by SP Durnin
George, Rae, Allan, and Maggie (strangely enough) signed up to work on developing transports like the Screamin’ Mimi (Foster keeps her mothballed in Al’s new workshop) for the military. Minus her impervious SEP-skin coating, of course. A group of scientists who’d weathered what little of the outbreak the West Coast saw at Cal-Tech, still haven’t figured the formula NASA used for that one.
When I last spoke to Willow, she said Barker married that nurse of his, and they’ve adopted a number of kids who lost their parents in the outbreak. Good on him. Hope he’s got more olanzapine though. He’s gonna need it with that many rug-rats.
George is doing better. Rae convinced him to finally quit smoking (something I did years ago) after his second heart attack, with the ultimate guilt-based weapon. “This baby will need its father around!” kind of convinced the chief to stop sucking down the Cubans. She gave birth to twins the first time, and their next one is due any day. Here’s hoping the chief will be able to go home from the hospital before Team Foster’s new member shows up.
It’s been a while since we’ve seen Mark and Gwen, but I’m told they’re enjoying married bliss too. She’s pretty busy working Obstetrics in the re-opened Presidio Hospital here in San Fran, and Mark’s still pulling bi-weekly recon outside Vegas, so they’re not home much. But their son Oliver seems like a well-adjusted kid. A little strange, but nice.
Which reminds me.
There’ve been reports of strange zombie activity out east. The dead are still roaming around on the other side of the Rockies and will be for a long time to come, but more of Kat’s ‘Smart-ghouls’ have been spotted by patrols. Sometimes they’re running in groups, sometimes alone, but they all seem more together upstairs than your average walking corpse. One communiqué I read claimed a ghoul surprised one of Close’s people outside the wall at Pecos airport. According to the report, after looking at the startled marine —who’s pants were around his ankles, because he was taking a dump—the zombie actually snorted (or maybe laughed), turned around, and headed away into the nearby suburbs at a brisk trot. The Private was so stunned he didn’t get his ass chewed off (literally) that he didn’t think to grab his rifle and kill the thing as it ran off.
So. Something else for us to worry about.
Oh! Speaking of unbelievable developments. I nearly forgot: We now know why the dead got back up and started eating the living.
Nope. I am not kidding.
Kat was there for the news too. She saw the same speech the President gave over AFBC (the new Armed Forces Broadcast Network), and she can confirm what I’m telling you. He came on one night, right after the station ran that old movie To Catch a Thief and spilled the beans. I should note here, that I was a bit disappointed at the time. I’d wanted to watch The Empire Strikes Back that evening, but my wife has always loved this dress Grace Kelly wore in that movie, so…
Hey. Don’t judge me. Watching flicks from the Golden Age of Hollywood makes my wife very affectionate. Do the math.
Anyway. I know some will probably call bullshit on what I’m about to tell you, but I am as serious as a heart attack.
Get this. What happened was—
“Here they come.”
O’Connor looked up from his laptop just as the bell rang. He and Cho were sitting together on one of the benches outside Claire Lilienthal Elementary School, enjoying their day off and each other’s company. The school’s front doors blew open, releasing a flood of squealing children into the unsuspecting world, free from the toils of educational oppression and prepared to commit mayhem of which only the very young are capable.
After the outbreak, though it took over two years, and to the dismay of teenagers throughout the Safe Zone, classes began again. There were some “changes” made in what was once California however, by those who “hoped” to keep it safe and zombie-free.
First, all the anti-gun morons and firearm control lobbyists had been told by the new president, military leaders, and surviving members of the various law enforcement agencies to (in no uncertain terms): Sit the fuck down, and shut the fuck up. If they didn’t want to grow a pair and accept that all citizens were going to be armed; they were welcome to carry their asses out to patrol the Safe Zone’s border for a few weeks, without any of those “evil firearms,” and deal with any pesky, misunderstood zombies they encountered as best they could. That shut the nanny-state nitwits up pretty quick.
Second, everyone physically able to work, did. If you were sound of body it didn’t matter how lazy you felt like you were “entitled” to be. If you didn’t work, you didn’t eat. “Loaf on dip-shit. We’ll put you in a skinny, little grave after you starve,” miraculously cured a whole lot of people’s maladies.
Third, all schools taught all grade levels now. There was no more splitting up elementary, middle, and high school anymore. Gasoline was at a premium, and bussing was a thing of the past.
That being the case, teenagers and grade school kids very early on learned to look out for one-another. Bullies tended to get their asses mobbed on the playground or during lunch, long before ever making it to the school office for some love and tenderness by way of a little “corporal punishment.” Paddles had made a comeback in the classrooms. Along with switches, yardsticks, and the ever popular trouser retention device more commonly known as a “belt.”
The older students began breaking off into groups for their walk home as the couple watched. Self-image or sports or academic interests no longer held sway over who became good friends with whom and was replaced by where you lived. If there was an outbreak, your neighbors were the first ones on scene—and the ones you might have to put your back against to survive—so they stuck together. That practice reminded O’Connor of their journey west and some friends with whom they remained close, but rarely—if ever—got to see face-to-face. Sweaty Ted “Jackson” and the band members of Dead Sexy, who were currently on a West Coast tour in the Safe Zone, and wanted Kat to do at least a few shows with them in the Bay Area. Laurel’s twin sister (the new mayor-elect of the Pecos Enclave) Willow St. Clair, and her gruff husband Garth (now head of the salvage teams and the Pecos Security Forces). Sergeant Major James Close. Even the addlepated Doctor Robert “Bob” Barker.
Jake’s musings were interrupted by one his wife’s elbows applying brief pressure to the left side of his ribcage. “We’re stopping by Gertie’s, right?”
“Yes dear.” He rubbed his side. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your bi-weekly dose of Manic Panic ‘Electric Blue.’”
She gave him an easy smile and a naughty sideways glance. “Time with Gertie is always fun. And me getting to maintain my pixy-cut is also one of the many reasons you get to see a certain schoolgirl outfit and librarian glasses so often.”
Upon reaching California, Jake’s aged once-neighbor had taken to mending clothing and giving haircuts to contribute to the Safe Zone. Even though the climate—like Texas—was far better for her than Ohio had ever been, Gertrude was almost ninety. She couldn’t work in the fields, or with livestock. Her body wouldn’t take driving a supply vehicle, or walking with one of the zombie patrols, or any manual-type labor really. But after a few weeks, word got around that there was an actual hairdresser in town. Interested people began showing up at her house for a trim, so she’d taken over the empty Savvy Hair Salon on Chestnut Street, just three blocks down from Claire Lilienthal Elementary.
“You’d talk like that with children about? Shame on you. There will be spankings after dinner,” Jake told her sternly.
Cho wiggled on the bench appealingly and crossed her legs. “Mmm. Yes, sir.”
A pair of girls came running through the school’s doors, bringing the interesting conversation to an end. Until later anyway.
“Hey, mom! Can Ryleigh… Daddy!”
The little girl with jet-black hair, in a pair of Anime-style pigtails, was perhaps seven years old. Her smile was a thing of high comedy, because she’d recently lost one of her baby teeth—the left incisor, to
be precise—which made her look like she’d popped to life straight out of a cartoon. California was still warm this time of year, so she wore a jeans and a small black t-shirt with a kung fu-kicking “Hello Kitty” emblazoned on the front. She raced along the sidewalk, mindless of her already skinned knees, giving Jake only a few seconds to gain his feet or get bowled over the bench by a kiddie-projectile complete with a pint-sized, army-green backpack. He grabbed the girl up and swung her about for a moment sending her pigtails flying, then tickled her shamelessly when she nearly choked him squeezing her arms around his neck so tightly.
“Mo-o-om!” She complained, still laughing. “You didn’t tell me dad would be back today!”
“Daddy only went to visit Uncle George in the hospital this morning, not to Vegas so he could look at more boring...” Kat’s smile faded and she pointed one finger as O’Connor set the girl on her feet. “What’s that?”
The girl played dumb and looked around. “What?”
“That. Right there. Sticking out of your book-bag.”
“It’s my zombie killer, mom. Come on, you gave it to me!” The chisel end of a small, yellow crowbar protruded from the zipper of the little girl’s pack.
Jake snorted away a laugh. “I think she’s talking about the gunk on it, sprout.”
Come to find out that despite his crass sense of humor, despite his irreverent (in a few people’s opinion) tendency towards the excessive use of obscene language, despite the fact that he’d been one of the most feared men on the planet in the intelligence community during the Cold War; it turned out that “Uncle George” adored kids. Becoming a father late in life as he’d done may have had something to do with it, or it may have been the fact that—during their westward trek in the Mimi—he continuously referred to Kat by the pet name “China Doll.” Whatever the reason may have been, he had a real soft spot for O’Connor and Cho’s daughter. That’s why he gave her the nickname, “Bean Sprout.”
O’Connor was sure that—taking into account Kat and daughter’s ancestral heritage—there were politically correct halfwits who would be absolutely incensed upon hearing the man’s gruffly-affectionate moniker. But his wife thought it was adorable.
He liked it quite a bit himself, truth be told. And teased “the Urchin” with it often.
Kat’s voice remained calm, proving that she was able to control her emotions as she matured. “Laurel Natsuki O’Connor! I better not catch you using your crowbar as a way to turn the sandwiches I make for your lunch into shish kababs one more time, young lady!”
“At least she keeps her crowbar handy. Could be zombies about, you know.”
Jake shut up when Kat glared at him. “What’s our rule about doing that?”
“Only at home.” The girl recited with a smile. “And only when daddy isn’t around.”
“Very good. Now come give mommy-san kisses.”
While Kat and his daughter hugged and giggled, Jake sighed. “My ladies.”
“Hi, Mr. O’Connor.” The other girl, a “tween” slightly taller than his daughter (who hadn’t hit her growth spurt yet) had approached at a slower pace. She too wore a military-style backpack, as most kids did after the apocalypse. Jake could see the head of a small, pink, stuffed bear she called “Baby Bear” poking out through the zipper, as if the little thing was curious about what was going on outside.
“Hello, Ryleigh.” Jake smiled at the girl. “The two of you didn’t cause any trouble today, did you?”
She shrugged and popped another fried ring into her mouth from her bag of Funyuns. “Nah. Me and Laurel hid the bodies like Mrs. O taught us. No evidence, no trouble. So we’re good.”
O’Connor laughed at the girl’s speedy comeback, pretty much because he could never quite tell when she was joking. That, and knowing his wife, she really was teaching them things of the sort.
A purple hoodie and a pair of cargo shorts added a little bulk to Ryleigh Myers thin frame. She was small for a twelve-year old, standing only a diminutive four-foot, four-inches, but—thanks to his favorite, blue-haired ninja—was becoming one of the hopefuls in the next generation of elite zombie slayers. That’s because, short as she was, the girl was absolute hell-on-wheels with her spear.
She’d actually made her own.
Since Jake worked for the Department of Defense, processing information and intelligence in the hopes of someday taking their country back, Kat wanted to insure the future fighters knew every dirty trick in the book to use against the dead. So, after plying her smitten husband with feminine wiles (schoolgirl uniform), getting an appointment with Rae’s grandfather; General “Thunderbolt” Norris (watching the twins for her one weekend), and then convincing the Safe Zone’s Financial Allocations Committee of the need for such a program (threatening them, as they’d lie tied up hand-and-foot in their beds at night, with large, sharp, pointy objects), she was provided the equipment and funding to open Kat’s Academy of Ninjitsu and Zombie Ass-Whoopery.
While Cho began instructing all the students at her dojo in the use of a ninja’s tools, she also encouraged budding ghoul-stalkers to modify everyday items into something uniquely their own. Many of them loved the idea, Ryleigh included. So starting with her beloved, double-edged Sufi dagger (sans pommel and hilt) the girl shoved the blade’s tang into one end of a steel mop handle. Then, with the aid of some bonding epoxy (and an inordinate amount of duct tape) she secured blade to staff. This gave her a spear a bit longer than she was tall, and tripled her reach. She’d become quite good with it too. Not quite as good as her idol—actress and movie star Jeeja Yanin—but close.
And was only twelve.
“Mom, can Ryleigh come over and play Minecraft?” Their daughter put on her most pathetic “Ple-e-e-e-ease?” face.
“Let’s shoot for tomorrow instead, Sprout.” Jake said. “We’re going to visit Gertie this afternoon.”
“Besides, that will give you a chance to clean up your room a bit later. While your dad is usually the Star Wars geek of the family, I’d have to agree with him on this one. Your room looks like a bunch of Jedi got killed in there.” Kat poked Laurel’s pouty lip. “I’ve never seen so many clothes scattered all over the floor.”
“I have to go home and feed the dogs anyway, Laurel, or my mom will have a fit.” The tiny girl gave her friend a hug. “We can hang out all day tomorrow, since there’s no school. After Minecraft, we could play co-op on that Marvel Heroes game if you want.”
Jake knew what was coming.
His daughter’s eyes lit up and she brandished her mini-crowbar like a Norse hammer. “Okay! But I get to be Thor! He’s the awesomest! And he’s pretty! God of Thunder, to the rescue!”
“Pppf! Deadpool is better. He’s got the cool ladybug costume, katanas, and a healing factor that pretty much makes him immortal. But we’ll see who kills more bad guys tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah!”
Ryleigh bumped fists with the dark-haired girl and began skipping off, twirling her spear in what Jake was just sure to be a totally unsafe manner, and humming the old KISS tune.
These two are going to wreck Midgard when they’re older. He thought wryly.
Kat took their daughter’s hand and started for Gertie’s storefront. “Hah! Sorry kiddo, but Deadpool rocks! Big swords, big guns, and a big mouth!”
“Just like me!” Laurel piped happily.
O’Connor gave his wife a sly look. “It’s genetic.”
“Keep it up, hero. I’ll make meatloaf for dinner.”
“Ugh! I give! Anything but that!” He faked a gag.
Laurel took his hand too. “Mommy wins!”
“Mommy always wins.” Kat reminded her.
Looking at his family, Jake had a different opinion. “I dunno. Seems to me I won. I do have two of the prettiest ninja ever looking out for me at home, after all. Even if one of them has to be reminded to put her dirty clothes in a basket, and not on the floor.”
“Then it’s spaghetti for dinner tonight.” She knew well h
er husband’s deep, abiding hatred for meatloaf, so she’d never make it except in emergencies.
But it was fun to tease him about it.
* * *
Later, after Laurel had gone to bed for the night, her parents sat together in their living room, snuggling under a blanket.
The couple had moved into that space above her Ninja Academy just after its inception before their daughter was born, and the third floor of the warehouse was more than spacious enough for the three of them. It reminded Jake and Kat of time spent in Foster’s hidden fortress back in Ohio, when the outbreak first started. When they’d been fighting not only the dead, but also their mutual attraction to one another.
“Strange how things turned out, isn’t it?” Jake mused.
Kat nuzzled his chin. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve told you this before, but when we met? I was too chicken to ask you out. If I had, I wonder where we’d be now. Here? Still stuck in George’s warehouse? Walking around with the rest of the zombies?” He leaned his head back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I’m not complaining, mind you. It just seems like everything that could go wrong did—at the worst possible moment—and pushed us together.”
His wife considered that for a few minutes. “You know what? You may be right. We kept having to count on each other to survive impossible situations. That fight in the alley behind the warehouse, the agri-supply store, Old Hall in Wilmington—”
“—Penny’s nuts-o cult friends, the battle with the Purifiers—” O’Connor added.
“—the Pensacola Dam, the battle with Hess and then the wildfire horde. Do we know anyone else, outside of George and Rae and the others in the Mimi, who’s managed to live through crazy crap like that?” Kat’s brow furrowed slightly, making him want to smooth the worry he saw on her face away. “We should’ve been dead ten times over long before we made it to Vegas.”