OUTNUMBERED (Book 1)

by Robert Schobernd

  Our group was pleased to see the new faces when we arrived at the compound late that night. It was a positive sign that all was not lost, and some small pockets of humanity still remained alive in addition to us.

  The three newcomers were shown to the showers, disinfected and then inspected by Doc Sparrow. At fifty-four he was the senior member of our group. After dressing in new clothing, they received hot meals before being escorted to the detention holding cells. The cells consisted of bare rooms with three-inch thick rough-sawn oak lumber on the walls and ceiling above concrete floors. A single bed, one chair, a small table with a plastic washbowl, water pitcher, and chamber pot offered the bare essentials in the six-foot by eight-foot enclosures. Finally, everyone who had risen to greet us returned to their rooms for a few hours of sleep before sunrise.

  ~*~*~*~

  Our regular routines continued without incident for a week and six days after the arrival of the newcomers. They were provided with all the books and outdated magazines they could stand to read. Three times a day they were fed the same food we ate.

  That morning, I'd gone with a crew to mow along the road to the lake and didn't return until after ten. Marcie Tanka, our nurse, stopped me when I walked by Doc's office. She was serious and didn't wear her usual smile. I put my arm around her shoulders. "Ira and I have monitored the condition of our guests since they arrived. We've noticed Walter's appetite waning steadily for the last four or five days." She shook her head. "This morning he didn't touch his food. He definitely shows signs of turning." Marcie shook her head almost imperceptibly as a compassionate tear rolled down her cheek. I took in a deep breath, exhaled, and nodded. She summoned Ira Sparrow, and he joined us to walk toward the holding cells. Ira agreed that the sickness had slowly crept into Walter's brain. He was infected and had been lost to us.

  Ten feet from the door, I heard low mumbling from Walter's cell. Through the half inch thick wire embedded safety glass in the cell door, I observed him. He was docile as he stood facing a side wall until I knocked loudly on the door. His head turned and he stared at me as if drugged. His mouth opened, and he lumbered to the door and clawed at the rough sawn wood trying to reach out to me. He was oblivious to his fingernails peeling back and blood dripping from his finger tips. His eyes were red ringed, and the mumbling became the moaning cries we'd grown weary of hearing.

  From the next cell, Kira's muted voice cried out, "What's happening? Are zombies in the building? Please, what's going on? Someone tell me. Are my daughter and father alright? Are they safe? Please, someone talk to me."

  I walked to Kira's cell and switched on the speaker. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but Walter is contaminated. He's in the final stage of turning." She stared at me, disbelief evident in her gaze. "No, that can't be. He was fine when we got here. I want to see him. Please, there's a mistake. I've got to see him."

  "I'm sorry Kira, but once you go into isolation it's for a full three weeks. You and Paige still have another week to go. You don't leave and no one enters your room until the isolation period is complete. You were told that up front, and it's not negotiable. "

  "Dammit! I want to see my father. He's all Paige and I have. I just need to see him one last time. Please." I switched the speaker off because further talk was futile. Kira pounded on the door as I forced myself to turn away. Her muted cries could still be heard by anyone close by. I motioned toward Paige's cell and said, "Marcie, will you please let Paige know what's happening? I imagine she's frightened by the loud ranting."

  There was no sense arguing with Kira. The protection of the group was of the utmost importance, and personal needs for closure had to be dealt with by each individual. Sad and harsh, but that's the way it was. I walked to the end of the holding cells, climbed the ladder to access the cell's ceiling, and opened the hatch above Walter. He stood under me between the opening and the door. If released, he'd attack any human, even his daughter or granddaughter. I aimed and pulled the trigger. When the sound of the .45 caliber blast echoed through the building, Kira screamed. I saw people who'd stopped what they'd been doing to turn toward the cells. Everyone knew what a gunshot from that area meant. In the bitter silence that ensued, a single faint but clear female voice was heard by all. "I hate you, Tom Jacobs. I hate you!"

  Some of our more sensitive people shy away from having to end the life of someone they'd known before that person transformed into an undead creature. As the group leader, that despicable task routinely falls to me or Shane in my absence. It sucks, but that's our role. We do the dirty work to keep everyone else safe. But it's not as painless as some may think.

  ~*~*~*~

  At the end of Paige and Kira's incarceration, I advanced the weekly meeting by a day to introduce them and formally welcome them. They'd been given copies of the organizational chart showing everyone's name, position and a small picture of each member. I dreaded the day when we lost power and could no longer use our computers and printers. Two chairs were placed in front of the seated group, and Kira and Page were asked to tell their history and how they came to join our group of survivors.

  "I'm Kira Schafer, and Paige is my daughter. Thank you for taking us in. My father was Walter Conley. I guess you all know what happened to him. We were at a Walmart in St. Peters, Missouri, looking for food when we were attacked by zombies. Three of your people found us there. My husband, Carl, was bitten, died and turned." She patted Paige's leg as tears flowed from the child and Kira continued. "Carl had trained us in what to do if one of us, any one of us, was bitten or scratched by a zombie and blood was drawn. I watched Carl spring up from the floor and lunge toward Paige. She stood a few feet behind and to the side of my father. I waited as long as possible before I shot Carl. Body fluids and brain matter sprayed onto my father. We thought he was okay... but Tom Jacobs said he wasn't and killed him." She said the last part harshly and glared at me. I chose not to confront her as she grieved and let the unjust remark pass; but it stung none the less.

  Ira Sparrow didn't let the comment lie. His lean frame stood as he interrupted her. "Mrs. Schaffer, we're all terribly sorry for your loss, but Tom did what had to be done. Anyone in our group would have done the same thing. I'm a veterinarian and I serve as the doctor here. I examined Walter after he died. It appeared the infection entered his body around the skin at the base and sides of his fingernails. His cuticle areas were red and badly swollen. If Tom had been away one of us, likely Shane Holescheck or me, would have ended your father's life. It had to be done for the safety of everyone here, including you and Paige. Please don't blame Tom for your father's misfortune because it's unfair and not true." Ira sat. Kira cried quietly but nodded.

  Janice seized the moment to speak into the empty silence. "Kira, can you please tell us more of who the Schafers are?"

  Kira brushed tears away with the back of her hand and cleared her throat. "My husband, Carl, had been a Navy Seal. My father was an avid hunter and outdoorsman, but he had no military background. Carl correctly saw the course of the zombie affliction early on. He tried to warn relatives, friends, and neighbors. No one listened seriously. They mostly agreed, but all of them had misplaced faith that the government could and would contain and eradicate the zombies. After all, this was the USA and they believed we were invincible.

  "Carl trained me, Paige and my father as if we were Special Forces recruits." She smiled and patted Paige on the thigh. "We learned a lot and improved greatly, but, of course, we were never equal to Carl or any other special forces trained person.

  "My father had owned a cabin at the edge of the Mark Twain Forest in southeast Missouri for many years. We moved there before the zombie's began to spread to our locale. The area is remote, and zombies didn't wander there often. We felt safe back in the deep woods, but we had to venture out routinely for food and other supplies. That's how we came to be at the Walmart in St. Peters where Carl died." Kira looked at me. "I apologize for blaming you for my father's death. I know it wasn't your fault, but...."

&n
bsp; Paige cried and clutched at Kira's arm at the mention of Carl's death. Kira didn't ask her to address the group.

  Kira wiped tears away and straightened. "I would like to know more about the origin, workings and structure of your group, so we know who you are and what to expect."

  Shane remained seated but raised his hand to get Kira's attention.

  "I'll take that Mrs. Schafer. I'm Shane Holescheck." His red hair and short red beard outlined a ruddy complexion. "A year prior to the first recognition of the zombie affliction spreading across the Mid East and Africa, Tom won the Illinois State Lottery. He owned a construction business, and he and his wife, Emma, loved to ride horses. She was Tom's office manager, a part time physical fitness trainer, and a horsewoman. She died recently during a zombie attack.

  "After taxes, Tom and Emma had almost six million dollars. They bought two hundred acres of ground here where this building sets. Sixty acres are tillable, the other one hundred forty acres is woodland with a thirty-two acre lake. They'd planned to build a large horse barn with an indoor competitive riding arena. They had dreams of training and boarding horses and working that together in addition to his construction business.

  "Before the zombie's attacked major European cities, Tom changed the building plans and made it into a place of refuge. John Alton, our mechanical engineer, solved the detailed engineering aspects. Tom and Emma invited twelve of their best friends and their families to join them at the farm and prepare to live here for the duration of the siege we all anticipated. All of us agreed the threat to our country was great, and we felt the politicians would dither away precious days and weeks with their infighting and one upmanship. We predicted the government would be overrun just as the Mideast and Asia had been. Europe was in the first stages of failure and the apocalypse was clearly spreading faster than they could react to it. We strongly felt we would be next.

  "All of the original twelve members had a say in the design and construction of the facility. We quit our jobs, moved trailers to the property, and began building this one hundred foot by two hundred foot, two-story building ourselves. It has many special features we'll be glad to show you.

  "Two deep wells were drilled inside the perimeter of the building before the concrete floor was poured and the building was erected. Outside, four, twenty thousand gallon fuel tanks were buried; one is for gasoline and three contain diesel fuel. We have three different sized diesel generators plus solar panels on the roof. We even have geothermal heating and cooling to save on fuel needed to run the generators. Our water tower has a ten thousand gallon tank that sits seventy five feet in the air.

  "When we started, some of our friends and relatives came here and laughed at us and said we were foolish. Just another crazy bunch of doomsday preppers. I haven't seen them in the last year, so I assume they're all dead.

  "Most of the remainder of Tom's winnings, plus the savings of the twelve members, was spent to buy all the food, fuel, medical supplies and materials that were still available. We bought additional firearms and all the ammunition we could find in a one hundred mile radius. It didn't take long to learn others had the same idea. Some gun stores were sold out before we got there. Luckily, long before the zombie plague hit the US, we had finished our building project and supplies collection. Before the government and banks failed we converted our remaining US dollars to gold coins. At the time that made sense, but since then we've realized the new currency is guns, ammunition, medicine and food.

  "During any free time and at night, we all worked on the group's rules and procedures our governing body would follow; they're quite simple. You'll be given a copy of all those items as soon as you're settled in and ready to read them. Ask my wife, Janice, for copies when you're ready.

  "Weapons training and target practice, physical fitness, and other specialized training and watch duty are mandatory. A schedule for the following week is posted outside the office every Friday morning. It's your responsibility to check the schedule and show up for your scheduled assignments. School classes for all children run Monday through Saturday from eight to three unless they're sick and Ira Sparrow excuses them.

  "Welcome to our survivors group, Kira and Paige Schafer." The entire group stood and applauded the newcomers with enthusiasm.

  Kira didn't smile widely, but her attitude toward me appeared to have softened somewhat after listening to Ira defend my actions.

  I ended the meeting with other upcoming assignments and congratulations to all members for volunteering for the field trips that gradually increased our supplies. The last thing I mentioned was the three recent occurrences of other humans seen within a twenty mile radius of our compound. They'd not made an effort to engage our people, but instead had sped off. The leadership group was concerned but not to the point of doing anything except cautioning our people to stay watchful. Kira stood ten feet away speaking to Janice. I felt a nudge to my side. Connie smiled and handed me a bite of bar cookie our cook, Andrea Michaels had made.

  ~*~*~*~

  For three weeks, I'd quietly observed Kira's training results. I was impressed by her dedication and achievements. I'd never seen anyone train as religiously as she did. Not once did I see or hear of her shying away from the hardest and most physically demanding training sessions. Her previous training with her husband had apparently made her aware of the challenges ahead of her, and his death undoubtedly drove the seriousness of it home. To her credit, she endured the long hours and sore muscles without a single complaint. I and the other instructors admired her stamina and devotion and told her we were proud of her efforts and results. Outside of our contacts concerning her training and work assignment, I felt anytime I tried to be sociable she avoided me.

  Although we'd learned from experience that large caliber handgun bullets .40 and larger were the best method of dispatching zombies at close range, we also recommended ball bats and wrecking bars as a last resort if forced to deal with them hand to hand. Kira flew threw the firearms training and then requested additional training with hand-to-hand fighting, knives, defensive and offensive driving, – anything to become more lethal to defend herself, Paige, and the others from zombies or human adversaries. She showed the utmost determination to face any danger and survive. It was easy to respect her.

  Little did I realize how determined she was or that her husband had taken precautions against dangers we hadn't even anticipated.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Near the middle of September, Albert Gonzales, Tony, and Kira volunteered to drive toward Kansas City in search of additional supplies. They left before dawn one morning and were expected to return late the same day. They were in one of the mainstays of our pickup truck fleet, a Ford F-250 king cab, pulling one of the twenty foot, duel wheel, enclosed trailers.

  When they didn't return that night, I became fearful of their safety. But I also knew they could have merely run into a temporary problem. The next morning, Paige seemed calmer and more positive than I expected from a twelve-year-old. Several times I heard her telling adults, "Stop worrying, my mom will be back. She's prepared for whatever happens, you'll see. She's stronger and better equipped than most people."

  Albert had filed the required trip itinerary before they left. Early the following morning, we sent three crews on alternate routes with four members in each truck to search for our friends. It was possible they'd detoured, wrecked or had some other problem. There was no trace of them.

  On the third morning, two trucks and crews readied to depart on another search mission for our overdue friends. As the sun edged above the horizon, the overdue truck and trailer returned. We were alerted by the guards on both towers and felt jubilant that our provisions team had returned safely. But we spoke too soon. Something was wrong.

  The truck stopped on the entrance road two hundred feet from the compound. The horn sounded for a full fifteen seconds before a single stranger stepped away from the driver's side of the cab with an uneven gait. Both towers reported there didn't appear to be any
other people in the truck, and the male driver appeared to be unarmed.

  Martin Radcliff Jr. accompanied me to learn what had happened to our crew. On the surface, it didn't look good for our missing people. We each carried side arms but no rifles. Martin and I were both proficient long range pistol shots out to forty yards.

  The man we approached was stocky and grungy. He hadn't shaved in days, and his dirty hair was matted. He looked to be in his early to mid-forties, about five feet ten and two hundred pounds. His t-shirt and jeans were dingy and rumpled. When he moved it was with obvious difficulty and his left leg looked to be stiff and unwieldy.

  We stopped ten feet away. "Thanks for returning our truck. Where’s the crew that was in it?"

  "You mean the pretty gal with nice big knockers, that wetback Mexican, and the short, stout fella?" He smirked and made a nasty sound. "If you want them back alive you'll fill this trailer with food and ammo. In two days they'll come back in the truck. Otherwise, the dudes get beat and stomped and the woman gets screwed ‘til she can't take no more. Then we'll throw ’em all out to the zombies."

  Junior stepped forward until I extended my arm to hold him back.

  Scumbag grinned sardonically and laughed. "If I know Rance, he's probably drooling right now just thinking about gettin' in her panties."

  Junior cursed, surged forward again and pulled his sidearm. I grabbed his right arm and pulled him back. I outweighed him by forty pounds but his determined momentum pulled me forward a step. "Hold on, Junior, don't do anything rash. Holster your gun." Junior cursed and pulled his arm away but complied.