. I had no doubt he would, too.

  Now, after two weeks, we are all exhausted from ‘round the clock work and cleaning, but Angola is slowly transitioning from prison to homestead. Dallas even took time out to check out the fire engines, which still had gas in their large tanks. She gave the Biker Boys—our new name for Henry’s group—the task of siphoning it all out. They laughed when Dallas said she was sure it wasn’t the first time they’d done it.

  The only problem we’ve had with that rat bastard Benjamin is his continued questioning in an attempt to undermine Dallas’ authority. It drives me crazy that she is so patient with him, but she’s the boss and if she wants me to leave him be, I will.

  For now.

  Oh. I think there’s a little love blossoming between Einstein and Cassidy, but she’s totally unaware. The kid has hearts shooting out of his eyes when he looks at her, but she’s oblivious, poor guy. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be a teenager in the midst of all this chaos and death. I don’t think Cassie even realizes how he looks at her, though I don’t know how she could miss it. He has it bad.

  On a really positive note, we have Wendell, an engineer, who has created a solar-powered battery for us that gives us a little electrical power a few hours a day. We had a huge celebration night before last when we saw our first light bulb go on.

  It’s the simple things, you know?

  I guess, in the end, that’s one of the bigger lessons we are all learning.

  Butcher has a hospital triage unit all set up, and three of the ZBs help her out whenever needed. Meg is a nurse, so her knowledge has really come in handy. She convinced us to wear the riot gear Gary provided from the guardroom. While it was hotter than hell to wear, it kept us safer. Dallas insisted Luke, Butcher, and any other ZBs going out were to wear the leather jackets and gloves. It was much harder for teeth to get through leather. I thought it was a great idea, but then, I didn’t have to wear it in the sweltering southern heat.

  Earlier this week, four CGIs and myself went out to collect the cows, which had wandered off into the surrounding area. Let’s just say they all got a chance to see where my nickname came from.

  At first, I was worried I was too rusty to actually rope a barely moving cow, but once I hooked my leg around the ladder of the Fuchs, it was ‘ride ‘em cowgirl’ time! Oh yeah! My lasso was better than any Wonder Woman could devise, and before you could say ‘invisible jet’, we’d corralled seventy of the escapees and herded them all back to the ranch, where they were eager to head to the hay and food mixture Elliot had provided.

  Elliot is a ZB who came from Oklahoma. His family had been one of the last farming families in the small burg of Enid, so when Dallas asked for any farmers, his hand shot up. He’s as sweet a guy as I’ve ever met and had the cows fixed up in no time. The prison had all that was needed to get the incredibly skinny cows back in shape.

  Elliot is a good guy, always eager to lend a hand, and had proven to be an excellent resource. He and his lovely wife, Kim, offered to get the ranch house in shape, so Dallas sent Ferdie with them to stand guard, just in case.

  JIC.

  We all use that acronym now, only we say it like JICK. It was a damned good thing we sent him, too, because right in the middle of trying to start the tractor, a legless zombie dragged itself out of a hay pile and tried to climb up the tractor after Elliot. It was half way up the tractor when Ferdie chopped its head off. Funny thing was, Elliot was unfazed. Said something like,

  “No w
orsen’ snakes in the grass.”

  Snakes in the grass?

  You have to love the guy. He works harder than anyone and never even stops to look around for undead.

  “If the good Lord sees fit to end my days, ain’t nothing I can do but wave goodbye,” he said.

  I could only shake my head at the peace his religion gives him. I had to stifle a comment asking him where his God was now.

  Kim and Elliot also cleaned out the chapel, saying, “Sometimes, Roper, faith is more important than food.”

  I would have argued the logic of that, but why darken someone else’s day with my disbelief? Besides, the first Sunday we were here, eighteen others joined Elliot and Kim for church services. When it was over, all twenty of them seemed so much lighter—happier even—and it flowed over to the rest of us heathens…so, good on them. Anything that will lighten morale is worth it, I say, as long as they all understand that when the time comes, all that Christian homophobia needs to find its way to the trash.

  With cows in the barn and five acres planted, we are truly on our way toward self-sufficiency. It’s been a miraculous transition, to be sure. Our meals have been supplemented by the remarkable skills of Fletcher and Hunter, who have gone hunting ten days in a row and always returned with meat and stories of how many undead were now truly dead. This, alone, has changed our morale, as our food choices have become more varied. They take three new shooters out with them every time so we are training new hunters every day.

  Three of the teenagers have been put to the task of fishing. The first three days yielded two fish between them. I think they were screwing around more than they were fishing. Once they got the hang of it, they did very well, and we have feasted three days on fresh-caught fish. Of course, Churchill or one of the other CGIs go with them for protection, but they have only had to kill two man eaters thus far.

  Wendell says it’s imperative we find a way to refrigerate, and he’s been tinkering in the repair shop for a week trying to make that happen. Until then, we either have to eat the fresh-caught meat or smoke it in the smoker, and the bayou group is pretty sick of smoked meat. We’re all hoping Wendell can figure out some way to power a refrigeration unit, as that would really change our food options. Food options change the overall mood dramatically, which is important in our situation. Good morale spreads just as quickly as bad, and keeping people’s spirits up is important.

  It was tough keeping people’s spirits up the first time we lost one of our group. It was sad because it didn’t need to happen but served as a warning to everyone about why we have protocols in place.

  We had collected about thirty-five people in the first two weeks. One day, a woman walked up to the gates and asked to come in. She looked and sounded healthy, carrying on casual conversation. Andres opened the gate without checking her over. I guess they stood out there for some time chatting and laughing and before he knew it, she turned so quickly, when she lunged at him he didn’t have time to react and she locked onto his neck and didn’t let go. Backup was just around the corner and they shot both the woman and Andres.

  We had a meeting that night to remind people why protocols are in place. I think his unnecessary death served the greater good, but it was sad nonetheless.

  Oh! One last thing—Einstein found a dog—or the dog found him, I’m not sure which. She’s a German Shepherd named Dixie. It took him a couple of days before Dixie trusted him enough to let him pet her, but once she did, they’ve been inseparable. At least one female in his life returns his affection.

  You can only imagine how weird it must have been for domesticated animals. One day, their owner fawned all over them—the next, the same, now undead, owner didn’t even know they existed. Some pets followed their masters around until they realized no food or affection was coming and then they eventually wandered off to join up with other dogs. These packs soon became as dangerous to us as the man eaters.

  Watching Einstein with Dixie makes me really miss my horses. They were gorgeous creatures who were gentle and tame. Unless man killed them, I am certain they are still alive, wandering the golden hills of California, and maybe wondering where that nice woman is who used to give them sugar cubes.

  It’s a dream I have of doing again someday.

  Some day.

  ****

  Dallas’s Log

  We’ve been here a little less than a month now and we are thriving! We have enough food, the base is secure, and Wendell even managed to figure out how to keep electricity flowing to a single refrigerator unit.

  I’ve been too exhausted at night to write, but Roper keeps busting my chops, so here I am to report the good, the bad, and the seriously ugly.

  More good in the last two weeks in terms of food are chickens! Roper and Butcher set traps to catch the chickens around the perimeter of the base. Once we had around two dozen, the others in the area seemed to want back in. We have enough now to be able to include eggs in our diet, which is excellent for a protein source. Now, every other day, a different group of people get to eat eggs. The scheduling of our lives in terms of food, watch, and duties is a Herculean task that Butcher does with ease. Me? Gives me a headache.

  With good food, the kids are sprouting like weeds. Our three fishermen take their jobs very seriously now, and have kept fish on the table almost every night. Enough food and fresh water has given us all more strength to get our work done, so we actually have leisure time. Not much, but it’s a start. Leisure time makes people happy and happy people spread that to each other. In short, Angola has turned out to be an awesome decision for us. We sleep soundly. People do their assigned jobs, and our overall morale has greatly improved.

  One family left after the first week. Apparently, the wife got claustrophobic in the prison and so they decided to take their chances with a group moving to the east. We found the group’s corpses about five miles down the road a few days later. By the looks of it, those eaters coming out of the water nailed them.

  We’ve had only minor security breaches, which amounted to no harm done, and one major scare that reminded everyone once more about the importance of protocol.

  Since we first arrived, we’ve taken in nearly one hundred other survivors from around the area. You’ve got to hand it to Southerners—they are a plucky group. Not a soft one in the bunch.

  Anyway, me, Roper, and Churchill had to examine every one of those hundred for bites or scratches. Every one of those hundred went into quarantine cells until any potential scratch was proven to be harmless.

  This one woman came in with a scratch on her calf about a week ago. It was scabbed over and almost healed, so I had Butcher take a look at it. At first, she refused to go into the quarantine cell, so when Roper and Meg began to escort her out of the med unit, the woman balked. She would go in the cell only if her daughter came with her.

  Butcher said no. Her daughter was healthy—only the mother was questionable. They went around and around until at last, Meg told the woman she would have to go. When Meg left to get a CGI for removal, the woman jumped off the examination table after her. Just as Butcher tackled the woman, she turned right then and there, her teeth snapping towards Meg, her arms reaching for Meg’s ankles, Butcher’s arms wrapped around her preventing her from getting to Meg.

  Butcher put her down with a Buck knife through her right ear. The daughter collapsed after seeing her once healthy mother turn into the undead moments before being killed.

  Protocol saves lives.

  Those became the words on the first poster Cassie printed from our printing press. Once she got the ink reservoirs refilled, I gave her ten minutes of electricity and she printed out posters that reminded everyone what we need to do to survive. I thought it was a brilliant use of energy. Benjamin differed and let everyone know it.

  I don’t know how much longer I can keep Roper from choking the life out of him. He is always adversarial at times when he needs to keep his mouth shut. I’ve spoken with him several times, but it’s clear he has some so
rt of end game. I have ears on the ground in his inner circle, and the moment he steps over the line, he’s done.

  Our security is ‘round-the-clock, and our bow and crossbow training consumes two hours a day, six days a week. Zoe has become so proficient, she now rotates with Fletcher and Hunter in the training so the guys can take time to hunt.

  With our growing numbers, we now have forty-nine CGI soldiers in our garmy, and Luke trains them two hours every day. Many saw the flag we hung off the cell tower on our way here, so that did prove to be a great idea, to Benjamin’s chagrin. When our numbers reach the point where we can take on a horde, we will do just that. Over and over, until we clear this area.

  At least, that’s the plan.

  Until then, we work to get stronger and be better able to attack more than defend. To do so, we need an idea of what’s going on around us…not just within a few miles, but a few hundred miles.

  And I think I know how to get that done.

  ****

  Wendell and his aviation buddy, Colby, met Dallas at the hangar at the start of week six. Tall and lanky, Wendell wore thick glasses and sported unruly blond hair. He had the wicked sense of humor of a man who was incredibly intelligent and comfortable in his own skin.

  Dallas liked him right off the bat.

  “Okay, boss,” he said, “it took some doing but Colby and I have managed to get her started. We argued quite a bit and eventually agreed upon the best plan of action, which was mine, by the way, and as you can see, she’s ready for the air.”

  Dallas looked at the older Cessna and saw they had painted the word HOPE on it in big red letters.

  “Nice name,” she said.

  Wendell, who rarely smiled, nodded. “That’s what we’re delivering them, right?” Nodding, Dallas walked around the plane, inspecting it.