Thirty
“The first thing,” Sam said, “is we need to clear this fucking building.”
Behind him, the creepers had converged on the security gate, but it was holding up well. The best part being: they couldn’t see in and the men couldn’t see out. It gave a psychological reprieve to everyone inside and made them feel like maybe – just maybe – the creepers would forget about them by daylight and move on.
To Sam’s left, gunfire cracked fast and angry as a guard executed a creeper in a dark corner.
“Phil,” Sam said, “you wanna go play?”
Phil nodded. “I’ll see you in a bit,” he said. Walked along the gun racks until he found a semi-automatic shotgun. Took it down. Found a few boxes of shells. Nodded again. Disappeared into the gloom of the back offices.
[RL: Originally, we wrote a scene of Phil in the back office, clearing it. In the end, it didn’t work for continuity. So, we rewrote this chapter to be entirely from Sam’s perspective, and then tweaked Phil’s chapter to reference this one in the beginning and end, planning on having it between this chapter and Sam’s next. Time constraints – and the lack of necessity for plot – led us to leave Phil’s chapter on the digital cutting room floor. Where we snatched it back up and included it in the deleted scenes. If you’re wondering why we are just now talking about deleted scenes, it’s because we hadn’t thought of including them until this part of the writing, and therefore didn’t save the previous ones.]
“Chris,” Sam called. “Excuse me… Asshole,” he corrected. Chris came up despite the name change, sweating in the cold. “The fuck?” Sam asked him. “You been running?”
Chris’ hands were quaking. He coughed once, then wiped his forehead. “Must have caught a cold with all this fucking outdoor work,” he said.
Sam nodded. “Well, we don’t have any blankets or chicken soup,” he told him. “Are you solid?”
“Brick wall.”
“Good. Turns out, parking this truck here has fringe benefits. I want every box of ammo and every rifle, pistol, street sweeper and pocket knife loaded up.”
“It’ll take more than one for that.”
“Then load the bed and front. Pack it in on the seats. Fuck weight limit, we’re not getting ticketed anymore.”
“Still,” Chris said, shaking his head. “It’ll take two to three to get it all.”
Sam thought a moment. “Okay,” he said, “fill the truck and put the rest up against the security gate. First light, if there’s no creepers, we load the other trucks. I don’t give a shit if we need to walk a few people, that’s what we have to do.”
Chris nodded and went to work.
“You,” Sam called to the stranger in the bite suit. “Front and center.”
The man came and stood, weighted down by the material.
“That what dog trainers wear?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. A bite suit. Nothing short of a bullet can get through it.”
Sam smiled. “Name.”
“Maurice.”
“Maurice,” Sam said, “I like your style.”
[RL: Maurice is a true visionary. The simple act of donning his bite suit makes him deserving of a fine place in zombie fiction, in my not-so-humble opinion.]
Thirty-One
Erin Gibbs lay in his bunk, clothed in darkness, thinking.
He was thinking about what Tall Bill had said. Were they better off inside than out? For survival purposes, he was pretty sure they were. The walls, the razor wire, the armed guards. But that wasn’t enough.
Erin wasn’t interested in simply surviving. Not anymore.
So what was he doing? Waiting for an opportunity. But what kind? At this point, it didn’t seem likely they were going to let them back out. They were on lock down and when the Warden put them on lock down, that’s what they were: locked down.
But for how long?
They had to let them out eventually. And they had already started letting women do administrative work. What was next? The men did the labor. Naturally, they already had. So what was next?
Had to be something.
Would there be a new mass of bodies in the morning? A new group to clean them off? No. Same group: they had proved themselves. Odds were good the next time they needed muscle they would go to the same trusted men. They were all low security risks anyway, that’s why they were chosen. To pick a new group would be inviting an escape attempt.
So. He was waiting. Waiting for them to give him another chance.
But he wouldn’t be waiting for forever.
He wouldn’t be waiting for long.
Thirty-Two
Phil came back in and set the shotgun on the remaining display case.
“Clear,” he said.
“Good,” Sam told him, and boxed another assault rifle. Behind him, Chris, Brooks and the others were dropping cases of ammunition into the bed of the truck. “They give you any trouble?”
“I gave them more,” Phil said. “But I’m running on empty.”
Brooks called, “Same, sir. When can we rack out?”
Sam thought about it. “If we’re clear,” he said, “we’ll split into two shifts. Brooks, Phil, Chris and I will take first watch. The others can sleep for three hours. Then switch off. I want to be ready to move at first light.”
They all nodded.
Chris came up next to Sam. “I appreciate you giving us first watch,” he said.
“Anytime,” Sam said. “You said you were solid.”
“He doesn’t look solid,” Phil said, “he looks like shit.”
“He always did,” Sam told Phil, elbowed Chris.
“Fuck you both.”
Brooks, Phil and Sam laughed. Chris coughed. Rubbed his arms together. His wound burning, pain arching through his entire forearm. His head light.
Sam grabbed his shoulder and held it. “Hold it together, buddy. At first light, we’re going home.”
“Sure,” Chris said, not really listening, lost in the pain. “At first light.”
Thirty-Three
The low sun shined orange down on the snow swept town, the flakes reflecting it back and playing along the edges of shadows.
Sam pulled the security door up and peered out, the streets totally clear. Scratch marks in the snow showing where the creepers had fled as the horizon lit up.
Sam turned and signaled the men. They sprang into action, snatching up cases and running them to the trucks, setting them down as lightly as they could to keep from alerting the nocturnal creatures.
Phil came out with a Barrett fifty-caliber sniper rifle.
“Is that really necessary?” Sam asked him.
“Of course not,” Phil told him. “Anal sex isn’t really necessary, but that doesn’t make it any less fucking awesome, now does it?”
[RL: Spoken like a true gentleman.]
Sam shrugged it off and supervised the loading. “Rifles in the front truck,” he said, “ammunition in the middle. Left over small arms in the back. If we have to lose a truck, we keep the rifles and ammo.”
“I should drive the front truck,” Chris said. “I have the list.”
“Not anymore,” Sam told him, and put his hand out. “Give me the list.”
“No.”
“Give me the fucking list,” Sam snarled.
“No,” Chris repeated. “Warden said I’m in charge of the list. It’s my responsibility. You’re just here for security.”
“In the absence of the Warden, I Am In Charge.”
“Holy shit.” Brooks sighed. “We’re going through this again? Sam, Warden says he keeps the list, he keeps the list.”
“I don’t understand why this is such a problem,” Bryce told them. “What’s it matter?”
“It’s about the chain of command’s why it matters. I say give me the list, I get the list.”
“Ladies,” Phil cut in, “if we could put the claws back in, we have more important things to worry about.” He pointed with the barrel of his rifle. A line
of creepers were coming out of the shop across the street, slowly, blindly, walking toward the voices.
Sam growled and dropped his hand. “Chris, front truck. I’ll ride in the back with the ammunition. Try not to fucking kill me,” he spat at Chris.
Chris nodded solemnly. Walked around and got in the front truck. Sam climbed into the back. The others mounted up. Started up the trucks. Chris backed the front truck out, pulled it in drive, and said, “Everyone ready?” into the coms.
“Roger.”
“Ready.”
“Let’s just get this shit over with,” Sam’s voice came through.
Chris hit the gas and they started moving.
Thirty-Four
“Report,” Warden Bowers said into the microphone.
“We’re moving.” Chris’ voice told him over the speakers. “We’ll clear the list and be on our way back by nightfall.”
“Good. Casualties?”
“Just the initial two. We brought on a few, though.”
“We don’t need more mouths to feed.”
“You want us to dump them?”
Bowers thought about that. He really didn’t need more mouths to feed. He was already considering what he was supposed to do when their food stores ran out. Water was fine. Electricity should stay up for a week or two. They were bringing back ammunition. But food. Food had expiration dates.
But, so did people. And he had lost some, would lose more. Warm bodies meant working bodies. He could put them to use in admin or possibly even as guards. Put guns in their hands. Keep the fucking creepers away from the fence. It was about to fall from yet another batch of attacks over the night.
“Keep them,” he said. “How many?”
“Two.”
“Fine. But I want each one checked by our doctors before they get into the prison proper.”
“Roger.”
“And Chris,” Warden Bowers said.
“Sir?”
“Get your asses back here in one piece. Understood?”
“Roger.”
Thirty-Five
“What the fuck is this supposed to be?” Sam asked Chris as he hopped out of the truck bed.
“What do you mean?” Chris asked, looking around. “It’s your house.”
“Exactly. What the hell are we doing here?”
Phil stalked up, his rifle sweeping left and right as he did, checking the surrounding areas for threats.
“Checking it out,” Chris told Sam. “Warden said check yours first since you’re his number two. He had to pick a way to do it, so he picked seniority.”
“Check what?”
Chris shook his head, not understanding the problem. “Check on your wife,” he said, “obviously. See if she made it through.”
“Don’t bother,” Sam told him. “We saw all those creepers last night. I’ve been telling you for a day now: no one made it.”
Everyone was out of the trucks now, watching for creepers. Crowding around.
“I made it,” Maurice said over his shoulder.
“So?”
“So, if I made it, maybe she did too.”
“Fine,” Sam told them, “if it will make everyone feel better, I’ll go check on her.”
“You can’t go in alone,” Chris said. “What if there’s creepers in there?”
“Then she’ll be dead, and I’ll be right. A second ago you said she might not be dead, now you think the house is full of fucking zombies. Pick one.”
“I’m saying: we don’t know. But we can’t take any chances.”
“Jesus,” Bryce swore, “what are you two, married? First it’s this-and-that with the list, now it’s stay-go, in-out. Warden said we check the houses, we check the houses.”
Phil said, “I’ll go with you.” Swung the sniper rifle down and away and suddenly it was resting snugly on his back. One smooth motion. With another, he dropped the semi-automatic shotgun down off his back, under his shoulder, and brought it up to a firing position.
Took a step forward, shotgun aimed at the house.
“No, you won’t,” Sam told him and raised his rifle, pointing it at Phil.
“What the fuck, man,” Phil said, and adjusted the shotgun to point at Sam.
“Guys,” Bryce told them, holding his hands out palms down. “Let’s just take this down a notch. We all just want to get our families back safe and sound. Why is this becoming a pissing contest?”
“Listen,” Sam said, “this is my house. She was my wife. I’ll go in and see if she made it.”
“If you get bitten,” Phil told him, “I will end you.”
“Fine,” Sam said, nodded. “That’s fair.”
“No, it’s not,” Chris told them. “No one goes in alone. That’s the Warden’s orders. Not even you, Sam. Phil’s going with you.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Guys,” Bryce said again. “Just put the guns down.” He took a step forward.
“Over my dead body,” Sam told him.
“That can be arranged,” Phil said, “you keep pointing that thing at me.”
“She was my wife,” Sam said again.
Bryce took another step forward, palms down, non-threatening. “We’re all just keyed up,” he said. “It’s understandable, but we’re all friends.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” Phil asked.
Sam stared at him. Bryce took a step forward. Sam adjusted the rifle to point at Bryce, now the closest to him.
“‘She was my wife,’” Phil said. “Past tense. Like she’s already dead.”
“Because she is,” Sam said, his trigger finger tight. “Everyone is.”
“You don’t know that,” Bryce said, and took another step.
“Yes, I do,” Sam said, and pulled the trigger.
[RL: And now we know why Sam’s head’s been splitting the last few episodes. It’s really just shitty luck on his part. He had no idea the fucking zombie apocalypse was coming. If he had known, he probably would have just left her there and then his conscience would have been clear. In fact, if his wife was as much a pain in the ass as most (sorry, female readers, but I know you say the same about your husbands) he would’ve probably preferred she be ripped apart and eaten. But, well…]
[TK: That brings up an interesting question. If the world was coming to an end and there were no consequences to your actions, would it be good enough to know your boss/ex/whoever was ripped to pieces by a mass of zombies or marauders? Or would you feel the need to pull the trigger yourself? I’m a trigger man myself.]
[RL: I’ve always been the passive aggressive type of asshole who would watch and say: “See, that’s what happens when you’re a fucking douche bag” and feel real good about myself. I’m not proud of it, but what can I say? I’m short.]
EPISODE 4:
THE CRIMSON RIVER
Before…
All Sam Watkins could think about was how bad he wanted to kill someone.
“Who is he?” he asked his wife.
“It’s not like that,” Joyce Watkins told him. “We’ve just grown apart. It’ll be better this way for both of us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?”
[RL: The worst of the terrible lines people use to end relationships. Seriously. Just stop using it. Everyone past the age of sixteen knows exactly what “It’s not you, it’s me” means.]
She squirmed a bit. Pulled a lock of her auburn hair out of her eyes. Said, “Something like that.”
“Who is he?” Sam asked again.
She fidgeted again. Then, not looking at him, said, “It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean ‘it doesn’t matter’? It matters to me!” he shouted. Got up from the couch. “But that doesn’t matter at all, does it? I’ve never fucking mattered to you, have I? You’re the prom queen that fell for the lowly prison guard, right? And I’m just the dumb fuck that snagged you. But not anymore. Now I’ll be ex-dumb fuck. Right?”
He took two steps t
oward her. Hands balled.
“Please, Sam, it doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Right. It’s supposed to be easy for you, right? I’m just supposed to say ‘Okay’ and let you run off with this new asshole. Is that it? I’m making this difficult for you, hurting your feelings. It should all go so easy for you.”
“Sam…”
“Always you. The house you want. By your parents. The car you want, in your color. The drapes. My job. I was going to quit my job. And now, now you spring this on me half an hour before I leave for work. What, I didn’t leave fast enough? No,” he laughed, “you did it so you could get rid of me. You’d spring it on me and then I’d have to leave.”
[RL: That little snippet about him quitting his job will come up later. Trust me.]
“Sam…”
“And when I got home the house would be cleaned out and the papers would be on the table, right? So easy for Miss Fucking Perfect.”
He took two more steps, looming over her now. “Right?” he screamed.
She shrunk back, said, “Sam, you’re scaring me.”
He punched her.
She screamed. Her head snapped to the side, droplets of blood falling onto the clean, gray couch. Joyce snatched at her purse. Fumbled with it. Started to take out her cell phone. He kicked it away and grabbed her by the hair.
“You’re not scared yet,” he told her. Dragged her by her hair down the hall.
Into the bedroom.
Slammed the door. Tossed her on the floor. Started unhooking his belt.
“But you will be.”
[RL: I never really liked this scene, simply because of the implied violence that has nothing to do with zombies. But, it’s a necessary scene. *Shrug* ‘Tis what it tis.]
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