Suddenly gunfire erupted out from the woods behind her. It was a lot of guns. The creatures that had once been people started falling all around her. "You better shag it over here missy if you want to get out of this alive." A voice called out from behind her. Turning, she saw a half dozen people at the edge of the wood line with more forms half seen further in and they were all firing except for one older man who was urgently beckoning to her. They also all had beards. Well, at least the older men did. The younger boys or men were all clean-shaven. Then it dawned on her. They were Amish. The Amish had come to her rescue. That explained all the bib overalls and heavy boots too. She ran. Boy did she run, because literally her life did depend on it.
He grabbed her arm with the rifle when she reached him and took off like a shot through the woods dragging her even faster along than she could move on her own. The others followed them running backwards firing as they came. They cleared the stand of trees and reached a clearing where two horse drawn wagons waited. The Amish man picked her up at a dead run and threw her into the back of the furthest. Within seconds all the other men and boys had piled in around her and with a crack of whips, the horses took off running. The man turned to her, his left hand holding his floppy hat down, and his right tightly gripping the shoulder of the man before him, who was holding onto the side rail with both hands.
"My name's Jedediah. Welcome. Save your thanks though because you're not going to like the news," he paused, "We're surrounded and there's no way of getting through them." She broke into sobs as she leaned against him.
*****
DAY 2: 1525 ET
Jason leaned against the shovel his body aching and sore. He wiped his face but the tears were all gone for now. His burly five feet-ten inch frame was exhausted and the lines in his face had multiplied, aging him to match his iron-grey short-cropped hair. His wife, son, and daughter in law were dead, as were their children. He refused to speak their names aloud. He would light a candle for them if he could find any on their birthdays. He had been too late. Too late to save them, but not too late to put them to rest. It was God’s turn to watch over them now. He had failed. His shoulders shook but no more tears came. He had cried for a day after finding them, coming home from the midnight shift at the stamping plant. The condition he found them in no longer mattered and he had buried each one gently. He had held and kissed them all, lovingly holding them in his arms while letting past memories wash over him. His son Jack he rocked back and forth remembering when he was but a tiny lad who always had a ready kiss and hug for his Da along with countless questions. His twin granddaughter's tiny corpses he gathered up in both arms and sat on the porch swing for hours holding them. Talking to them as he used to just a day ago and kissing their fragile brows. Tiny little Brea and Heather, who would never see their third birthday. Nor run through the house screaming with laughter ever again. His wife Camille and daughter in law Bethany he had kissed tenderly and held for a long while, whispering his regrets and sorrow.
The strange undead had not bothered him at all. Perhaps it was because he was holding the dead. Perhaps it was because he was covered in the blood of all the undead he had killed when he arrived. He had killed many when he finally reached home. Using a tire iron then a fence post, then with his bare hands at the last, he took them out. He did not wear their gore as a badge of courage. He wore it as penance. His failure. His shame. His brown eyes closed then opened again. He was a big man but big men sometimes make mistakes, as he had. His chest ached with grief. He knew what he had to do. Slowly he took his weight off the shovel and backed away from their graves. He had already said the eulogy, his bible open to the passages and lying on the ground before their final resting places. He set the shovel to one side and as a last step lovingly outlined their graves with white stone from the driveway. In the simple crosses of wood, he had carved each name in full.
Inside the house, he briefly remembered the happier times. Those were gone forever. There would be no happiness anymore. Not for him, for he would become the Lord’s avenger until the Lord decided to take him. He was not asking for any favors. His tread was heavy as he climbed the steps to his bedroom. He surveyed the room briefly before heading to the closet. Inside he parted Camille's dresses and his few suits exposing an old U.S. issue wooden footlocker with a large lock securing the metal hasp. He fished in his pocket for his key ring and selecting one special key unlocked the chest flipping the top back on its hinges. Inside at the very top was an old USMC issue Lightweight Alice Backpack that he pulled out and set to the side. Below that was another wooden box slightly smaller than the footlocker. He carefully lifted this out, placing it before him. He took a deep breath and opened it. Disassembled within was his old USMC M40A1 Sniper Rifle. The same one he had last used in Desert Storm back in '91 and a few places before that while in the pay of Uncle Sam.
With practiced hands, he quickly assembled the high-powered weapon, mounting the scope last. While the USMC had allowed him to buy his rifle as most of his fellow snipers had done, they hadn’t permitted the sale of the military scopes they had used. Those were special USMC proprietary models and not allowed for civilian use. In its place, he had purchased the best he could afford at the time. A sweet 8.5x25 X 50mm Leupold Mark 4 ER/T M1. It was actually slightly better that the one he had used in the Corps. Well, slightly stronger power that is. Not better actually. He carefully mounted it in the quick release rings already centered and sited in at five-hundred yards. It was built extremely rugged but he took his time doing it right, feeling each piece as it went together. This weapon would soon become an extension of his own body and a tool of God's Wrath and Judgment.
The M40A1 was a Remington Model 700 custom made for the USMC Snipers. It had some modifications that only improved on its accuracy from original stock condition. The maximum effective range as listed was a thousand yards or nine-hundred-fifteen meters but Jason knew from experience that he could hit accurately out to 1200 twelve-hundred or further with the right ammunition. It used a 7.62x51mm standard NATO .308 round but like anything these days there was ammunition and then there was good ammunition. He glanced inside the footlocker. Nestled under the box containing his rifle were row upon row of ammunition boxes, all match grade and expensive as hell. Twelve-hundred rounds in all. He had no doubt, when he ran low on ammunition; he would find plenty to replace it. The Winchester .308 round was a very popular choice among hunters. He methodically removed every box packing them in the bottom of the old backpack.
Then he changed his clothes. His work uniform was filthy. Not that he cared about a little dirt or blood at this point but it was not right for his final mission. He opened drawers and started changing. Thick woolen socks over long underwear then sturdy brown work jeans, his best pair. Lastly, a long sleeve undershirt and a padded flannel shirt to finish off his wardrobe. He tightened his belt and sitting on the edge of the their bed leaned over to put his work boots back on tying them slowly, inspecting each lace to make sure it was sound and wouldn't break. Finally, he reached back in his footlocker and pulled out a wrapped gun belt. He unspooled the soft leather, with a flick wrapped it around his hips allowing it to settle it in place. Cinching it down, Jason buckled the thigh strap holding the holster tight against his leg and pulled the Colt Model 45 .45 caliber six shooter out of its oiled home spinning the chamber. Clean and dust free and the wide belt held 32 cartridges for ready use. It was already fully loaded but he carefully pulled each cartridge out for inspection then reseated them one by one. This had once been his father’s gun. His father had been dead for a long time, but this was one of the things Jason honestly cherished most. It was fitting when you thought about it. An avenger of the Lord using the tools of himself and his father to seek vengeance for the deaths of their family. Father and Son back together again. His throat tightened, it was hard to swallow. He had a mission. One last mission.
He reached in the locker one last time pulling out four boxes of .45 hollow points, a USMC issue K-Bar bayonet, hi
s compass and a few other needed items. He packed everything in the pack carefully with one exception putting different items in different pockets until he was done. He closed the footlocker and without bothering to lock its contents, slid it back into its original resting place. The K-Bar he clipped to his belt. He had a feeling it would be needed soon, and used often. He thought for a moment then grabbed extra socks and underwear, two shirts and his only other brown work jeans and rolling them tightly placed them alongside the equipment in his pack. He walked downstairs pulling his Carhartt dungarees from the foyer closet and packed them. His arctic sleeping bag followed. Then his poncho and a tent liner were placed on top. He went to the kitchen next. A dozen cans of tuna and beans along with a can opener and a bottle of multi-vitamins joined the contents of his pack. He smiled. Camille was always getting on him to take his vitamins. A six-pack of bottled water followed. He turned surveying his home of over twenty years one last time. His chest was still tight from the earlier events but he had no worries of a heart attack. He had little doubt his work was just beginning. The Lord had made it known to him. He had the skills and was equipped, and now ready. He turned walking down the short hallway to the side vest way leading to the garage. He opened and closed each door carefully. Inside the garage, he looked around.
Carefully organized tools and equipment adorned all the walls. His workbench glistened in its clean polished state. He moved to the metal cabinet on the far wall and opened it. Inside he pulled out his universal gun cleaning kit and packed it away, then after a moment's hesitation reached in and pulled out his climbers. The ultra sharp steel spikes that would allow him to climb a tree with ease. The handspikes followed and he wrapped them in an old oiled rag from the bin beside his workbench. He grabbed two twists of olive drab 550 Para-cord, each a hundred feet long. The stuff was cheap, super strong and had a thousand uses. He was finished here.
Outside he paused. He had one last job to do here before he could leave. His thick leather winter jacket was in his car. It was fleece lined and insulated. It would keep him warm. He set his mostly full pack down along with his rifle and walked to the shed off to the side of the garage. It was twenty-five feet away for good reason. Inside he lifted out a five-gallon plastic jug of gasoline and walked back to the house. He went inside and poured a trail throughout every room, every hallway, dousing the furniture liberally and with the last of its volatile contents left a trail off the front porch. He did not smoke but he always carried a Bic lighter for emergencies and this he pulled out flicking it then setting the trail of gasoline on fire. The house burned but the memories stayed fresh within him. Like the flames, the memories consumed him. The faces of his dead family floated before him as he grabbed his leather coat putting it on and started walking. He had a mission and there was still plenty of daylight out to get started on it.
*****
DAY 2: 2000 ET
"We won't be able to hold out here very long, Dorothy." Sam whispered to his wife, as they finished counting the canned goods they had left. "We have too many people here and we never really set aside much food or water." She nodded at his words. They estimated they could hold out for no more than another day or two before the food and water were completely gone. There were almost thirty people in their basement and upstairs in the house. They had grabbed all their closest neighbors and rescued a few others. Even more had been seen running by looking for refuge, and those had been taken in.
Sam and Kurt had made it safely back but by rescuing Bethany and her children, they had finally attracted the attention of the undead. For undead they had to be. Many were missing arms, or legs or parts of their torsos. Peeking through the blinds from upstairs windows showed dozens of them milling around the house. They had not broken in yet but Sam was sure that was because the undead were not positive prey was inside. They had noticed something moving and were now waiting. As soon as they were sure, it would be all over for Sam, Dorothy and the others. Sam was under no illusions that they could shoot their way out with a few rifles against the mob of undead outside. The creatures simply were incapable of feeling pain, fear or anything resembling a human emotion. They would come in wave after wave and not stop until they caught their prey. Sam had seen plenty of that this morning.
The small portable radio they had was not telling them a whole lot. Mostly pre recorded emergency broadcasts. Bethany and her two little ones were taken under the wing of an older neighbor named Janet who had two sons of her own, both in their very early teens. Janet's husband had also given his life so his wife and sons could make it to safety. She and Bethany had that in common now. Safety is a relative thing though, it was only by chance Janet, and her two boys were running by Sam and Dorothy's right when Dorothy happened to be looking out the window. She had quickly called them over. Now looking over the crowded basement it did not look good. Of the thirty plus people they now had taking refuge with them; well over half were women and children. In fact, he counted quickly, added the two from upstairs on watch, and came up with eight men including him. No, it was not looking good.
"What can we do?" she whispered back.
"I've been thinking. Maybe we can wait a day or two until things calm down a bit then get somewhere safer," he paused again thinking. "It's too late tonight but in the morning I'll climb into the attic with the binoculars and look out the vents on both ends and the back of the house. Maybe I can spot something, see if people are gathering. See how many of the creatures are out there. Maybe I can figure out where to go."
"And what if it doesn't calm down out there? What if it gets worse?" Dorothy's words struck a chill down Sam's spine.
"Then I don't know? I just don't know."
*****
DAY 2: 2200 ET
I finished my list while the three of us listened to the radio all day long. The house and property alarms had tripped often, so often it was wearing us out. It was just the zombies wandering onto the property, then off again when they did not find anything living to eat. I really needed to close the front gate but had deliberately left it open in case anybody came seeking refuge. That is why we had to check the alarm every time it went off. Just in case. So far no luck.
We learned a little more about these undead. For undead they actually were. Some scientists were conducting experiments in Europe. Probably in the U.S. too but those experiments were not being broadcast on shortwave. The European scientists were holed up in their version of our CDC in Belgium. They had a detachment of Swiss troops guarding them and were working as fast as they could, trying to figure this out. Communications were down worldwide with the exception of shortwave and military communications. The cell phones quit working this afternoon. Not sure why. We were still getting a signal, but just silence then beeping came over the speaker when we tried to dial out.
The zombies were in truth zombies mostly. The Europeans had found out a lot by carefully monitoring several subjects that had gotten sick from the vaccines. By examining the subject’s brainwaves and other vital signs through the super fever, then cool down and subsequent rage, it was determined that there really were no brainwaves left. Not as we know them. Instead, some limited activity at the brain stem or the lower brain as it’s called. This is where all our instinctive responses are located. Like breathing, basic motor skills; like walking and of course the instinct to eat in a most predatory way. Neanderthal I guess or even earlier. They were finding the virus to be an actual parasite that linked itself together like a hive. The scientists speculated that within a human host it had a hive mind that was constantly hungry. That actually made sense in an awful way. The only good news out of Europe was that if you were bitten you would not catch it. Somehow, the virus or parasite bonded with its host almost immediately upon vaccination. Once bonded it could not survive in another vessel. When hearing that I would not become like them if bitten, you have no idea how relieved I was. With zombie blood and guts everywhere, it would be almost impossible not to become infected if the reverse were true. Hell we would
all have to wear HAZMAT suits and those are a major bitch to fight in. This I knew from firsthand experience.
More disturbing news. Either God was weeding out his creations or this thing was mutating. The people from Europe were saying we had been hit in three different time. First, the original vaccine that they gave to the military and health care workers and that sort had a minimum gestation period of three weeks before people got sick. Then the second vaccination series distributed to the third world countries had a two-week gestation period before people dropped like flies. Then the last round of vaccinations rushed on the public showed that people were succumbing within two to three days after receiving it.
Now, normally I don’t believe in coincidences. I still don't. The three rounds of vaccinations resulting in everyone getting sick within the same timeframe. Lab mutations? The scientists that were broadcasting were hesitant but if you read between the lines, the gist was manmade and careful planning. The odds of anything else were mind boggling against it.
It was depressing. Maybe ten percent of the human race was left alive or would be left alive after everyone got sick that was going to get sick. Maybe less. Of the ninety percent that did get sick from the vaccinations and died, about eighty percent of them came back from the dead as zombies. So not all, just most. Factoring in how many safe people that were killed by the zombies by the end of day two of this retched outbreak and my best guess was maybe five percent of the people on this planet were still alive. Maybe less. I would have to get out and look around. Tomorrow I would. I thought a lot about survivors. I knew there were many. People just do not give up and die. I had been topside many times throughout the evening. Every time I had been topside I felt the deep boom from a large caliber gun sounding in the distance. It seemed to be slowly circling around us. I knew someone was out there making a difference. At least I hoped so.
Blood, Brains and Bullets Page 8