by Ray Wallace
Because of the Farm’s location, far removed from any sizable population center, finding new “recruits” undoubtedly proved a bit of a challenge. The bastards who ran the place had to make sure their workers stayed put. And from what Susanna could see, they were doing a pretty damned good job of it.
If and when I make my move, it will have to be at night.
The barracks had a single door leading outside. Susanna had examined it, tested it as much as she could without drawing too much attention to herself. The door was made of metal, locked from the outside. Sturdy as it was, she thought it might take a stick of dynamite to blow it open. The building’s few windows were set high into the walls, metal bars criss-crossing them. No chance of getting out that way.
Susanna sighed as she lay there in the dark, listening to the snoring, the heavy breathing, and the occasional whimpering of those sleeping nearby.
There has to be a way.
Just then, a wholly unexpected sound caught her attention: a muffled scraping, metal on metal. Someone was opening the door.
What time is it?
She could not say for sure.
One in the morning?
The creaking of hinges, barely audible, reached her. Susanna pretended to stir in her sleep, turning her body so that she faced the doorway. Eyes partially open, she watched as a dark figure made its way through the room, just visible in the moonlight seeping in through the windows. Something familiar about it—the figure’s size, the way it moved. One of the male guards. That much was obvious.
Walking between the rows of mattresses and the women sleeping on top of them, the guard approached the spot where Susanna lay. He stopped and stood there for several long seconds, utterly silent. Susanna closed her eyes and willed herself to lie perfectly still, heart thumping heavily in her chest. She didn’t know what the guard had in mind but felt confident it could not be anything good.
Eventually, she heard the man take a step. Another. She could sense him standing next to her, looming over her. Opening her eyes to the merest slits, she watched as the man crouched down, his back to her, facing the woman sleeping on the mattress next to hers. Joanne. Young. Maybe twenty-five. Pretty when not covered in filth. The guard reached out and gave her a shake.
“Wake up,” he said in a harsh whisper. Then: “Don’t make a sound. Not a peep. You hear me?”
Susanna recognized the voice, the cruelty in it, knew it belonged to a guard named Benny, the one with the mocking smile and the endless stream of insults for the women throughout the day.
She watched as Joanne stood up, as Benny ushered her to the doorway then disappeared through it.
When the door closed, Susanna told herself that, undoubtedly, there were far worse things one could suffer through than a sleepless night in this awful place.
Friday, November 6th
The rattling of keys. The click of the lock. And the door swung open.
Pastor Lewis backed away from the doorway, leaned against the wall next to the bed, closed the book he was reading. He had been perusing certain passages with which he was long familiar, had shared with his parishioners on any number of occasions, Jesus’s legendary “Sermon on the Mount” among them. The waif-like Sister Clara entered the room followed by another, older woman he had never laid eyes on until now.
“Hello, Nathaniel,” Sister Clara addressed him. The smile that usually accompanied this greeting was noticeably absent, however. He could only assume her decidedly neutral expression had something to do with the woman accompanying her.
“And hello to you,” Pastor Lewis replied.
The two nuns stood just inside the doorway, Sister Clara a step behind the other, obviously her superior. The older nun stood ramrod straight, half a head taller than the diminutive Clara, brow creased and lips pursed, hands clasped behind her back.
“I am Sister Margaret,” she said in a tone as stern as her expression. “Against my better judgment, I permitted Sister Clara to bring you into this convent. Into our home.”
“And I thank you for that,” said Pastor Lewis.
“Clara tells me you’re a man of God.”
“Yes. A pastor. For many years.”
The older nun stared at him for a time, as though weighing the veracity of his claim.
“That may very well be true,” she conceded. “Then again, it may not. We have shared our hospitality. Provided you with food and shelter. Given you time to recover from your illness, to regain your strength. Now that you have, I must insist that you leave.”
For several seconds, Pastor Lewis found himself unable to speak. Leave? Where would he go? Had not God delivered him to this place? By now, he felt more certain of it than ever. Which meant he had to stay until he had fulfilled his purpose, whatever that might be.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said when he found his voice.
“No?” Sister Margaret raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”
Pastor Lewis looked toward Sister Clara who offered a tiny shrug, as if to say, Sorry, you’re on your own.
“Because I was sent here,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice.
“Sent here?” Sister Margaret wanted to know. “By whom?”
Should he say it? Or would it make him sound crazy, like a madman with a messiah complex? Then again, what did he have to lose? Sister Margaret appeared to be set in her decision to see him go. If he really was meant to be here, telling her what he believed might be the only way to change her mind.
“I was sent here by God.”
“Really?”
“To serve in any way that I can.”
She definitely thinks you’re crazy. And she’s going to insist that you leave. Now.
Instead, with a long, last look at the pastor, Sister Margaret turned and exited the room, her voice trailing after her: “Come, Sister Clara.”
Another shrug from the younger nun, this time seeming to say: I guess we’ll see. Then Pastor Lewis found himself alone, locked in his room once again.
Well, at least I wasn’t escorted from the premises, he told himself, finding some hope in the way the meeting had ended.
Opening the Bible in his hand, he pushed himself away from the wall and returned to his reading.
Saturday, November 7th
Marco walked along the fence that cordoned off much of his kingdom from the world surrounding it. The barrier had already been in place when he and his small—albeit ruthless and determined—army had arrived, ready to claim this prime section of real estate as their own. The fence was an impressive example of its kind. Eight feet tall, it consisted of metal poles driven into the ground about six inches apart, reinforced by metal crossbeams welded securely into place.
The wealthy deserve only the best.
As far as keeping zombies out, the fence served its purpose well. It had proved less effective, however, in preventing Marco and his band of marauders from gaining access to the homes it had been designed to protect. At one end stood a gate, built of the same formidable material—reinforced steel—as the fence itself. This was where Marco’s men had gained entry, driving a Ford F-250 straight into it.
Marco inspected the fence every morning, starting at the gate, what he knew to be the most vulnerable section of the metal barrier. Some of his more industrious soldiers had done a commendable job of repairing the damage done to it once Mt. Washington and the homes lining its summit had been theirs. On this particular morning, a few zombies stood near the fence, pressing their faces up to the bars and moaning as Marco and two of his lieutenants walked up to them. The creatures were dispatched quickly and efficiently with point-blank shots to the head. Later, a “clean-up crew” would go outside the fence to move the bodies elsewhere.
As he continued his inspection, Marco thought back to the night they had conquered this place. It had not been much of a fight at all as less than a dozen people had lived there at the time. Still, it had been a well-executed invasion. As the man in charge, Marco had devised the plan and
given the orders, a role he had gotten used to long before the plague fell from the sky and the dead rose up to walk the Earth.
He had decided during the early stages of his criminal undertakings that he wanted to be a major player, not some two-bit drug dealer. All it had taken was a glimpse of how some of the bigwigs rolled—the money, the cars, the women, the respect—to set him on the path to his own little empire. Along the way, one of the players he had chosen to emulate had told him that he had what it took to make a name for himself.
“You’re focused. Ruthless when you need to be. And more than a little lucky.”
How many times had he been somewhere—a party or some more intimate gathering—and just so happened to overhear a snippet of conversation that could be used to his advantage later on? How many times had he left someone’s house or place of business just before it was raided? Not to mention the situation with Big Owen, a major player who had decided to call it quits just as a certain ambitious youngster had been ready to take his game to the next level.
Last spring, just before the plague hit and the world went to hell, Marco had decided to expand his brand beyond the drug market and involve himself in some arms dealing. Nothing too heavy at first, mostly handguns and the occasional semi-automatic rifle. He knew where the larger scale artillery was kept, though, and made a move on a certain warehouse a month or so into the outbreak, finding it by then—as he had hoped—relatively unprotected. Those who had stuck around to guard the place had decided, after only minimal persuasion, to join rather than oppose Marco and his soldiers. A few weeks later, when his army had reached more than forty strong, Marco decided it was time to secure a base of operations. And why not do so in a part of the city he had long since dreamed of inhabiting, ever since he and his mother had taken a ride up to it on the Incline when he was a child?
As he completed his inspection of the fence, he thought about his mother, what he had been forced to do when the superflu had claimed her. Changed her. And as another zombie approached the fence, Marco told his lieutenants to stand back, using his own handgun to put the monster down.
Sunday, November 8th
Icy rain pattered against the canvas of the small, A-shaped tent in which Eric sat, clouds covering the afternoon sky for as far as the eye could see, blotting out the sun, turning the world around him into a dreary, gray purgatory.
Where the dead aimlessly wander, Eric mused.
It had been a while, an hour at least, since he had seen any of the walking corpses, since he had been able to make use of the rifle in his hands. Was it because of the weather? Or was there another reason why the zombie turnout had been low in recent days? Locally, had their numbers been reduced to the point where they no longer posed a serious threat? More likely, he figured the zombies had finally wised up and were staying clear of the area—for the most part—after so many of them had been shot by the building’s snipers. Eric had heard the stories, the ones depicting the zombies’ coordinated attacks, the way they seemed to communicate with each other in some silent, mysterious way.
Like they’re telepathic or something.
He had to wonder, though, if people were attributing some intelligent, controlling force to their behavior where none existed.
Humans like to see patterns, need to make order out of chaos. It’s why there have always been conspiracy theories.
Lost in thought, it took Eric a few moments to notice the zombie walking along the street below, headed his way. Tripping over one of the corpses lying on the pavement, the creature managed to retain its balance and keep moving.
An agile one.
Eric raised the rifle from where it had been resting across his lap, put the stock to his shoulder, his right eye to the scope.
That’s right, a little closer…
When Eric had shown what a quick study he was with the gun, his fellow guards had wasted no time welcoming him into their ranks. A perfect headshot from nearly a hundred yards away had prompted Buck, the forty-something, ex-military, de facto leader of the building’s zombie killing team to say, “Looks like we’ve got a natural. You sure you’ve had no prior training?”
Eric had shaken his head. “Until yesterday, I never fired a rifle in my life.”
He had been given regular shifts on the rooftop, had taken on a few extra when some of the others were sick or hungover.
“You used to never want to leave the apartment,” Amanda said to him. “Now you don’t want to come back.”
“Please, try to understand.” He had taken her hand in his. “I have to do this.”
Since he had started killing zombies from the building’s rooftop, the undead no longer stalked him in his dreams. Not that his nightmares had gone away completely…
Last night, he had awakened in the middle of the night, gasping for air. In the dream, Simon, that psychopath, had chased him through the hallways of the apartment building, telling him how was going to open him up when he caught him, play with his insides. Eric had shouted for help but no one had come to his aid. “I’ve killed them all,” Simon had told him. “Every last one of them. I took my time with Mitchell and Amanda. What fun we had…” Rounding a corner, Eric had found himself at a dead end. Trapped, he had thought, terrified, as Simon walked up to him, pressed the blade of his hunting knife against Eric’s throat, told him how he had been waiting for this moment, how much he was going to enjoy it…
Forcing himself to concentrate on the view through the rifle’s scope, he pretended it was Simon down there, wandering toward him. The magnified image of the zombie even looked a little like Simon. Male. Late twenties to early thirties. Dark hair matted to its head by the rain. Eric centered the sight on the zombie’s forehead, a feeling of anticipation coursing through his body, his index finger tightening on the trigger.
Say bye-bye…
As though sensing his intent, the zombie lifted its gaze to look directly at him.
Those eyes…
Even at this distance, with the gray, muted light and the falling rain, he could see that something was different with the eyes of this creature.
They’re not red.
No, they were white, normal, living eyes.
He eased off the trigger just as the man, the human being he had almost put a bullet into, raised his hands and waved them back and forth over his head.
“God damn,” Eric muttered as a rumble of thunder descended from the heavens. He lowered the gun then stood from the stool upon which he had been sitting. Exiting the tent, he hurried through the rain, across the rooftop and into the building. He needed to find Buck, let him know they had a visitor.
Monday, November 9th
The undead had saved them.
Sheila sat on the roof of the house, bottle of whiskey in hand, blanket wrapped around her due to the cold. She did not know the exact temperature, figured that once night had fallen it had dipped down into the forties.
It sure feels that way, at least.
She took a pull from the bottle, coughed a little then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
If I was smart, I’d find a working vehicle, head south where it’s warmer. And I wouldn’t say a word to either of those crazy sonsabitches.
As if on cue, she heard a man’s voice calling out from somewhere in the distance:
“Sheila!”
Charlie or Joey? Hard to tell. From further away, a dog started barking then fell silent after a minute or so.
She took another swig of whiskey, well aware that getting drunk on the roof of a two-story house was probably not one of the smarter things she had ever done in her life.
Not one of the stupidest, either. That’s for sure.
Without a doubt, she had made her share of bad decisions during her twenty-three years on planet Earth, sleeping with both Charlie and Joey—when human civilization had still been intact, with all of its rules and regulations, written and unspoken—among them. The looks she had gotten when word of that had gotten around… She tried to rec
all why she had done it. Had it been exciting to her, hooking up with the Gatner boys of all people, two of the craziest bastards the little town where they lived had ever known? That was part of it, she had to admit. Also, they were really good-looking bastards. They had each treated her well in their ways, proclaimed their love for her, made her feel special. And for a little while there, she had loved them each in return.
Do I love them now?
A difficult question to answer. Her feelings for them were… complicated. More and more, she felt simultaneously drawn to and repelled by them. Their wild, unpredictable behavior, one of the things that had attracted her to them in the first place, seemed more and more likely to result in disaster. In the beginning, when the plague had hit and the dead had risen up to devour the living, teaming up with the Gatner brothers had made perfect sense. Safety in numbers, and all that. Lately, however, one overriding idea came to mind nearly every time she looked at them:
These idiots are going to get me killed.
The sentiment had taken on the weight of prophecy in the days following their escape from the mob that had chased them out of Dan’s Place. Running for all they were worth, gunshots ringing out behind them, barely missing their targets on several occasions, Sheila had told herself that she was done, that this was the end of the line as far as she and the Gatner boys were concerned. As the burning in Sheila’s lungs had become too much to bear, Charlie had motioned for them to stop after rounding another corner into yet another alleyway.
“Climb,” he told her, motioning toward the lower rungs of a fire escape ladder mounted to the side of the building next to which they stood.