HOLD

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by Duane P. Craig


  The rats be­gan bur­ning and run­ning abo­ut, only set­ting fi­re to the rest of them.

  Fred lan­ded us atop anot­her tall bu­il­ding. We im­me­di­ately sco­uted the ro­of with our guns in tow, and we did not even try to open the do­or le­ading down in­to the bu­il­ding. No, we’re ke­eping watch on that do­or in shifts. Fred be­ing our only pi­lot re­al­ly ne­eds so­me sle­ep, so we’re gi­ving him all the rest of the day and to­night if he’ll ta­ke it. Del, me­anw­hi­le, is using so­me bi­no­cu­lars he fo­und in the chop­per cock­pit to lo­ok abo­ut the city be­low. He says we’re in Salt La­ke City, Utah.

  DAY - 74

  Ye­ah, every now and then, wo­men do things li­ke re­ad so­me­one el­se’s di­ary. My girl wri­tes in mi­ne. I’m just mes­sing with you, Beth. Ni­ce thing with the fla­re gun by the way.

  Atop this bu­il­ding, we’ve had plenty of ti­me to vi­ew what parts of the city be­low are co­ve­red in gho­uls and which parts are se­emingly sa­fe. I’m pretty su­re that it is Salt La­ke City, Utah - if not for the me­re fact that every gho­ul se­ems to be we­aring nerd ge­ar, we can al­so see the hu­ge Gre­at Salt La­ke that co­vers the Nort­hern ho­ri­zon for us. I had be­en lo­oking at the hu­ge, mo­un­ta­ino­us is­land out in the mid­dle of the la­ke as well. I’ve got a map from Co­lo­ra­do still, and it has a les­ser, de­ta­iled, re­gi­onal map on the bot­tom cor­ner of it. That is­land is sup­po­sed to be a wild­li­fe park. So, im­me­di­ately I was thin­king, FUCK THAT. But then, upon furt­her lo­ok at the map, the­re is a gray area to the wes­tern si­de of the la­ke - a hu­ge area that is simply lis­ted as Hill Air For­ce Ba­se. We may be ab­le to land the­re and ac­tu­al­ly find so­me mo­re sur­vi­vors. As big as that ba­se se­ems to be, as com­pa­red to the smal­ler HA­ATS cen­ter, the­re sho­uld be so­me pe­op­le that ha­ve ma­de it as long as we ha­ve.

  Fred and I de­vi­sed a plan by the af­ter­no­on. It was in our best in­te­rest to land the chop­per atop a gro­cery sto­re that was vi­sib­le and clo­se to the la­ke. I co­uld ma­ke out a hatch on the gro­cery sto­re’s ro­of that un­do­ub­tedly led down in­to it. Be­ing ne­ar the la­ke­si­de, that was at le­ast one si­de of the sto­re that gho­uls wo­uldn’t much ap­pro­ach from. Every ot­her di­rec­ti­on se­emed cle­ar, too. So­on eno­ugh, we we­re lo­aded up and in the air ma­king the plan a co­ur­se of ac­ti­on.

  The stre­ets lo­oked ra­va­ged, and the gho­uls in the area we­re of va­ri­o­us types of dis­tur­bing sha­pes and forms. They re­al­ly are ta­king dif­fe­rent paths to at­tempt adap­ting for sur­vi­val. As so­on as we lan­ded the chop­per, we lo­aded up our shot­guns for use in the sto­re - we co­uld ha­ve be­en go­ing in­to a bu­il­ding full of gho­uls, so it ma­de mo­re sen­se to ta­ke the guns that did mo­re da­ma­ge in one shot. We ma­de it down the hatch suc­ces­sful­ly and in­to the stock­ro­om area of the gro­cery sto­re.

  Imme­di­ately the smell of bad fo­od hit us. It was al­most eno­ugh to ma­ke us sick, but we for­ged on in our se­arch for anyt­hing that was can­ned or bo­xed air­tight. Beth and El­len se­emed to be snatc­hing up crac­kers, snack ca­kes and ce­re­als - Fred and I kept to get­ting be­ef jerky, sar­di­nes, Vi­en­na sa­usa­ges, Spam and sport drinks. We qu­ickly ma­de a ni­ce cha­in of hands that got our fo­od up and atop the ro­of.

  Everyt­hing was go­ing smo­oth as we lo­aded back in­to the chop­per, but then we star­ted to smell so­met­hing. We co­uld smell fu­el of so­me sort. We fo­und that our chop­per was le­aking fu­el. It was only a bus­ted ho­se, but still, it wasn’t so­met­hing you’d want to just risk and fly any­way - one en­gi­ne spark, and we’d be pi­eces for the wha­te­ver fish in that la­ke to nib­ble on. Fred ris­ked flying us abo­ut a hund­red yards to the bank of the la­ke ne­ar a ferry bo­at dock whe­re we set down and kil­led the en­gi­ne. I don’t think we’ve ever mo­ved as fast as we did af­ter lan­ding. We got everyt­hing we co­uld carry, wrap­ped and ti­ed up in shirts and jac­kets. We strug­gled and ma­na­ged to get everyt­hing on­to the ferry dock whe­re we fo­und that a qu­ite dif­fe­rent bo­at was doc­ked. I’m not a bo­at per­son, but the bo­at re­minds me of the one they had in JAWS - not­hing overly spec­ta­cu­lar, but it wasn't a ferry - just anot­her out of pla­ce ve­hic­le exp­res­sing the cha­os that oc­cur­red. We got lucky in ha­ving no gho­uls clo­se eno­ugh to us to re­al­ly po­se a thre­at, but now, whi­le tes­ting our sea legs and drop­ping anc­hor qu­ite a ways from the sho­re, we are still go­ing to sle­ep in shifts. Who knows if tho­se fuc­kers in this area ha­ve le­ar­ned to swim?

  DAY - 75

  I got up early this mor­ning des­pi­te ta­king a la­te shift last night, too. I co­uldn’t stop won­de­ring what co­uld be in the la­ke.

  Half of me was thin­king that the­re wo­uld only be re­gu­lar fish sin­ce the na­no­tech can’t sur­vi­ve in wa­ter. My ot­her half was thin­king that the na­no­tech may ha­ve al­re­ady fi­gu­red out how to sur­vi­ve in the wa­ter. Of co­ur­se, that’s one of the un­derl­ying re­asons we've be­en drin­king only bot­tled wa­ter and so­das. I’m not go­ing to put anyt­hing be­yond the pos­si­bi­li­ti­es of the na­no­tech af­ter the shit I’ve se­en la­tely. So­on eno­ugh, tho­ugh I fo­und a bo­ok in the ca­bin all abo­ut the Gre­at Salt La­ke. I’m ama­zed at what I re­ad: The only thing that li­ves in the la­ke is what is com­monly known to pe­op­le as Sea Mon­keys - Bri­ne Shrimp. Not much el­se can sus­ta­in li­fe in the la­ke. Then I went on to re­ad abo­ut the ani­mals that li­ve in the area and mostly oc­cupy An­te­lo­pe Sta­te Park - the is­land.

  De­er, bob­cats, elk, co­yo­tes, birds, ba­si­cal­ly everyt­hing that we sho­uld stay away from no mat­ter what. We’re ac­tu­al­ly sa­fer on this bo­at than we ha­ve be­en anyw­he­re on land.

  By mid­day ever­yo­ne wan­ted to ra­ise anc­hor and get so­mew­he­re. We we­re all awa­ke and wan­ting to get out of the la­ke. El­len in par­ti­cu­lar sa­id she co­uldn’t help but he­ar the so­undt­rack from the JAWS films every ti­me she lo­oked at the wa­ter. Then, Fred star­ted qu­oting Ro­bert Shaw’s li­nes from the film. I ne­ver tho­ught abo­ut it un­til then, but he do­es kind of lo­ok li­ke Ro­bert Shaw.

  We to­ok our ti­me and sco­uted the west banks of the hu­ge is­land, An­te­lo­pe Sta­te Park. It lo­oks li­ke a very wo­oded area. I only saw one ani­mal, that be­ing a duck, and it lo­oked fi­ne.

  Still, no­ne of us wan­ted to ta­ke the chan­ce on bo­ar­ding the is­land. On­ce at the nort­hern tip, we co­uld see whe­re a long ca­use­way con­nec­ted the is­land back to the ma­in­land. We he­aded west, tho­ugh, as we kept our go­al as be­ing the Air For­ce Ba­se. I fo­und myself get­ting ne­arly hypno­ti­zed sta­ring in­to the wa­ter of the la­ke. Ac­cor­ding to the bo­ok, the de­epest po­int in this en­ti­re 100 mi­le long, 40 mi­le wi­de la­ke is only a depth of 35 fe­et. Then it hit me. Our bo­at was go­ing to bot­tom out be­fo­re we got to the Air­ba­se un­less they had a dock.

  La­te af­ter­no­on re­ali­zed my fe­ar. Our bo­at gro­un­ded out a go­od 20 yards or so from the banks of the Hill Air For­ce Ba­se.

  Everyt­hing wo­uld ha­ve be­en just fi­ne if the­re we­ren’t al­re­ady a shit­lo­ad of de­ad bo­di­es be­ing pus­hed by the la­te ti­de aga­inst the sandy banks. The­re was ob­vi­o­usly so­met­hing of a mas­si­ve ge­no­ci­de that hap­pe­ned. Or may­be this was just the dum­ping gro­unds from tho­se left ali­ve on the ba­se?

  We’ve ma­na­ged to back our bo­at out abo­ut 50 yards from the banks of the ba­se. We’ve drop­ped anc­hor, and we’re go­ing to watch for lights to go on or off in the bu­il­dings on the ba­se. It ser­ved us well as a plan last ti­me in Gypsum, so why not do it aga­in? I’ve ma­na­ged to mo­unt one of the la­ser sights on­to my pul­se rif­le. The dam­ne
d things can fi­re so ac­cu­ra­tely from so far away, that I sho­uld ha­ve myself so­met­hing of a dam­ned go­od, night­ti­me, sni­per rif­le. You bet­ter be­li­eve I’m go­ing to use it to­night if I ne­ed it.

  DAY - 76

  We’ve be­en on gu­ard sin­ce la­te last night. Mi­ra­cu­lo­usly, no­ne of us are har­med, but we fo­ught for our li­ves last night. So­me of the bo­di­es that we­re flo­ating on the banks be­gan to get up and mo­ve. They star­ted to mo­ve in the wa­ter and un­der­wa­ter.

  We all en­ded up using the pul­se rif­les as they we­re our only we­apons strong eno­ugh to fi­re in­to the wa­ter with de­adly for­ce. Only when we saw pi­eces of bra­ins or ha­ir or skull flo­at to the top of the wa­ter did we know that we had ac­comp­lis­hed he­ad shots. I’m thin­king that we had to ta­ke out abo­ut twenty of the fuc­kers, at le­ast. As we de­ci­ded to get the bo­at mo­ving aga­in, El­len spot­ted a light go­ing on and off in one of the bun­kers on ba­se. Af­ter only se­conds, Fred told us it was Mor­se co­de with the light se­qu­en­ces. Fred re­tur­ned light sig­nals with a flo­od light that's atop our bo­at ra­ilings.

  We wa­ited un­til dayb­re­ak un­til we ran our bo­at ag­ro­und as clo­se to the bank as pos­sib­le. We grab­bed our we­apons and so­me fo­od and jum­ped in­to the shal­low wa­ter. I think ne­it­her of us sta­yed in the wa­ter mo­re than a mat­ter of se­conds be­fo­re re­ac­hing the sho­re. I had my sword pul­led and re­ady, but luc­kily didn’t ha­ve to use it. Wit­hin only mo­ments we we­re at the bu­il­ding we had kept eyes on all night. The bun­ker do­or ope­ned as we ne­ared it re­ve­aling a gro­up of six in­di­vi­du­als.

  Air­men Hol­land, Kes­ler, Un­ger and Air­wo­men Ol­son and Er­nest along with a Co­lo­nel Taft are who ha­ve be­en hold up in­si­de this bun­ker. They’ve be­en li­ving off of MRE’s and jugs of of­fi­ce-style wa­ter co­olers. Upon im­me­di­ate ap­pe­aran­ce they ha­ve all be­en eating po­orly per ra­ti­ons. They’ve be­en wa­iting for a mi­li­tary swe­ep out of Gro­om La­ke just li­ke we ha­ve. At the risk of the fuc­ker ta­king and re­ading my jo­ur­nal, I ha­ve to say that Co­lo­nel Taft has go­ne nuts. He’s in char­ge, ye­ah, but at this po­int in the way of things, I wo­uld ha­ve knoc­ked his ass out cold. Gran­ted he do­es ha­ve the only gun bet­we­en his of­fi­cers, he ain’t shit, now. Fred and I are in char­ge and ha­ve much bet­ter we­aponry. We fed the of­fi­cers so­me of our ra­ti­ons and ha­ve got­ten them up to spe­ed with everyt­hing we’ve ex­pe­ri­en­ced thus far.

  It was al­most eve­ning be­fo­re of­fi­cer Ol­son ap­pro­ac­hed me. Fred was tal­king to Taft in anot­her ro­om of the bun­ker, and Ol­son ne­eded to spe­ak qu­ickly. She told me that Taft has be­en sen­ding pe­op­le one at a ti­me un­der the bun­ker in­to the hid­den mis­si­le si­lo. The­re’s a dam­ned nuc­le­ar mis­si­le be­low our fe­et, and Taft wants it ac­ti­va­ted. The prob­lem is that no­ne of the pe­op­le be­ing sent ha­ve ever co­me back. She thinks the ot­hers that we­re down the­re got in­fec­ted right away and ha­ve the pla­ce in­fes­ted.

  Beth has be­en lo­oking aro­und out­si­de with El­len and the ot­her of­fi­cers for ot­her gho­uls, but so far we ha­ve be­en sa­fe.

  Accor­ding to the girls, the of­fi­cers had told them abo­ut the flo­aters as they cal­led them. The gho­uls we en­co­un­te­red in the wa­ter ha­ve be­en the­re for we­eks. They we­re as go­od as de­ad la­ying fa­ce down in the wa­ter, but at night they wo­uld go out with the ti­de, or so they tho­ught and al­ways show up aga­in on the banks in the mor­ning. When one of the­ir fri­ends had go­ne to ins­pect them one day, they fo­und that the gho­uls had be­en ac­ting li­ke wha­les or cat­fish or even rep­ti­les - be­ac­hing them­sel­ves or sun­ning du­ring the day­ti­me and then fe­eding at night. That fri­end be­ca­me the next vic­tim to them.

  I’m tal­king to Fred abo­ut Taft as so­on as Taft falls as­le­ep. We ne­ed to ta­ke ca­re of this mis­si­le that we’re stan­ding on. I’m not too happy abo­ut an ar­med nuc­le­ar de­vi­ce in an­yo­ne’s cont­rol.

  DAY - 77

  Taft fi­nal­ly snap­ped in front of us. He shot of­fi­cer Hol­land in the fa­ce and then to­ok Ol­son in a he­ad­lock with his gun to her he­ad. Ever­yo­ne had tri­ed tal­king him down for pro­bably an ho­ur be­fo­re I fi­nal­ly de­ci­ded to ac­tu­al­ly do so­met­hing. I let Fred and the ot­her of­fi­cers get Taft’s at­ten­ti­on away from me, and with a qu­ick swing of the sword, I en­ded the stan­doff.

  Taft had be­en go­ing in a pat­tern of every few mi­nu­tes ta­king the gun away from Ol­son’s he­ad to po­in­ting it up in the air or using it to scratch his he­ad re­al­ly qu­ick. Well, I’m fas­ter, and Taft has three less fin­gers. I fi­nal­ly got to knock his ass out li­ke I wan­ted to as well. Not a one of us was the le­ast bit an­ge­red in my ac­ti­ons eit­her. The of­fi­cers we­re all mo­re in sta­te of fe­ar that they we­re go­ing to be next go­ing down in­to the mis­si­le si­lo. No, I was the next one to ta­ke a trip down the­re. Beth slap­ped me when I told her to stay be­hind. I just wan­ted her to stay sa­fer up in the bun­ker, but she just wo­uldn't ha­ve it. By af­ter­no­on I had tal­ked with the of­fi­cers eno­ugh to know the la­yo­ut of the si­lo and what to ex­pect as we went be­low. I to­ok Taft’s key, un­loc­ked the cont­rol box for the ele­va­tor that led down in­to the si­lo and then, Beth and I got in­si­de with Hol­land’s body in tow. We’re go­ing to try and use Hol­land’s body as a de­coy or to ba­it any gho­uls away from us. Fred and El­len de­ci­ded to stay abo­ve just in ca­se any of the ot­her of­fi­cers de­ci­ded to act dif­fe­rently. Beth and I had our shot­guns with plenty of am­mo. Beth al­so had her­self hu­ge mi­li­tary kni­fe that she had ta­ken from the ar­mory a few days ago. I al­so had my sword. The ele­va­tor ri­de se­emed lengthy, at the sa­me ti­me now­he­re ne­ar as long as we’d ha­ve pre­fer­red. The ele­va­tor stop­ped and ope­ned its do­ors. We we­re ex­pec­ting the wor­se ons­la­ught of gho­uls ever, but we saw not­hing. It was dark, as only a few flu­ores­cent lights flic­ke­red in pat­terns that ma­de my eyes hurt. What was lit up li­ke a Christ­mas tree, tho­ugh, was a mas­ter pa­nel of cont­rols at the ba­se of the mis­si­le it­self. We ap­pro­ac­hed the cont­rol pa­nel, and then Beth no­ti­ced whe­re our ex­pec­ted thre­ats we­re. She be­gan fi­ring up at the sur­ro­un­ding gir­ders of the outer-ele­va­tor shaft. The gho­uls of all the pe­op­le that had be­en in the si­lo we­re now ba­si­cal­ly chan­ging in­to mo­re ape-li­ke be­ings. The­ir fe­et we­re ac­ting just as well as hands as they gras­ped and firmly held on­to the gir­ders. They we­re spe­eding the­ir way down to us. I grab­bed Beth to ret­re­at in­to a ne­arby ro­om that lo­oked not­hing mo­re than a su­per­vi­sor’s of­fi­ce with a hu­ge bay win­dow. The do­or to the ro­om was a thick me­tal, tho­ugh, and af­ter a mis­fi­re from Beth, we fo­und out that the win­dow was bul­letp­ro­of. The gho­uls be­gan po­un­ding on the do­or and win­dow with ext­re­me for­ce. So­me of them wo­uld hit so hard that the­ir own arms or sho­ul­ders wo­uld bre­ak from the pres­su­re. I then fo­und that two keys had be­en used in si­de-bysi­de locks to ini­ti­ate the mis­si­le’s ar­ma­ment. I tur­ned the keys un­til I co­uld re­mo­ve them, and im­me­di­ately we saw the mis­si­le cont­rols start to flic­ker and se­emingly po­wer down.

  To the best of my know­led­ge, I ha­ve comp­le­tely shut down any pos­si­bi­lity of the mis­si­le be­ing fi­red or de­to­na­ted.

  It’s be­en ho­urs at le­ast that Beth and I ha­ve be­en sit­ting in this ro­om. My bra­in is ra­cing with what the hell we’re go­ing to do next to get out of this ro­om un­to­uc­hed. The gho­uls out­si­de ha­ven’t even pa­id at­ten­ti­on to Hol­land’s body. That tells me that they are much smar­ter at re­cog­ni­zing the de­ad than a
ny ot­her gho­uls be­fo­re. Beth and I are get­ting ti­red. I'm mostly ho­ping that Fred do­esn't de­ci­de we're not co­ming back and mo­ve ever­yo­ne on­ward. I re­ali­zed that he sho­uld see the ac­ti­va­ti­on lights for the mis­si­le on the cont­rols abo­ve, tho­ugh.

  I'm go­ing to ke­ep tur­ning the key-locks on and off in Mor­se co­de in­ter­vals - I still re­mem­ber S.O.S. from my boy sco­uts days.

  DAY - 78

  I can’t be­li­eve that Beth and I fo­und sle­ep in our po­si­ti­ons. We qu­ickly got to our fe­et and fo­und our­sel­ves to ha­ve be­en watc­hed all thro­ug­ho­ut our slum­ber by nu­me­ro­us gho­uls pres­sed aga­inst the hu­ge win­dow. They lo­oked li­ke kids aga­inst the win­dow of the­ir fa­vo­ri­te toy sto­re that wasn’t open yet. I ha­te be­ing sta­red at. I re­mo­ved the keys, unar­ming the mis­si­le aga­in. Ap­pa­rently, no one had ca­ught our at­tempt at com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on.

  I think it to­ok abo­ut thirty mi­nu­tes and a hand­ful of ni­ce, long kis­ses to con­vin­ce Beth to go with the only plan I tho­ught wo­uld work - to open the do­or, let them in and kill them one by one. We went for it. I re­mem­ber that we had poc­kets full of shot­gun shells bet­we­en us and then ho­ping they wo­uld be eno­ugh to do the job. We to­ok our shots fo­ur at a ti­me, then let­ting the ot­her ta­ke fo­ur shots whi­le re­lo­ading - we ne­ver had less than three shells in our guns at any one ti­me un­til we ran out. The­re we­re he­ads be­ing blas­ted apart all over the dam­ned pla­ce, and when our guns we­re empty, I sho­ved Beth be­hind me so I co­uld use the sword. Beth duc­ked out of the way and held her kni­fe re­ady if she’d ne­ed it. Beth ne­ver did ne­ed the kni­fe. I cut the fuck out of abo­ut ten gho­uls and en­ded the en­ti­re at­tack. Still, we slowly exi­ted the cont­rol ro­om with ca­uti­on. The­re was so much blo­od and shit all over the flo­or that we re­al­ly didn’t ha­ve a cho­ice but to pro­ce­ed slowly or el­se we’d ha­ve bus­ted our as­ses. We ma­de it to the ele­va­tor, I fo­und the key I ne­eded, Beth sho­ved Hol­land’s body out and we be­gan ri­ding the ele­va­tor back up to the sur­fa­ce.

 

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