Metzger removed his pack by slinging the strap over his shoulder, setting it on the ground. Prepared to settle in for the long haul, he would follow his brother to the ends of the Earth, much like he did when they were kids. The concept of following Bryce to such lengths felt more literal in the present, but he trusted his brother to do right by others, and the planet, only following orders so long as they met his moral standards.
“I’m glad you’re here, Dan,” Bryce said.
“I’m glad I’m here.”
Bryce smirked.
“Let me straighten out a few things with the pilot and we’ll be on our way. If this goes well, we may be able to set things back to the way they were. It won’t be easy, but they seem to think it can be done.”
Metzger watched his brother turn to deal with preparations, wondering who ‘they’ were exactly. He suspected they were government officials who knew more than they revealed, or the same people who would puppeteer soldiers to do their bidding with false promises. Metzger assumed some great scientific minds were hard at work, trying to figure out the science behind the deadly virus that came with a nasty side effect.
While Bryce might have been the ranking officer aboard the plane, Metzger suspected the mission lie in the hands of the capable men surrounding him. Most likely members of the Special Forces, SEALs, or both, they would ensure nothing about the mission went sideways.
He heard the plane’s engines roar to life as everyone began securing their belongings before latching their seatbelts. Metzger followed suit, finding an empty seat, keeping what little he owned with him. As the rear door rose from the ground, the view of daylight and the handful of people still standing outside disappeared, giving way to the plane’s dim interior. Metzger couldn’t believe he had traveled all the way from Buffalo to Virginia simply to turn around and commute back to his hometown within a matter of days. Only heartbreak and terrible recent memories awaited him there, but at least this time he would face any adversaries with his brother and the might of the United States military.
Metzger hoped that was enough as he watched his brother strap on a seatbelt beside him, looking every bit as stout and confident as Metzger recalled. Looking for answers certainly meant walking into the belly of the beast, more specifically the point of origin, where the explosion in Buffalo took place.
Ground zero.
Metzger couldn’t imagine what they might find there, questioning if the site was even safe for human habitation yet. He suspected the military wouldn’t send some of its best people on a suicide mission, but he planned to remain vigilant just the same.
Shaking his head, he prayed for his brother to make continued good choices, because countless lives depended on it. He trusted Bryce implicitly, feeling absolutely no regrets about joining up with his brother, though he already missed his other comrades after forming a bond with them. He wished them well with their travels, hoping they found resolutions with their family members, good or bad, as he’d done.
Thinking about Jillian in particular, he wanted to see her again, though he expected the coming days and weeks would shape them into somewhat different people. She helped him reconnect with people after a month of isolation, and he wouldn’t forget that. He wasn’t going to lose himself in the memories of their time together, because the mission ahead required him to remain focused.
Something in the reaches of his mind tugged at his reasoning, letting him know the world was about to grow more dangerous and complicated in the coming days. He suspected the terrible events he’d experienced since leaving Blue Ash before Labor Day were just the tip of the iceberg.
A sound similar to a boiling tea kettle reached Metzger’s ears once the plane finished taxiing around the runway to a suitable takeoff point and the engines whined once the pilot revved them up. Soon the noise was replaced by a constant, steady roar that Metzger dulled by putting on the wired headphones beside him.
Feeling a slight vibration from the large plane as it began moving down the runway, Metzger glanced at his brother. Bryce kept busy, checking over his assigned weapons and inventory as though he were sitting at the foot of his bed instead of heading into the deadliest situation of his life. Metzger felt the g-forces at work as the plane gathered momentum and took off, angling slightly upward. He wasn’t even certain at which point they left the ground with such a smooth ascent, and he silently praised the pilot for being so incredibly good at his occupation.
Feeling assured his tax dollars were spent wisely when it came to training military pilots, Metzger closed his eyes, trying to envision Buffalo and its suburbs during better times.
Strangely, he couldn’t shake images of the dusty wasteland, complete with ravaged streets and staggering zombies, from his thoughts.
Epilogue
Keppler managed to find some jagged metal along a car door, not far from where he and Corporal Caleb Jones were bound by the strangers who owned the box truck. Although enraged by the fact that they returned to get the truck, disarming and binding him in the process, he felt a certain particular seething anger towards the young corporal. Given one job, and one job only, Jones failed to keep adequate lookout while Keppler rummaged through the truck for useful supplies.
“Corporal, you are a disgrace,” Keppler announced as he moved his hands up and down, allowing the jagged metal to cut through the plastic restraint.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jones said, still trying to remove his zip tie with pieces of large debris on the ground.
He fared badly compared to Keppler, who wasn’t about to share in his find just yet. He wanted Jones to suffer a bit before setting him free.
Not accustomed to failure, the lieutenant rather enjoyed his position in the new world. He gave orders at his previous job as well, keeping people under his thumb at a factory that produced creamer and chocolate milk mix. Some called it micromanaging, but he referred to his technique as getting desired results. He didn’t like it when people crossed him, countered his opinions, or tried to usurp his authority, because his methods and opinions were often proven correct.
Jones had already made reference to the fact that Keppler shouldn’t have let the civilians cross their barricades, at least not without obtaining permission first. In carefully crafted words, the corporal had also suggested that Keppler let the group inside with the hopes of them not returning, either through the cruel hand of fate, or the military bringing them inside the fold.
All of the soldiers were weary, and some of them had come from other states at the very beginning. There really wasn’t pay in the traditional sense, and most of them stayed for food, lodging, and the security that fellow men and guns provided. Some of them wanted to check on their families or return home, but the chances of crossing numerous states and surviving the undead and marauders looked bleak at best.
“I’m sure that punk Martinez bugged out on us,” Keppler sneered as he felt the final strand of the plastic begin to give way, careful not to cut his flesh. “That’s why I sent him, basically to test him.”
Keppler hadn’t waited to see if the corporal returned before he went to search for the box truck, leaving another of the men temporarily in charge. Martinez occasionally spoke of home, subtly hinting that he wished to return there. The lieutenant often sized up the people working for him, assessing their strengths and weaknesses, often playing human chess with them to get what he wanted. He usually sought information, and he learned to play some of the soldiers against one another to draw a select few to his side as spies. Jones wasn’t one of those people, partly because he didn’t have much to offer in the way of information or useful allies.
“You going to bug out on me, too?” Keppler asked the young soldier, who continued to battle the plastic strand binding his wrists.
“No, sir. I don’t really have anywhere to go.”
Keppler watched him struggle with the zip tie only a few seconds more before verbally intervening.
“Stop,” he ordered. “You’re going to hurt yourself and I
don’t want to be cleaning up blood, or bandaging wounds.”
“Yes, sir.”
Feeling the final strand of plastic break free from his own wrists, Keppler stood, momentarily massaging his wrists before looking into nearby vehicles for something more practical than jagged metal to free Jones. He found a small car off to the side of the road that held a backpack in the back seat. Wondering why his soldiers hadn’t gone through the vehicles more thoroughly for potential supplies during their free time, or while moving the vehicles to the side of the road, he realized they didn’t share his work ethic.
Barely better than the entitled teens and young adults that couldn’t be bothered to look for work before the end of the world, they simply stood by, waiting for orders.
Keppler rummaged through the backpack, finding several sealed bottles of water, some individually wrapped food items, and a sturdy utility knife with a retractable blade. He pulled out the knife, still feeling some heft to the bag, so he dug a little further, finding a semi-automatic Smith & Wesson at the bottom that the car’s driver obviously never got to use when it counted the most.
Quickly checking it for ammunition, and to make certain a round was readied in the chamber, Keppler tucked it along the back of his belt. He took up the other supplies, prepared to cut Jones free and begin the next chapter of his life in the apocalypse. Tired of obeying orders from a government that treated him like a secondhand citizen, only to have asshole civilians get the better of him thanks to his inept subordinates, he finally found something worth his time.
Revenge.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to find those dickheads who took that box truck and left us for dead,” he informed Jones as he walked over to the soldier, who remained seated atop the concrete parking lot.
He reminded the lieutenant of an upended turtle, unable to fend for himself.
“Sir?” Jones asked, looking up at him, squinting because the lieutenant stood with the sun at his back, temporarily blinding the young soldier.
“We’re getting the boys together and we’re going after these assholes, corporal.”
Jones looked hesitant, and helpless, still restrained and seated on the ground.
“Sir, we can’t just abandon our post.”
“What has the government done for us?” Keppler asked, irritated that his soldier, his soldier, would question his orders and even momentarily put the government’s commands ahead of his lieutenant’s.
“Have I not taken care of you since the beginning of this thing?” Keppler asked with a bark in his voice.
“You have, sir.”
“We haven’t experienced a single casualty as a unit, have we?”
“No, sir.”
Keppler stood above the corporal, momentarily saying nothing, continuing to weigh his options. He needed to convince his men to abandon their post, an act worthy of court-martial, a dishonorable discharge, and prison time when a system remained in place to carry out such sentences. Now, living in a virtually lawless land, Keppler saw nothing stopping him from doing whatever he wanted, but he needed some followers, because individual unregulated people were like minnows that the larger lawless fish sought to devour.
“The government isn’t doing us any favors,” Keppler said, trying to reason with the soldier. “We’re going to run out of supplies, water, and food with so many people staying in this area. The military is a business, Jones, and without that convoy of goods coming this way, things are going to dry up. Shit, I’m surprised they haven’t already. They leave us out here like guard dogs, throwing us scraps of food, and expect us to salute and say ‘Yes, sir!’ whenever they come around. It’s bullshit, and it’s time we stopped putting up with it.”
Jones eyeballed him momentarily, unable to disguise his tentative feelings about packing up and leaving a secured area. Perhaps he thought the lieutenant was testing him, because he appeared uncertain of what to say next.
“Sir, we have numbers here. We have shelter, food, water, and we work eight hour shifts. It isn’t that bad.”
“Isn’t that bad? Well, it’s going to be.”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“I thought we already had been, Jones.”
Jones twisted his face in thought, trying to frame his words carefully, and Keppler already had countermeasures working within the depths of his mind.
“Sir, are you just wanting revenge on these people for getting the better of us?”
“Getting the better of you, Jones.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“You should be, son.”
Keppler knew the other soldiers would be joining them shortly, once their shift concluded. Even taking himself and Jones out of the rotation to check the box truck was against orders, and the last thing he needed was more trouble. At this moment, he needed loyal soldiers to help him track the box truck and the individuals responsible for causing him embarrassment. Perhaps his soldiers would return to the base if they tracked down the civilians quickly and dealt with them, but more than likely the soldiers would strike out on their own and build a new life for themselves, once free of governmental restraints.
“Sir, can I get free now?” Jones asked hesitantly.
Keppler held the knife in front of him, looking between it and Jones momentarily.
“Just answer me one more question, son.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you think the boys will back me if we go after these douchebags who took what could amount to a month’s worth of supplies?”
“That’s asking a lot, sir. This place is a lot to leave behind right now.”
“I suppose it is,” Keppler said, dropping the knife beside Jones, watching as the soldier turned his body and wriggled his fingers to reach the object of his freedom. “I suppose they just need some motivation.”
With that said, the lieutenant reached behind him, pulling the gun and firing a round into the surprised corporal’s forehead before he could even utter a plea. Dropping dead like a sack of potatoes atop the concrete, Jones remained perfectly still because there was no chance of his corpse reanimating. Blood slowly oozed from his forehead, creating a small pool atop the concrete while his open eyes stared into a void, perhaps even the afterworld, painting a perfect picture for the scenario Keppler had cooked up.
Knowing the gunfire would draw his people that much quicker, Keppler cut the zip tie free from Jones’s hands. He then placed the knife near the body, providing the method with which the plastic tie was severed, even wiping it off with his uniform out of habit to leave no fingerprints. Forensics weren’t likely to be utilized again for years to come, but he wasn’t taking any chances that someone might be a police officer in their civilian life and know how to use forensic tools.
With the gun, he took a little more time and care, burying it in a mulch mound beside one of the local businesses. No one would suspect once he weaved his woeful tale to his soldiers, rallying their support for his cause. The government often used propaganda and deception to get what they wanted from their soldiers, so Keppler saw no reason not to use the same tactics.
He knelt beside the body, looking down at the wide-open eyes once again as the smell similar to copper reached his nostrils. Wafting it upward so he could take in the unusual odor from the blood, he heard the sound of vehicles approaching. He made one more motion with his hand for a final sniff, putting on his game face before turning to face his squad that came running to his aid within minutes of the gunfire.
“What happened?” one of them inquired as they jumped out of the vehicles, armed to the teeth, shocked looks crossing their faces at the sight of a comrade dead in the middle of a parking lot.
Most of them hadn’t experienced the death of a relative or close friend in person, so this likely came as a shock to see one of their own murdered.
“Boys, those assholes with the box truck doubled back and got the jump on us,” Keppler stated without falter.
He hesitated momentarily, playing o
ut the charade. Acting somber momentarily, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair before letting them see his angry side with a flushed red face. He wasn’t going to cry, or even pretend to, because he would never let his soldiers see him in a weakened state.
“They tied us up,” he continued, struggling to maintain his composure by all appearances with a fallen soldier at his feet, “and when Jones tried to break free, they killed him for it.”
“Dear God,” one of the soldiers muttered as the fable was taken hook, line, and sinker by the entire squad.
“Who knows why they let me live, but the cowards loaded up and took off when they knew you were coming,” Keppler continued with the deception, feeling satisfied with every word, because the looks of the soldiers indicated each detail brought them closer to his side. “They took all of our weapons, and every scrap of food and water stored inside that truck. Supplies that would have gotten us through another month or more without worry. They didn’t have to murder Jones, but they did.”
“We need to find them,” one of the soldiers finally said, relieving Keppler’s worry that he would actually have to present the idea after spinning his tale of woe.
He needed them to think it was their idea, and a good one at that, to abandon their post and hunt down the civilians who left in such a hurry.
“Boys, we can go find those sons-of-bitches, but it may not be easy, and it may not be quick. If we leave now, we can catch up with them that much sooner, but we’re going to get labeled deserters if we do. I don’t think we’d make it back in time for our next shift.”
“Fuck the government, lieutenant,” one of the men said, his finger near the trigger of his tethered firearm. “What have they done for us?”
Keppler couldn’t have agreed with the sentiment more, and he saw no dissension among any of the soldiers. Figuring the other military forces around them weren’t keeping much of a headcount, he needed to get the corporal’s body out of sight before questions arose.
“Boys, a few of us are going to stay here and give Jones a proper burial, because the government can’t know what we’re doing, and this man deserves that much. The rest of us are going back to the base to grab a few things we need, and then we’re hunting these motherfuckers down,” Keppler said with resolve, displaying anger for Jones’s murder that he actually felt for being bested by a ragtag group of civilians. “We’re going to hunt these fuckers down and kill every last one of them if it’s the last thing we do.”
The Undead Chronicles (Book 1): Home and Back Again Page 45