“I think I’m going to like these people,” I said to myself as I turned into the parking lot of the heavily fortified hardware store, which was set back from the road.
I didn’t get far. They had apparently collected stop signs from town, which were now wired to an impressive barricade of lumber, fencing, and cinder blocks. A hand painted warning sign declared that everyone had to exit their vehicles and demonstrate they were not infected—by using one of the filters provided in the metal mail box strapped to a post. I was not too anxious to “exit my vehicle” as there were so many zombies in the area. There were also at least ten rifles pointed my direction on the roof of the hardware store.
I later found out that the building had originally been a supermarket. When that went out of business, the sign was taken down from the roof, but the huge steel beams that supported it remained. With a few supplies from the hardware store, the beams now made an excellent platform for snipers.
“Step out of the vehicle!” a stern voice ordered through a megaphone.
I opened the door and stepped out, but kept the armored door between me and the snipers.
“I’m a doctor. I need to get to the containment facility at the prison. I need information.”
I could see the man with the megaphone speaking with several of the other men. They appeared to be arguing and were making emphatic hand gestures. Finally, the man with the megaphone waved off the others and spoke again.
“The army pulled out days ago. No one is left. No one alive, at least.”
“I was told my colleague is held captive there. I need to get him out.”
There was more arguing before megaphone man spoke again.
“That’s suicide. We can’t help you.”
“I just want some info about the layout of the place,” I replied, beginning to get impatient. “Look, I really am a doctor. I’d be more than happy to give medical aid to anyone who needs it. And I have some bottles of Eradazole.”
There was a brief pause and a short discussion.
“Erratic what?” the puzzled man asked.
Rather than say the name again, I decided to cut to the point.
“I have pills that prevent infection.”
This time there was discussion, but no arguing.
“Are you armed?” megaphone man asked.
“Hell, yes!” I shouted back, stepping out from behind the car door and opening my jacket to reveal the two pistols on my hips, to go along with the two in my shoulder holsters. But I didn’t show them the one in the ankle holster.
“Remove your weapons.”
“Hell, no!” I replied. “I don’t take off my guns for anyone. Look, you probably need my help more than I do yours, so just let me show you I’m not infected and we can stop this nonsense. Otherwise, I’ll just be on my way.”
The men started arguing again, when suddenly an elderly woman appeared. She was clearly scolding all of them, then she grabbed the megaphone.
“Please just pee on one of those filters for us, dear, to show us you’re not infected. Then we will let you right in. We would certainly appreciate some proper doctoring.”
I can’t say I was used to dropping my pants and urinating in public, but I really didn’t think much of it anymore. I showed them that the filter wasn’t blue, and a minute later, two armed men cautiously emerged from the building. They kept their rifles trained on me until the granny with the megaphone scolded them, too.
“Now is that any way to greet a guest?”
The men sheepishly lowered their weapons. They motioned for me to go to my left, where after unlocking some chains, they swung open part of the barricade. One of the men, dressed in a pale blue shirt with a United States Postal Service patch, eyed me suspiciously and asked me, “Are you a real doctor?”
“Yes,” I replied, flashing my impressive, albeit bogus, army ID. “Are you a real mailman?”
The man stared blankly at me for a moment, then let loose with an old-fashioned belly laugh—of which he was well-equipped to deliver. The tension was broken, and both men eagerly began asking questions about who I was, why I was there, what medicines I brought, and did that machine gun really work?
I expected that inside the building I would find a small band of armed men, and was stunned to see dozens of children and babies, and many elderly men and women. There was indeed a small band of men, far too few to adequately protect such a large group of helpless people if they weren’t in such a secure location.
The store owner, Brian, introduced himself and gave me a quick tour of “Fort Ace,” as they called it. There was something wonderful about having a fully-stocked hardware store at the disposal of a wide variety of local craftsmen, and people who are used to making the best out of what they had. Their defenses were solid, and the array of handheld weapons made out of mechanic’s tools and gardening equipment was impressive.
Even better, using propane tanks from barbeque grills, they had made frighteningly effective flame throwers. They had also constructed air cannons that launched black powder grenades that had successfully “blown the head off of a zombie.” On the roof, they even had a medieval-looking trebuchet they once used to launch flaming balls of hay soaked in some sort of homemade napalm they made with benzene, gasoline, and Styrofoam!
Damn, I thought, there I had been, making batches of infected meat, while these guys were having all the fun!
There was also a sizable collection of conventional weapons, as well, as everyone seemed to have at least one hunting rifle. But everybody’s sentimental favorite appeared to be their lineup of chainsaws. Personally, I had never considered using a chainsaw as a weapon, but if the bits of dried blood and flesh sticking to the chains were any indication, they had clearly been used to great effect to reduce the local zombie population. I could just picture it, the Ellenville Zombie Chainsaw Massacre!
On a less martial note, a kitchen had been set up in the back of the building, and part of the storage area was a makeshift hospital. There were about 15 people on cots, but they assured me that none of them were there as a result of infection. There were a few broken bones, a couple of nasty colds, some infected wounds, and some elderly patients who had signs of everything from congestive heart failure to advanced dementia. There was one young male nurse, Greg, who didn’t have much experience, and was clearly overwhelmed by the situation.
“So, what can you do for us?” asked the old lady who had taken over the megaphone.
Actually, old didn’t begin to describe Martha, the 93-year-old firecracker who appeared to have more energy than I did. She later told me that zombies wouldn’t eat her because her meat was too tough. I believed it.
“Do you have a hospital or any kind of medical facilities nearby where you could try to get some equipment and medications?” I asked, already jotting down a list of supplies they should try to get.
“Sure, got a hospital right in town,” she replied, motioning for a few people to gather around to hear what I had to say. “Plenty of zombies in there now, but I guess Brian and the boys can manage a little house cleaning operation. Hadn’t gone in there yet as we don’t exactly know what we are looking for.”
I began by giving them a couple of my meat grenades, which they thought were really cool, so I felt better about not having a flame thrower. Then I gave them a few bottles of Eradazole—all I could spare, as I needed to give Cam and his men adequate supplies. I spent a considerable amount of time carefully describing everything they should try to get to allow them to set up a basic emergency care unit, as well as which patient should get what medications and treatments. Thankfully, Greg was actually very knowledgeable, and a bit of guidance would go a long way to giving him the confidence that he could handle this.
I also suggested that if they could clear out and secure the hospital, they could begin using it again for the more serious cases. They asked if I would stay to oversee the “Medical Department” (which was a rather optimistic term, given the circumstances), but I told the
m that was not possible right now, but I would stop by when I could.
“But first things first. My dear friend and colleague, Dr. Philip Masterson, is being held at the prison. What do you know that might help me get him out?”
What they told me was not encouraging. In the early days of infection, the army and local law enforcement had been quite thorough in rounding up people and bringing them to the containment facility. It had been hastily constructed on the exercise fields behind a high masonry wall to the right of the castle-like prison building. Soon after the facility began operations, locals smelled pungent smoke every night, and in the morning they would find a fine layer of ash covering everything—obvious signs that they had also built a crematorium and it was quite active.
No one knew for certain the number of people brought there, but with the steady stream of trucks and busses night and day for months, it had to be tens of thousands. Right before quarantine began in mid-September, someone who worked at a coffee shop nearby overheard one of the army guards say they had already cremated about 25,000 bodies, and they continued to burn heaps of them until the end of October.
There was no telling in what part of the facility Phil was being held, in the castle or out on the field. Just about all the prisoners had become infected back in July, and once they had been disposed of, their cells were used to cram in as many new people as possible. There were not nearly enough corrections officers to watch everyone, and horror stories had filtered out about what happened when the infected people in a cell began switching to full zombie. Let’s just say you didn’t want to be the last one to switch.
The cells on the field were just basically fenced pens with metal roofs, as in the beginning it was thought that these would just be temporary holding areas until a cure was found, or the people died. There had already been a couple of nights of a hard freeze, so if Phil was outside, his chances of survival would be diminished.
As we discussed the layout of the prison, there was a sudden commotion and a woman yelled that somebody else had pulled up to the barricade. It was Cam, and unfortunately, he was alone. I didn’t ask, but I surmised that none of the other men had volunteered. Cam walked right up to me, gave me a big hug, then a sharp smack on the ass.
“I hope you aren’t dragging these good people into your crazy plan,” he asked, not exactly working wonders for my credibility with the residents of Fort Ace.
“Young man,” Martha began, as everyone braced for a scolding, “This woman has guts and a sense of loyalty. You would be lucky to have a woman like this to fight for you!”
“I know that, ma’am,” Cam said politely, removing his cap. “That’s why I married her.”
Even Martha didn’t have a response to that unexpected revelation, and after Cam got the nickel tour, we all got back to the business of the “crazy plan” to break into a high security containment facility which was undoubtedly swarming with the undead, and dying. Brian offered us the use of bolt cutters, wire cutters, hack saws, rope, and a couple of chainsaws. I gratefully accepted everything but the chainsaws, preferring to stick to my guns. I didn’t intend to get that close to any zombie.
I then spent about an hour giving all the children and babies a quick check-up, and then anyone else who asked. Most people were just suffering from stress, anxiety, and lack of sleep, but who wasn’t these days!
As we were leaving, I thanked everyone at Fort Ace for their hospitality, and promised to return all the tools—if I made it out alive, of course.
The Lion’s Den: I followed Cam’s pickup truck to the prison, which was a foreboding structure. As we turned right off the highway and approached the “castle,” I saw the formidable masonry wall ringed with razor wire. I also noticed a group of what I assumed were zombies milling around several vehicles at the base of the wall. I hadn’t expected to encounter zombies outside of the prison, but with our rifles at a safe distance, I was sure Cam and I would make short work of them.
To my surprise, and alarm, Cam didn’t stop at a safe distance. In fact, he continued to drive right toward them. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking, until I saw one of the “zombies” wave to Cam. Once we were close enough, I recognized The Monk, and several others from the compound. More came out of their vehicles, and by the looks of it, everyone from the compound was there!
I jumped out of the Humvee and started to tell everyone how grateful I was when Cam cut me short.
“Don’t waste your breath thanking these stupid bastards,” he said catching a beer thrown to him from one of the guys. “The second I mentioned you needed help killing zombies, they practically trampled me running to their cars.”
“We was damn sick and tired of digging ditches and looking at one another’s ugly faces,” someone shouted.
“We needed to get out and kick some zombie ass!” someone else said, as everyone shouted in agreement.
“So you see, Trues, you are doing them a favor,” Cam said, although no further explanation was necessary after seeing the wild look in everyone’s bloodthirsty eyes.
The men had already put a couple of very tall extension ladders against the wall and had started clearing sections of the razor wire. I overheard two of them talking about the layout of the inside of the prison, and it was clear they had firsthand experience of the place, and I doubt it was because they had been corrections officers!
I had a picture of Phil from last year’s Christmas party, and I started showing everyone so they knew who to look for “once we got inside.” One of the men who had just come down the ladder told me it was doubtful we would ever get inside, but I didn’t understand, as there was already a gap in the razor wire wide enough for us to go through. And we could use ropes to lower ourselves into the yard.
“I think you need to take a look for yourself,” was all he said.
I’m not really fond of heights, especially ladders, and especially ridiculously high extension ladders that wobbled with every rung I ascended. But I couldn’t dare show the men that I was scared like a little girl. I just kept a slow, but steady, pace, and frequently wiped the sweat off my palms so I made sure I had a good grip. As I finally reached the top of the wall, what I saw almost made me fall over backwards.
When I was at some Civil War museum when I was a kid, I had seen a sketch of Andersonville Prison. The Confederate open-air prison had been designed to hold 10,000 Union soldiers, but at its height packed in 32,000 starving and diseased men. Almost 13,000 of them died under the cruelest, filthiest conditions imaginable.
Well, imagine a place many times worse, and that just might begin to describe the horrifying site of the containment facility. Bodies were stacked around the base of the walls in long rows like firewood, and hundreds—no, thousands—of zombies pushed and shoved one another to try to get to the stacks to feed. In the center of the field were rows and rows of fenced cells, which were more like dog kennels than any place fit to hold human beings. There had to be enough cells to hold 10,000 infected people, and by the looks of it, they now held another 10,000 caged and ravenous zombies.
As hideous and shocking as the place was to see, the stench was something beyond description—the reeking odors of thousands of rotting corpses combined with the foul excrement of thousands of zombies. If there was such a place as hell, its occupants would consider themselves lucky to be there instead of here.
“Fuck me!” I said as I slumped against the ladder, then slowly descended.
It was hopeless. Without an army and air support there was no way we were going to clear the field. And if the inside of the prison was even one tenth as bad, there was no way we could set foot in there, either. Phil—if he was even still alive—was doomed to die a horrible death in this hellish cesspool of zombie filth.
“Don’t tell me my little warrior has given up already,” The Monk asked as he put a massive hand on my head and mussed up my hair. “Remember, where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“You obviously didn’t look inside,” I replied,
not bothering to fix my hair.
“Unfortunately, I did. But all is not lost yet.”
Everyone gathered around and discussed ideas, each more dangerous and foolhardy than the next, in my opinion. However, the first step was to ascertain if Phil was alive and in one of the pens. That job fell to “Howler,” a very tall, gaunt man with wolf-like features who never talked, he shouted. And when he actually tried to shout, he could make your ears ring from the number of decibels he generated.
Howler climbed the ladder at various locations around the wall, shouting out Phil’s name and then waiting for a response. It was a slow process that was repeated several times along the front wall. By the time he was in the middle of the next wall, the men decided to save time waiting for him to go up and down the ladder and just started moving it with him still clinging to the top!
I was about to give up hope, when after Howler shouted Phil’s name at the far back corner, we heard a gunshot. At first, no one knew where the shot had come from and we all took up defensive positions.
“The shot wasn’t out there,” Howler yelled down to us like a PA system cranked up to full volume. “The shot came from one of the pens in here!”
It was thrilling news—someone in there was still alive, and that someone could be Phil! But unless someone had a helicopter and a SWAT team, there still was the small matter of about 30 people against 3,000 zombies on the loose.
Howler hurried down the ladder like it was a fireman’s pole, and told us he was pretty sure the shot came from the second row of pens, about forty feet in from the end of the row. A couple of the guys then took sticks and started drawing diagrams in the dirt and everyone started discussing what they needed “to get the job done.” I couldn’t understand what they were talking about, so I finally asked how the hell they planned to get through all those zombies.
“Not through them, Trues. Over them,” Cam said, then explained the gist of their strategy.
There was a guard tower near the back wall. They would use a grappling hook to get a rope from the wall to the tower. Someone would go across and secure the rope. Then another grappling hook would be shot (using a nifty attachment on an M16) into the roof of the nearest row of pens. They would then lower themselves onto the roof, jump to the next row, find Phil, cut open the roof of his cell and “extract him and bring him to safety.”
HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse Page 18