by JE Gurley
“Expecting trouble?” Jeb asked.
Mace took a drag on his cigarette and shrugged. “Trouble’s never far away these days. I just saw Sikes breeze through looking like he wanted to wring someone’s neck.”
“Janis Heath’s, I think. I just overheard them arguing.”
Mace exhaled. The smoke curled upwards toward the roof’s ventilator fans. “Sikes is a time bomb and Heath’s the fuse. He’s going to explode one day and someone is going to get hurt.”
“So what do you want me to do about it,” Jeb replied, harsher than he had intended.
Mace stared at him a long moment. “I want you get your head out of your ass and tell these pricks to shape up or ship out, or admit that this little burg is going the way of the rest of the world and back away and let them kill each other off.”
“It’s our responsibility….”
“Your responsibility,” Mace broke in. “Renda is my only responsibility. The rest we picked up along the way. I warned you what would happen. When responsibilities conflict, I return to basics – you and Renda and by association, Karen. Vince can take care of himself.”
Jeb’s nostrils flared; peeved that Mace was being deliberately obstinate. “Without Erin Costner and her people, many of these people would die. They’re looking for a cure.”
“And these people are afraid of them, of what they’re doing. They’ll take the Blue Juice, but none of them seems to realize we’re in a war here. We’re hiding out, not rebuilding.” We’re surrounded by a million zombies and an army that wants to find us. We should be double-timing the wall and weapons training. Instead, they want to bring in cattle and fish.”
Mace kicked the wall with the tip of his boot. The glass wall shuddered but did not break.
“They’ve been through a lot….”
“They haven’t been through anything,” Mace shouted. “They’re still in the middle of it. Nothing has changed except that they’re alive. Until they realize that, they’re a liability.”
“Karen, too?”
Mace shifted his eyes away from Jeb’s glare. “She’s your call. I’ll abide by it, but you don’t seem to be doing so good.”
Mace’s accusation struck home because Jeb knew that he was right in his assessment of Jeb’s progress with his wife. “She’s been through a lot,” he said, realizing that it had almost become a mantra whenever anyone pointed out her hostility.
Mace leaned on the wall, resting on his forearms, and stared out through the glass. Eight people worked on the sand bag wall. Twelve were assigned to the job. He tapped on the glass. “They’ve all been through a lot. Get your priorities straight.”
Jeb watched Mace walk down the corridor wishing he had had a quick rejoinder to Mace’s rebuke, but he knew that nothing he could have said, no excuse that he could have offered would change things. Mace had lost confidence in him and so had Renda. Maybe everyone had. It seemed as if he had lost touch with reality in hope that things would eventually sort themselves out. In a world gone mad, that was not likely to happen. Trouble usually begets trouble. Maybe I need to become a hard ass.
His first stop was the library, a favorite spot high above the habitat, a sphere atop a tower. The combination library/lounge was a popular off-duty hangout where people gathered to smoke or to chat. Through the glass floor, he could look up and see almost a dozen people sitting around. He climbed the steps and walked to the middle of the floor. Nick Harris was present, as were three of those assigned to help with the sand bag wall. Jeb had not missed Mace’s drawing his attention to the short-handed wall building crew. Angrily, he faced Jack Derring, one of those three. Derring had also been on duty in the monitor room the day Harris and his friends had arrived. He had explained away his absence as a ‘piss break’ but showed no remorse.
“Jack,” Jeb said. “Why aren’t you helping with the wall?”
Derring looked at the others for support and then said while smiling, “I’ve got better things to do.” He leaned back in his seat, picked up the beer bottle sitting on a table beside him, and took a long swallow. He then smacked his lips and said, “Ahh.”
The rage coiled up inside Jeb erupted. He grabbed Derring by the collar and jerked him to his feet. Derring’s dropped beer bottle crashed to the floor and shattered. Derring was three inches shorter than Jeb’s stocky six-foot frame, but Jeb lifted him forward until their eyes were level. Derring’s eyes were darting about the room in a frantic search for help, but no one moved, caught off guard by Jeb’s speed.
“We all have jobs to do,” Jeb growled. “If you don’t like your assignment, you can always swap with someone else. Maybe the waste reclamation team needs help.” He released Derring’s collar and let him fall back into his seat. “We all have to cooperate if we want to survive.”
Another of the shirkers, Dwayne Wiles, spoke up. “We want to live our lives,” he said, “not prepare for a war. This is a good place we have here – power, food, water and shelter. No one has seen a zombie within ten miles of here in months. We train with guns like we’re going to fight off the army.” Jeb noticed his nervous glance to Nick Harris before continuing, “Everyone knows that’s ridiculous. If the army comes in, we’re all dead.”
Harris cleared his throat. “I think what he means, what they all feel, is that the committee needs to lighten up a bit, let them have a little fun.”
Jeb now knew who had been instigating things. Everyone’s eyes remained glued to Harris as he spoke.
“Harris, you’re just passing through. You have no say in things.”
Harris shrugged and made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. “You’re right, I’m just a visitor, but in my eagerness to meet new people, I’ve talked to just about everyone in this sanctuary. Have you?”
Jeb heard a few of those present mutter under their breath.
“I’ve listened to those who came to me with problems,” he hedged. “That’s my job here.”
“And you’ve been selfless in your devotion,” Harris added quickly, “but you’re overworked. People can see it in your eyes. Perhaps your efforts to rehabilitate your ailing wife have….”
“My wife doesn’t concern you,” Jeb interrupted sharply.
“I don’t mean to step on toes. You have your hands full, but between the committee’s lack of direction and Mace Ridell’s bullying, some people are getting restless.”
“The door’s open for anyone who wants to leave,” Jeb said staring at each person. His eyes came to rest on Derring. “Break’s over. Go help with the wall or don’t expect the rest of us to feed you.”
When Derring stood, two others assigned to the wall rose with him. Derring faced Jeb, hands clenching and unclenching as if trying to decide how far he could push Jeb. Finally, he spun on his heel and left. Jeb watched the three men descend the steps, and then refocused his attention on Harris. “If anyone needs a spokesman in the future, remind them that you’re a guest on your way to Mexico and to choose someone else.”
“They came to me.”
“They made a mistake. You and your friends are welcome to some food and water, but I think you should be on your way as soon as possible.”
“That’s not very friendly.”
“I don’t feel very friendly, Harris. Remember what I said.”
Jeb turned his back on Harris and followed Derring and the others downstairs. He figured the itch between his shoulder blades was from Harris’s eyes. He felt oddly calmer after venting his pent up anger on Derring and Harris. Maybe he needed to get outside more often and kill a few zombies.
13
Vince Holcomb sat on top of the workbench leaning back against the wall. He had not slept in ten hours, but he had managed to doze a few times in spite of the zombies’ continuous howls and growls outside. He had hoped they would give up and return to their lair, but they remained vigilant throughout the night. Another reason for his lack of sleep was that he did not feel comfortable sleeping near Dan Mateo. So far, Mateo had shown no symptoms o
f turning from the zombie bite on his ankle. Vince was beginning to think that maybe he was wrong about immunity, or perhaps the Blue Juice was delaying the change. He was no doctor, if even a doctor knew. Mateo seemed hopeful, and Vince couldn’t pull the trigger on his companion unless he was sure.
The heat inside the sealed garage was almost unbearable and was still an hour until dawn. He had opened one of the windows but even that hadn’t helped. There was no wind stirring. In another eight hours, temperatures inside the garage could reach 130 degrees Fahrenheit. They couldn’t survive that for very long, a few hours at most.
Shooting their way back to the ATV would be suicide. Even if they reached the vehicle, they could never outrun the zombies while weaving through the abandoned and wrecked automobiles blocking the road. On his last count, he had seen over thirty zombies outside, patrolling the garage’s perimeter. The fact that at least two separate packs were cooperating dismayed him. Usually, when two packs met, frictions arose, and one of the Alpha males either relinquished power or fought to the death. In this group, the two Alphas worked together, becoming doubly dangerous.
“Vince.”
“Yeah, Dan,” Vince called to Mateo, who sat in the front seat of a cherry red, ’68 Dodge Charger. Someone had carefully restored the classic car, paying special attention to details such as the white bumblebee racing stripes on the rear. They had examined the car as a means of escape, but its 426-cubic inch engine, with a Hemi 4-barrel carburetor, was missing the battery and the ignition key, and a search of the premises had revealed neither.
“I’m feeling sick.”
It’s started, Vince thought, but to avoid alarming Mateo, he said, “Drink some more water. You’re probably just dehydrated.”
“No,” he moaned. “My hand’s throbbing and everything’s blurry.” He paused. “Shoot me, Vince. Don’t let me turn.”
“Shoot yourself. You’ve got a pistol.”
“I can’t. Look, you were in the military. You can do it.”
“I was in the Air Force.” He didn’t add that until the zombie apocalypse, he had never shot anyone. After he had been forced to kill his base commander in self-defense, it had become easier to kill – zombies and humans, as most things do – but he wasn’t going to shoot one of the few people he called friend.
Mateo moaned but said nothing more for several minutes. Then he asked, “You can hotwire this car can’t you?”
Vince stared at Mateo, wondering what he was thinking. “Sure, but we still don’t have a battery.”
Mateo smiled. “I think I know where we can get one?”
Vince sat up. Mateo had piqued his interest. “You have to promise to finish me,” Mateo added.
“Damn you!” Vince shouted. “I don’t want to kill you!”
At the sound of his raised voice, zombies began pounding on the door. In anger, Vince fired two quick shots through the door hoping to hit one. He knew that it was a waste of ammunition, but it made him feel better.
“I can’t. I’m Catholic.”
Vince shook his head thinking he hadn’t heard right. “You’re Catholic?”
“It’s a sin to commit suicide.”
Vince laughed. “Hell, Dan, there isn’t a Catholic Church anymore.”
Mateo pulled a silver crucifix from beneath his shirt and stared at it. “Being Catholic is all I have left.” He kissed the cross and replaced it. “I rebuilt a car once,” Mateo he started. “His voice was raspy and his breathing was labored. “A 1986 Ford Thunderbird Turbo Coupe – 5.0 liter, V-8 engine. It was silver with black trim – a beautiful piece of machinery. I worked in the back yard under an oak tree. To protect the battery, I put it in the trunk.”
Vince swore silently. The trunk. With no key, they hadn’t bothered looking in the trunk. “The gas has probably evaporated.”
In answer, Mateo rocked the car. Vince could hear the gas sloshing. “Half a tank at least,” Mateo gasped smiling.
“Dan, I...” Words suddenly failed him. His friend had offered him a way out of their situation, but how could he shoot him? If Mateo turned, he wouldn’t hesitate, but to kill him now….”
“Don’t waste time talking. Get the battery in and see if this thing will run.” He laughed, which came out more a gargled gasp. “Let’s hope that the mechanic repaired it before he left.”
Vince hopped off the workbench, found a flat-head screwdriver and popped the trunk open. There, beside a spare tire, a pair of jumper cables and a spare gas can, sat the battery. He picked it up and shook it to see if it was full, smiling when he discovered that it was. Now to see if it hasn’t gone dead. He placed the battery in the battery box and tightened the cables. Mateo climbed out of the driver’s seat to let Vince crawl beneath the dash. Vince noticed how swollen and red Mateo’s hand had become. Traces of fine black lines crawled up his neck from his shirt collar. Clearly, he was in a lot of pain.
Vince held his breath as he hot-wired the Charger, almost crying out with joy when the engine tried to turn over. He babied the accelerator so that the carburetor would not flood, urging the engine to catch. Three attempts failed. He didn’t know how much more charge the battery held. Praying to a God that he wasn’t sure he still believed in despite of Mateo’s conviction, he touched the ignition wires together a fourth time. The engine turned slowly after sitting idle for so long, but it turned. Suddenly, it caught. He fed it more gas. The car bounced and the engine rattled until oil reached the valves and the engine smoothed out. He leaned back in the driver’s seat and smiled.
He turned and saw Mateo holding his rifle. For a second, his heart raced. Then Mateo slid the rifle through the window, along with the backpack of food and a canteen of water and Mateo smiled at him.
“Maybe shooting me was the coward’s way out for both of us. This way, you get a chance.”
Mateo went to the door and picked up his M16. Vince’s heart sank when he realized what Mateo was offering to do. “You don’t have to do this,” he yelled.
Mateo ignored him, concentrating on inserting a fresh ammo clip with his injured hand. Vince was dismayed to see that it took several tries. Vince rolled up the window, leaving just enough of a gap to fire his pistol, revved the engine, and waited. Mateo began pulling the chain on the garage door with his good arm. His fever had weakened him, but by using the weight of his body, he began opening the door. Almost as soon as it began opening, two zombies stuck their heads through the bottom of the door. Mateo released the chain, fired a quick burst. One head exploded into a paste of blood and brains, but the bullets only dug a furrow in the flesh of the second zombie’s head. Mateo leaned closer and fired point-blank into its eye, killing it.
“Damn! Their skulls are getting thicker,” he noted and returned to the task of opening the door. When it was high enough for the Charger to pass beneath it, he stepped outside firing into the crowd of zombies the commotion had attracted, clearing the way. Vince shoved the car in gear, gunned the engine and raced through the gap with tires squealing. He hit two zombies head on. They somersaulted over the hood like clumsy acrobats, landing in broken heaps beside the car. Through the rearview mirror, Vince watched Mateo take out two more zombies before they dragged him to the ground. He didn’t watch anymore.
Mateo had offered him a chance to live by sacrificing his own life. Vince was determined to make good on that sacrifice. He concentrated on driving through the maze of autos that littered the road, weaving and dodging, firing at any zombie that got too close. Finally, he was out of town. He hit the side road at eighty miles per hour, leaving a plume of dust visible for miles, but he didn’t care. He was alive.
If he had not been concentrating so hard on escaping, he might have heard the UH 60 Black Hawk helicopter following two hundred feet above him.
* * * *
Renda didn’t enjoy the sweat pouring down her face or running between her breasts, but unloading sand bags from the cart allowed her to clear her mind and concentrate on the tedium of lifting and carrying. Mace fro
wned on her addiction to physical labor. Left up to him, she would be flat on her back in bed for the next six months. The heat was like a crushing weight trying to press the life from her. It became a battle of wills. She knew she would eventually lose. It was a numbers game – lasting a half hour longer than the day before. Around her, many were feeling the effects worse than she was. Groans had stopped an hour earlier. They took too much energy.
Jack Derring, Dwayne Wiles and a third habitual shirker showed up late, bitching that Jeb had come down hard on them. That elicited a smile from her. “Maybe Jeb’s finally growing a pair of balls,” she said to Derring.
“He’s not my boss,” Derring replied smugly.
She stopped work and stared at him in a challenge to keep complaining. He shut up and picked up a sand bag from the pile. At least he knows when to shut up, she thought.
However, Wiles was in a foul mood. “This is useless make work to keep us from doing what we really need to do.”
“And what’s that, Wiles?” she asked.
Wiles glared at her. He was bigger than she was, but he knew she could kill him if provoked. “Find more survivors. Find a real community we can defend, not some glass house.” He waved his hands at the dome.
“One with white picket fences and weekly garbage pickup, I suppose,” she replied. “Your stupidity amazes me, Wiles.” She swept her gaze to encompass Derring and a few of the others. “How long do you think anyone would last if zombies attacked? Separated, boxed into individual houses, everyone would be dead in a day. What the hell do you think happened to the country? The only people that survived were those that found a safe place to hold off attacks, like this. Every freaking thing out there wants us dead or wants us for our blood. We either work together or we die together.”
“Easy enough for you to say,” Derring growled. “Killing comes easy to you.”
She spun and faced Derring. “Damned easy. Remember that.”
That day’s foreman called a halt, defusing the situation.