Stronghold

by Ron Tufo

  As we drove from our access road, then onto the first one-lane public road, nothing seemed awry. Maybe our little haven was far enough into the woods to be spared the worst of the carnage we expected to see, but we hadn’t thought about a smellfest yet. That would change soon enough. A couple more side roads and things were still okay. Then we hit the main drag heading into town.

  I was the first one to projectile puke out the window, although, it’s too bad Gary didn’t make this trip because then I would have been the second one to toss it.

  When the bulk of zombies first appeared in Searsport, they’d made quick work of turning a once vibrant, quaint and charming old New England town center into a mucilaginous gesundheit of body parts and decay. Yummy!

  We drove slowly onwards in our first outing away from the compound. It was beyond horrible. Decomposing bodies everywhere. Some of them becoming re-animated as we watched. Dear Lord, what kind of evil is this? I thought. “Look at that guy, he’s dead for sure. Noooo, maybe not. Starting to twitch. Son of a bitch, he is getting up.”

  Dad had the best idea of the day. “Maybe we should just shoot everyone in the head. A little preventative medicine.” True, as always to his WWII Marine thought processes: Shoot it first, then figure it out later over a beer. Good strategy. 1. Walk up to dead guy. 2. Shoot him the head. 3. Move on to the next. 4. Have a cold one.

  One less reanimation to worry about. I’m lovin’ it, though it did occur to me that I should be a bit worried about my mental state if I was already fine walking around and shooting people in the head. Fortunately, it was the off-season and there were not that many people in Searsport to begin with. Population numbers from the last town meeting were at a little over twenty-six hundred. Even when you figured in surrounding towns, the Talbots had plenty of ammunition, though, again, you really can never have enough ammo.

  Speaking of town meetings, when we got to the front of the Town Hall some brave idiot had posted a sign on a pole telling us there was to be a meeting to “discuss” the current crisis. Had to be one of our less than brilliant local politicians. And sure enough, there he was with hammer still in hand, lying at the bottom of the phone pole, sans throat and a lot of other parts. Crisis discussed.

  As we drove on, the scenery didn’t change for the better in the more densely populated area of town. We didn’t really see whole bunch of animated kinda dead people, but we did see a whole lot of assorted lunch meat leftovers.

  We continued up the main coastal road a ways until we were once again in a rural part of town. If we hadn’t seen what we had seen, one would think we were just out for lovely early winter drive on an oceanfront road.

  We got to my favorite dealership on the edge of town. Well, that’s not entirely true. I hate car dealers. Lowest form of life on earth–occasionally challenged only by lawyers. But at least this one had the most trucks in town, so it was kind of a vehicular quandary.

  Being the basically pragmatic (and greedy) person that I am, I laid first dibs on my pick from the Searsport New and Used Truck Dealership. Say what you want about my thinking process, but I do my damnedest to play the “What If” game. As in, “What if we are in this situation for the long haul?” In that case, we were going to need all kinds transportation and fuels. You know we were going to pull in here and take stock of the possibilities.

  Everything was so very quiet you could actually hear the waves behind the truck lot hitting the ocean bluff. Sweet. Nicest sound ever to a boy who grew up on the ocean’s edge, but nothing good lasts very long anymore. I was no sooner losing myself in the auditory memories of crashing surf when I heard the scratching from the inside of the garage. Kind of ruined the moment, if you know what I mean. Squeak crab-walks up to the door to get a good look, figuring if there were no zombies outside yet, they were not going to get outside. In my humble opinion, Squeak still needs to further develop his survival instincts. The only Talbots you would catch doing something like that are Mike and Gary. Mike, because I swear the boy has a death wish, and Gary, because he likes the adrenaline rush. Plus, we all know they are both just plain batshit crazy.

  No sooner does Squeak get to the door, than he jumps back and falls on his butt as two zoms crash it and scare the crap out of him, thus sounding the ever present “EEEEEEE!” that he had become famous for. Again, I’m lovin’ it! I laugh, which draws a most impressive Samoan version of the evil eye.

  There are eleven pick-up trucks in that lot of varying makes and models and they were all going to be mine. “Mine, I say!! All mine!! I claim eminent domain!” I rubbed my hands together like a maniacal overlord, ignoring the head shakes from behind me.

  Yes, I counted them, and yes, I was already forming a plan to liberate all eleven before anyone else beat me to it. Yes, I am a greedy little man when it comes to trucks. However, we had to take care of the other customers first.

  Dad and I took up firing positions. Squeak broke the glass on the door and ran like hell to cover our backs. Zoms came pouring out of the garage. Must have been a damn sale going on when they had turned.

  I could see it now. “Get your year-end truck price slashed before you leave today. By the way, let me take a bite of your arm and leg while you are here.”

  The zombies were stumbling over each other as they fell out. Hardest part of picking them off was waiting until you had a good headshot. Dad and I were doing just fine, everything under control, until we heard the two words neither of us wanted to hear.

  “Oh Migao!” coming from Squeak, those were the two words we didn’t want to hear at the moment. Squeak started to rapid fire in the opposite direction. A little horde of not quite dead personage was coming up on our backside. And by “little horde,” I mean more than Squeak could take out quickly enough by himself. As the saying goes, shit just got real.

  Dad turned around and had the situation assessed before I even gulped. ”You keep your eyes on the door and anything else from that direction, Ron. I will help your friend.” Four more zombies came out of the building and nothing else. I wanted so bad to turn and help, but I knew they were counting on me to watch their backs now. I never knew my dad’s .30-30 deer hunting rifle could be loaded and shot so fast. Then I knew we were going to be okay. My dad came out with: “Hey Squish!” (Tony-speak for Squeak) “I got a twofer! I did! Took out two of them with one shot!”

  “No way. I was aiming at the one behind the one you shot! That was my shot that took it out.” Thus started a new chapter in the continuing arguments of the Talbot Family Annals. Did Tony or did Tony not get a twofer?

  So, you might be wondering at this point how a Talbot can become so callous so easily and so quickly, especially about something like this. The short explanation is that it’s a long-standing family defense mechanism fueled by a desire to make light of the worst of situations. Makes them easier to deal with. This, coupled with the all encompassing ambition to be considered the Most Sarcastic Member in a family of deeply bred sarcastics. So there you have it.

  Not having seen any movement in my area, I chanced a turn to look the other way. “Guys, you do realize there are more zombies coming, don’t you?” My father turned to me with the best poker-face of expressions. “Son, we have an important argument to settle here.” Fucking Marines are all the same. So, I look at Squeak, thinking maybe someone here is still sane. And he shrugs his shoulders and says, “Well, your dad’s right. We need to figure this out. Bragging rights are at stake here.”

  “Oh great. Well, you have at least twenty or thirty seconds to figure it out. Me, I’m going to work on a plan to get these trucks back to the compound.”

  Rounds started sniping again. In between shots I could hear my father saying, “Don’t you dare put another bullet into that second one. We are going to see if I can find my hole–it will have a much bigger exit than your shot will with that little popgun.” Squeak’s little popgun was a 308. They should have fun with that comparison.

  By the time no more zombies could be found and dad and Squ
eak had thoroughly exhausted their twofer or not twofer arguments, I had formulated my plan.

  Squeak was not going to like it.

  First things first. We cleared the inside of the dealership. There was only one more poor, dying undead scrabbling around in a circle on the floor like Curly in a Three Stooges episode. Forehead-holing this one was truly an act of mercy. I told Squeak the rest of the plan, then I picked myself up off the floor after he walloped me in the shoulder.

  “Are you out of your mind, Talbot? No, I am not staying here while you go back and get drivers for your personal fleet of Tonka Toys.”

  “Look dude, there is only one way in or out of here. We are only thirty minutes away, so I’ll be back in a little over an hour. I can leave my dad here with you, if it makes you feel any safer, but I would rather have him riding shotgun with me. It’s kinda tough to drive and shoot at the same time.”

  A very much still-scowling Squeak roars: “I swear to God, Talbot, the next time you run behind one of my blocks, I am going to wave that defensive man right on in and give him a cigar as he passes by. You better be back in one hour, man.”

  In the meantime, my dad is staring at me with that look again. “Wow. You will throw anybody under the bus when it comes to getting a truck, won’t you?”

  “Dad, we are talking about eleven trucks here, and yeah, I will! What’s your point?”

  “It’s a bit outside of your comprehension, it seems.” Wow, I do believe I had just been zinged with one of the greatest comeback sarcasms of all time. I humbly bowed to the master, again.

  Then I saw it. Across the street was the Littlehill Heavy Equipment yard. In all the excitement, I had forgotten about that place. If the truck lot was my Wonderland, then across the street was Shangri-la!

  Oh my goodness, and just like that we were on to Plan B. With my best and most innocent face, I asked, “So, dad. You got plans for the rest of the day?” He looked up and saw immediately what I was looking at. His reply was classic. “You know, we could use a backhoe, a dozer, and maybe and excavator or two. I think I will stay here with Sasquatch after all.”

  Ever see a Samoan go apoplectic? It’s not a pretty sight. Question was, which of us would reach my Ford Ranger pick-up first. Squeak may be a human fortress, but I am quicker than he is. I actually got in, got the door shut, and had the engine on when he started to lift the rear bumper up into the air. This was a bit worrisome, as the truck was rear wheel drive. I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t gun it, because if he set me down I would make a new doorway into the garage. I couldn’t shut it down for primal fear of having my arm ripped off and getting beat with the wet end. What to do, what to do?

  “Squeak, I’ll put it in reverse, I will. Eventually even you will get tired and I will go right over you, man. Don’t make me do this; we are talking about a lot of trucks here and now construction equipment too!”

  Once again, dad came to the rescue. I came off the gas and he cajoled Squeak into putting the pretty little truck back down on the ground, which he did, though not at all gently, I might add, as my coffee shot up from the holder it was in. Only a few things will instantly piss me off. Losing my coffee is on that list. Squeak knew right away he had messed up and started to back up as a now very upset Ron was climbing out of the truck holding a rifle and an empty coffee cup whose previous contents now covered him from the waist up. Tony did what he does best. Staring at his coffee and cream colored son, he started to laugh his ass off. Man, I hate it when he does that. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body when it comes to his family so the fact that he was laughing only meant that he thought it was just the damned funniest sight of the day. Squeak and I looked at each other and broke into our own giggles. I swear, though, if we got into a three-way hug, I was going to start confiscating man cards.

  Dad and Squeak stayed behind to protect my, I mean our, future stash of trucks and equipment. I took off and, as promised, returned with four other drivers all stuffed into the Ranger. A couple of round trips later and I had my (our, I meant our!) fleet of pickups. Yee Hah!

  Unfortunately, it was now getting dark, and although breaking into the heavy equipment yard would be a cake walk, shooting zombies in the dark would not. Broke my black little heart to go away that night and leave all that beautiful equipment there for somebody else to steal (If it’s me, you see, it’s being liberated. Otherwise, stolen.) Anyway, we did need to come up with a solid plan for transporting everything.

  So, I had wonderful dreams that night of sugarplums and truck faeries. Hadn’t imagined a truck faerie before, but they paraded through my dreams, nonetheless.

  While we were gone, just one more zombie had made it all the way to the compound. Gary made short work of the intruder, but he also made an extremely persuasive point. We needed to answer the question of why zombies would bother to come way up here at all. Pickings for them should have been way better somewhere else, like the town center. Only a small percentage of the bodies we could identify were former neighbors. Wink was pretty sure he knew one of the casualties, and that guy was from about twenty miles away. This was going to get worse before it got better.

  Wink was busy the day of our absence. He had learned some electronics demolition in the service and had figured how to remotely detonate our homemade mines, singly, in groups, or even enfilade. We did, however, need to procure a bunch of parts for him. Gary remembered a Radio Shack way up in Bucksport that was still open, or had been, at least until up until the recent zom-tastrophe. That would be a worthwhile stopover addition to tomorrow’s travel plans.

  Next morning couldn’t come quickly enough. I felt like a teenager getting ready for his first hot date! New construction equipment! Never told anyone, but I cried when we closed up our business in Boston and sold off all our equipment–especially my backhoe. I loved that machine, man. Sloppy old CASE 680E; front wheel bushings were so far gone you felt like you were steering a motor boat that had holes in it. I could still pick your teeth with that bucket. Now I was going to get a brand spanking new John Deere. The backhoe of my dreams! I wondered if I should iron my sweatshirt and put on some cologne before we left.

  The ride was uneventful except for one bewildering observation. There were nowhere near as many bodies lying around as we had seen yesterday. Ruh-Roh! (If you don’t get this reference, you did not watch Saturday morning cartoons in the very late 60s and through the 70s, the Mystery Machine rolled on even as television left us, I think.)

  Disturbingly scary was that there were only two possibilities. The zombies had a barbecue or there were more zombies walking than there were yesterday. A third possibility was offered by Gary and soundly dismissed: “Maybe the town did a clean-up overnight.” Sometimes I worry about that boy.

  There were six of us. The plan was that three would drive the current vehicles roundtrip, and the other three would drive the tractor trailers loaded with new toys. Like we thought, breaking into to Littlehill Equipment was a breeze. We quickly set up a shooting gallery, as it was getting cold and nobody wanted to be out there any longer than necessary. This time, Squeak was happy to let Gary be the door breaker. Sure enough, our noise aroused the occupants inside. No sooner had Gary gotten behind the firing line, than the zoms started tottering out. As soon as we could get a good shot, we also got a good look. These were not just a bunch of guys. Men, for some reason, were easier to shoot. There were also women and teens mixed in. Well, that sucked. They were moving toward us like a free buffet awaited them. Our guns were all lowered. No one wanted to be the first to dance at this party.

  I realized it first. They all looked the same–kinda beady little eyes, no chins, short and round. Dad said, “Is it me, or do they all look like…”

  “Abner Littlehill,” I finished. “Must be his extended family.”

  Squeak pointed to the sign, “Littlehill Equipment” then started firing; shooting just became so much easier for all of us.

  “No worries, mate.” I started with ones on the left and wor
ked my way toward the center. Everyone else opened up and it was over pretty quickly. Last one standing was a small girl, pre-teens, judging by what was left of her. No one wanted to take this shot. It was Mark who came up with the idea of a firing squad. Geez, this kid is getting to be more Talbot everyday, I thought. We quickly agreed to that solution so no one of us would ever know whose bullet took her out. Probably the best for all of us, and for what was once an adorable and happy youngster.

  We cleared the rest of the site. Son of a bitch but it smelled like a week-old clambake left out in the sun with a few pounds of poop sprinkled over the top. Zombies will not be remembered for their hygiene. Gary performed his obligatory rocket vomit show and then hurried around the back with Steve to start up the tractor trailer rig that would haul our first piece. I had my eye on the CAT 350 Trackhoe with climate control and a CD player. While most of my northern redneck family know guns and blowin’ stuff up, me, I know heavy equipment. That sweet baby went up the trailer ramps like she couldn’t wait to get to her new home. I was already picking out names.

  Next up was a brand spanking new wheeled John Deere 310SG 4x4 Backhoe with a thumb. I was now grunting just like Tim The Tool Man Taylor. That machine did not require much to haul it, so we hotwired a nice Mack Tri-axle dump, hooked up a ten-ton Eager Beaver trailer and awwaaaay we go! (I have to pause and collect myself here. I am beginning to pant!)

  The coup de gras, though, was a beautiful old CAT D8R Unfuckingstoppable Bulldozer with a rear ripper attachment, a satellite controlled grading blade (not that it would be of much use now), and raised sprocket drives. These were first made in 1935; this was one of the newer models from around 2000. To put this in perspective, this big beauty would level a house in one pass, and not one of those little double-wide jobs. Maybe two passes if it was a McMansion. She weighed in at about eighty-thousand pounds. My attention, obviously, was enthralled and I hadn’t noticed the halt on equipment emancipation. Oh shit. Houston we have a problem. Nothing here could even think about carrying that big load.