We walked the periphery of the roof, surveying both out to the horizon and the state of things immediately below us. I had not noticed before that some of the fake first floor window shutters were torn off the house and were nowhere to be found. Some of the trees we argued with the ARC about so long ago were gone completely while others were denuded sticks without leaf or needle. Who knows if the perennial flowers we fought over were still safe underground, oblivious to the changes taking place above?
From what we could see of the Flynn’s house, not a single window or door on the three levels facing us remained intact. Drapes fluttered outside. Looking through our binoculars Ruth Ann said there were things moving upright inside. There was movement visible under the wreckage of their deck.
Everywhere we looked the tall prairie grasses that we loved to watch wave in the wind were beaten down. Everything was trampled.
A covering of virginal white would be welcome.
Looking at the home to our east that had been looted we saw what Frank had warned us about. If the Olson’s ever returned they would find every portal to their home crushed and debris everywhere. The back door leading out of their garage was off its hinges. The garage door itself was in pieces. The picture window that had once provided them a lovely view of our backyard was smashed out completely. There was movement in their home.
In every direction sprinkled here and there, including at the base of our house, were dead walking around or standing still like statues. Not counting creatures inside buildings that we could not see, we estimated about 80 dead remained in our immediate area.
As to the Boetche’s house, Ryan’s home, we couldn’t really tell anything. It looked intact from our direction suggesting the front side was not breached. If the front had been breached, the back would surely have been as blown out at the Flynn’s place.
I am sure the kid was anxious to check out his house, having left a safe area to drive two hundred miles through the dead to get here.
Speaking of which, my mind was stuck in neutral. With all the things I should have been thinking about I found myself ruminating about why Ryan Boetche was here at all.
The kid told us he had left Door County, the largest safest settlement in the Midwest, to drive over two hundred miles to a house he knew was empty. His traveling partner, now deceased, was “regular army?” Why was he here?
“Listen Ryan, we’ve danced around the question long enough. Why are you here? Why was a soldier with you?”
“You guys wouldn’t understand.”
“Don’t give me that shit. We are living through a zombie apocalypse. There’s a lot we’d understand.”
“You and Mrs. Handsman, you and my parents were friends.”
“Yeah. We were. We are. They are good people. Did you see them in Door County? They were heading for your cottage.”
“They didn’t make it to the cottage. I don’t know where they are. They weren’t who you thought they were. We weren’t who people thought we were.”
“What are you talking about? Your father is a day trader and your mother is a stay-at-home mom who volunteers in the community. What is there to know? What are trying to say? You are from Remulak? You’re in the witness protection program? What?”
Ryan looked past me to Ruth Ann. I could see in his eyes that what he was about to say was a door slamming shut on the “normal” life of his past. He could be chased onto a rooftop by walking dead. He could nonchalantly drill them in the skull. Telling us why he was here was harder because we knew him and his family before all this.
He took a deep breath.
“Dad wasn’t a day trader, Doug. We grew dope. We grew a lot of really good dope. We were dope dealers. Hell we weren’t just dealers, we were the source of authentic organic craft grown Mendocino Mind Fuck outside of Mendocino itself.”
Ryan’s face was red and his eyes were tearing. It was clear he was profoundly embarrassed. This is a very upscale neighborhood. Some people who lived here were overt elitist snobs. Everyone who lived here was on the upper end of the local socioeconomic food chain. Ryan’s family grew dope.
“Mrs. Handsman, you remember all the advice you gave Mom about growing herbs? Well she grew herb. The entire basement of our house,” he said pointing at his home, “is irrigation and lights and pumps and valves and shrink wrap machines and the only computers Dad used were for managing our grow.”
“Ryan, kid, look at me,” I said. “We know. We have one of your plants in the greenhouse. Your dad gave it to us on the day they left.”
Ryan was apparently stunned and relieved. It seemed like an appropriate time for a group hug so I grabbed the kid and motioned Ruth Ann to join us. It was a real Norman Rockwell moment if Norman Rockwell painted families hugging while surrounded by undead looking for live flesh to feed upon instead of warm fires and mistletoe.
The hug ended.
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here now? Why did a soldier come with you? Are you in trouble?”
“Actually, no. They sent me.”
“Who sent you?”
“The military.”
“The military sent you?”
“Yeah. There are almost 300,000 people in Door County without much to do and nowhere to go. It may be martial law but the military knows a stressed-out group of people that large is dangerous. Dope is free in Door County. They hand it out.”
“What? Why?” I wasn’t parsing this yet.
“How many armed revolutions can you think of that were started by stoners? They’re more likely to giggle than storm a wall.”
“How many people smoke?” Ruth Ann said.
“Like every day? Around 30,000. More do it occasionally. Mom had about 60 keys of sealed product in the house when they left. That will last about two days in the County. But that’s not the main reason they sent me.”
“Which is?”
“To see if the grow room is OK. If it is I have to contact Lambeau Field for pick-up of our equipment, log books and our seed stock.”
“Lambeau Field? What do you know about Lambeau Field?” Ryan hadn’t heard my conversation and I hadn’t used the term in front of him.
“That radio you got? I think it’s more for me than you guys.”
I was fucking livid.
That drug kingpins lived right next door did not bother me. That getting access to pot seeds to grow better dope was the actual impetus for helping us really angered me off. I’m a smart guy. Ruth Ann and I are good people. We lived in a goddamned fortress and the only reason to reach out to us was for some fucking dope for a nation of stoners?
What about after they got their pot farm? What of us? Are we back to fending for ourselves? A bunch of seeds and log books are more important than us? Apparently so.
The radio was on preset two: emergency. Ryan was not around. He had made his call for pickup right after our conversation then I shooed him away.
“Frank, you remember I told you our neighbor’s kid was with us, right.”
“Yes, Walter.”
“And you know perfectly well who he is, right?”
“Yes, Walter.”
“And you know what his family business is?”
“Yes, Walter.”
“And you sent him?”
“Not personally but the individual you are referring to is on official business. So yes, Walter.”
“You know what Frank?”
“Yes, Walter?”
“Stop calling me fucking Walter! This is a digital radio. I know it’s encrypted. You know it’s encrypted. Just stop with the stupid call sign shit already. Come on out here, pick up your boy, pick up your dope and leave us the fuck alone.”
I heard myself sounding like a Fox news watching survivalist antigovernment tea bagger but I couldn’t stop. Spit flew as I yelled into the mike and I’m sure the veins in my neck were popping out. Ruth Ann grabbed the mike out of my hand and gave me the most tender “shut the fuck up” eyes I’d seen from her in a long time
.
“Frank,” she said, “this is Miss Goody Two Shoes. Walter is going to have a time out until he can use his inside voice again.”
“I understand. We will be out later today to make the pick-up. We owe you an explanation and there’s a proposition we’d like to make. We want you to understand that we really are doing the best we can under awful circumstances.”
“Walter is upset about us being considered secondary to a weed patch, Frank. We are both upset about that. More so, we want to know where we fit in after you get what you came for. If you have a proposition for us we’re listening.”
“Understood. Your local law enforcement was tipped off a number of months ago by the electric utility that there was something going on in your neighborhood. At the risk of upsetting Walter even more, the sheriff’s office assumed it was you at first. UPS was constantly at your house and your electric bill is high. Also, frankly, Walter isn’t from around here and your house is a fort with no windows, perfect for a large grow operation.”
“They quickly realized it wasn’t you when they found your neighbor’s electric bills were even higher than yours.”
I was frothing at the mouth. Ruth Ann had to swat my hands away from the mike “Go on Frank,” she said.
“The sheriff’s office was about to raid your neighbor’s house when the situation we find ourselves in right now came up. Since then priorities have changed. What they would have gone to prison for two months ago is now a valuable tool in getting people through this. Safe havens have been compromised because of insurrection among the people they were supposed to protect. About ten percent of our population here frequently makes use of the substance. That amounts to thousands of people we don’t have to worry about making trouble.”
“What do you do when they get the munchies? Bite each other?” I shouted, but Ruth Ann didn’t have the transmit button pressed. Ruth Ann swatted me again but with her eyes this time.
“What about us Frank? You needed us to shelter Ryan but we’ve done that now. What becomes of us?”
“We know what kind of work Walter did in California. The sheriff’s office had already subpoenaed your online purchase records, so we know what you have in your house. Walter, I hope you’re listening. We believe you have in your basement the largest defendable data center in the Midwest Administrative Zone. We need it. Moreover, we need your talents.”
Silently I laughed at the irony of being only a few miles from one of the world’s premier makers of supercomputers that the military had finished bombing the place just a few hours before.
Apparently, my basement represented a better option because of its outsized capability paired with a small hardened defendable shell. And they needed my talents? These people fucking used me and now I am going to fucking use them.
I motioned for Ruth Ann to give me the mike back. She made eyes to me asking if I was going to be a good boy or not. I nodded yes, back to her. She handed me the mike.
“Frank, Walter here. Whatever it is you need me to do you have to make it possible for us to do it here. That’s not negotiable.”
“Walter, you and Miss Goody Two Shoes will be a lot more comfortable here. Let us pack you up and bring you to Lambeau Field.”
“What part of non-negotiable don’t you understand? We’re not going to risk living among three hundred thousand potential happy meals. You guys are zombie bait. We’re staying right here. You want me and my rigs, you make it happen.”
Then a thought occurred to me.
“It was you guys who lit up our Internet connection wasn’t it?” I remembered the momentary connection on the Internet the modem. I hadn’t told Ruth Ann about it yet. “You already have a plan to make it work if we refuse to leave, don’t you?”
“We can just take your equipment Walter.”
“Then you don’t get me.”
“We can just take you too.”
“Then you still don’t me. I’ll write ten thousand lines of nonsense code that won’t do shit – you figure out what’s wrong with it.”
“We can make things difficult for you Walter. Think of Miss Goody Two Shoes.”
“I’m thinking of her right now, asshole. You said you know what I did in California. Then you know we do it my way or we don’t do it. Christmas Tree out.”
I didn’t switch off the radio – I just let it sit there. Ruth Ann was completely stunned.
“You pompous ass! Who do you think you are?” she demanded.
“I think I’m their only choice for something they need. Do you want to go to Lambeau Field? Do you want to be one of a herd of prey animals waiting to be eaten? If I’m wrong this radio won’t make a peep. If I’m right, we’ll hear Frank any minute now.”
We waited. Ruth Ann reached for the mike. I shielded it from her. We waited.
“Walter, this is Frank. Are you listening?”
“Yes Frank.”
“We’ll do it your way. Our people will set you up.”
“Thank you Frank. When your people get here have them bring a contract signed by whoever is in charge there. One page. No more. It has to say the government of the Administrative Zone will set us up, keep us supplied and keep us safe, both of us. In return, we rent you our equipment and provide consulting services. One page.”
“OK Walter. A pleasure doing business with you.” Frank’s response dripped with sarcasm.
Ruth Ann asked “A contract? A contract? What do you need a contract for?”
“You remember that Lieutenant Mancheski, we signed a release to be left alone here. Remember the radio? It had an end user agreement on it. These people are bureaucrats hon. Bureaucrats live on paper. It’s what they understand.”
Ruth Ann folded her arms and cocked her head in skepticism and said “And you think a contract will keep us safe?”
“This is just business.”
My belief in the continuance of government’s old habits was borne out an hour later when the tactical radio began beeping. The small display window said a document had arrived in its drop box folder (where I still dumped pictures for transmission to Lambeau). I copied it over to my laptop and opened it up. It was a PDF file. Inside was a non-disclosure agreement.
I started laughing my head off and showed it to Ruth Ann. She gave me a fake laugh in return and walked away.
During a scheduled meeting, Frank outlined briefly that the government had three initiatives they wanted help with.
Frank’s people had a small number of developers among the refugees in Door County. There were some process control types from a paper mill, some numerical computation programmers from insurance companies and some general web types. None had executive or project leadership experience. I would be nominally “in charge” because of my management experience.
This was second nature.
If Frank’s people, my people, were any good things would be easy. If they weren’t I’d have Frank move their desks outside the protective perimeter of Lambeau field.
I would be facilitating one project and actually implementing the tricky parts of another. The third I’d get to when the first two were done.
Apart from military traffic I didn’t know or care about, we were one of just a few dozen sites on the Internet. It was karma, I suppose. Several of the predecessors of the Internet ran through Wisconsin. In a way, this, like the hordes trampling Wisconsin, was full circle.
Getting Christmas Tree online meant some number of facilities digitally 'between” here and Lambeau Field had to be cleared of infection, powered up and defended. I am told there were casualties but I don’t know the details. Later on, I asked Frank if people died because I refused to leave my house. He told me not to blame myself, which I took to mean “Yes.”
Then he looked me directly in the eyes (we finally met when things settled down) and told me the work those people died doing had to be done anyway. Lambeau Field had to have the high-speed connectivity to be part of rebuilding command and control systems across the administrative zones.
And, he said, the work I did saved a lot of lives.
In the afternoon, we listened to the radio update. It was like a Smothers Brothers comedy routine from the Ed Sullivan show. Good news. Bad news.
The good news was that Chicago B, the mega-horde had been pounded at the Rock River north of Janesville, south of Edgerton. The river had few crossings in the area and jutted out to the west making a nice pocket. Hundreds of thousands of undead had been incinerated. This made a dent in the horde’s size though I doubt anyone in their path would count their lucky stars at being surrounded by 3.7 million dead versus 4 million.
The bad news was that the horde was now following Interstate 90 north. There would not be another significant natural choke point for fifty miles. In a little more than twenty miles, a day’s trample, Chicago B would pass through Madison, where it all began.
The TC horde was southeast of the burned out remains of Eau Claire and Chippewa Falls Wisconsin. The good news was that it turned south, away from Door County.
The bad news was that the horde was traveling in line with Interstate 94, which, about eighty miles away, links with the very same Interstate 90 that the Chicago B mega-horde currently traveled. The possibility loomed that the two hordes would combine.
The TC horde had clear country for the next two days walk until they reached Black River Falls. Then, a waterway with limited crossings would bunch them up again.
It snowed all day. It was beautiful, just as I had hoped. Virginal wet snowman making snow coated all surfaces including the undead that were standing still. They turned almost instantly into unattractive snowmen, too skinny and linear to be jolly. If Frosty had looked like these, the ‘thumpetty thump thump” in the song would have been the sound of disconnecting Frosty’s brain from his spinal column. Don’t complain about my analogy. Shooting a snowman in the head to kill it makes as much sense as having to shoot dead people in their heads to kill them.
Get Off My L@wn - A Zombie Novel Page 12