Book Read Free

HOLD

Page 18

by Duane P. Craig


  We’re go­ing to try and stay in the tank and wa­it to mo­ve out un­til dayb­re­ak. To­mor­row sho­uld be qu­ite so­me fun.

  DAY - 92

  It’s a won­der that an­yo­ne ever sur­vi­ved or was ba­si­cal­ly nor­mal af­ter be­ing in the mi­li­tary and sta­ti­oned fully in a tank bat­ta­li­on. It gets hot as hell in them, es­pe­ci­al­ly in the he­at wa­ve that we are fa­cing he­re, and af­ter he­aring Lo­we fi­re a tank shell - well, let’s just say that any of us are lucky to not ha­ve bus­ted eard­rums. I did no­ti­ce that Ca­mo wasn’t as af­fec­ted by the he­at. I still ga­ve him se­ve­ral bot­tle caps of wa­ter, tho­ugh. I’m not even su­re how much a cha­me­le­on drinks, but he sho­uld ha­ve had eno­ugh.

  It was at the ed­ge of a hu­ge ce­me­tery that Lo­we had fi­red the tank shell. The walls sur­ro­un­ding the ce­me­tery we­re thick sto­ne and lo­oked to be well bu­ilt - pro­bably from back in the days when pe­op­le re­al­ly bu­ilt things to last. But, hey, the hell with his­tory. Lo­we blew a ho­le big eno­ugh for two tanks to ma­ke it thro­ugh the wall. As one wo­uld ex­pect, gho­uls ca­me stra­ight for us. They we­ren’t that many, tho­ugh, and I didn't see that they had dug them­sel­ves out of the gro­und li­ke in any usu­al hor­ror film fa­re. The­se we­re ap­pa­rently only from the abo­ve gro­und ma­uso­le­ums and qu­ite the re­cently de­ce­ased. That was com­for­ting to find - that the na­no­tech had not fo­und a way to re­ge­ne­ra­te the far, go­ne corp­ses or the ones six fe­et un­der. I ne­ver un­ders­to­od that abo­ut the zom­bie films any­way. The­ir eyes wo­uld be go­ne at that po­int, and they we­ren’t bu­ri­ed with fuc­king sho­vels, so how do they dig out or even what di­rec­ti­on to dig to the sur­fa­ce? So­me­ti­mes I ho­pe that Ge­or­ge Ro­me­ro and Tom Sa­vi­ni ha­ve sur­vi­ved this all li­ke we ha­ve - so that they can ha­ve le­ar­ned the new ru­les for the un­de­ad.

  Be­fo­re I co­uld get out of the tank to start sho­wing the gho­uls my ex­pert cut­lery, Lo­we slung us all aro­und for qu­ite a ri­de.

  It se­ems that he much pre­fers grin­ding gho­uls un­der the tank tracks ins­te­ad of hand to hand com­bat. It was smar­ter. I ha­ve to gi­ve him that. I gu­ess that I just li­ke the as­su­ran­ce of the clo­se up vi­ew of the de­ed get­ting do­ne. Ge­ez, that do­es ma­ke me so­und li­ke a mor­bid, sick in­di­vi­du­al.

  It was no lon­ger than an ho­ur that we fi­nal­ly ar­ri­ved at the ar­mory. The go­od news is that we ha­ve plenty of fu­el and shells for the tank. The bad news is that the­re are only Je­eps left in de­cent con­di­ti­on for furt­her trans­por­ta­ti­on, and as far as guns go, well, ap­pa­rently tho­se went along with who­ever was sta­ti­oned he­re. Lo­oking aro­und the out­si­de, it se­emed ob­vi­o­us that Lo­we had ta­ken his first crash co­ur­se in dri­ving the tank in a very li­te­ral fas­hi­on. All of the co­ve­red or car­go trucks we­re pretty much wrecks. We’re still sta­ying he­re to­night, tho­ugh. The bu­il­ding it­self is still very so­lid and se­cu­re, as Lo­we didn’t ha­ve to bre­ak in or blast anyt­hing be­fo­re. We even fo­und the keys to everyt­hing he­re af­ter a short se­arch aro­und the pla­ce. We did find one gho­ul to dis­patch.

  Ellen got the sca­re and even so­lid cre­dit for dest­ro­ying it.

  Ellen was go­ing to the lady’s ro­om and got qu­ite a surp­ri­se as she ope­ned one of the stalls. Ap­pa­rently, even in “ un­de­ath, “ a lady sat stub­bornly on the to­ilet wa­iting for the to­ilet pa­per to be re­fil­led. At le­ast I ho­pe that was all of the prob­lem. I’d ha­te to think of anyt­hing wor­se for be­ing the re­ason. El­len had be­en car­rying one of the mi­li­tary kni­ves Beth had be­en ke­eping up with and to­ok to stab­bing the gho­ul’s he­ad con­ti­nu­o­usly. Fred was happy she was fi­ne, but he re­al­ly rip­ped in­to her abo­ut it, too. I al­so fo­und a very de­ta­iled map of Salt La­ke City - and I me­an, de­ta­iled! I am very much go­ing to be stud­ying this map, if not ste­aling it. I can see a pos­sib­le stra­ight li­ne to the is­land. I’m not sa­ying it lo­oks simp­le, but a plan is de­fi­ni­tely co­ming to­get­her.

  DAY - 93

  Inters­ta­te 15 is pretty much the stra­ight shot to the An­te­lo­pe Is­land ca­use­way. Lo­we says that I-15 has so­me ra­ised por­ti­ons but that a lot of it is gro­und le­vel and exits off in­to the mo­re po­pu­la­ted parts of the city. The gho­uls may be at every exit or very well all over the in­ters­ta­te it­self. That’s fi­ne in ke­eping with my plans. I still want to le­ad them to the ca­use­way and then strand them the­re. They can then ro­ast un­der this sum­mer he­at.

  By no­on, I had fo­und the yel­low pa­ges pho­ne bo­ok for the en­ti­re city. In chec­king with the map on the wall (that is now rol­led up and in the duf­fle bag with Ca­mo) we we­re on our way, re­lo­ca­ting to a ma­j­or spor­ting go­ods wa­re­ho­use sto­re. It was only a mat­ter of mi­nu­tes be­fo­re we ca­me upon a ni­ce si­zed pla­za - a strip mall as they are com­monly re­fer­red to.

  The spor­ting go­ods sto­re was right in the mid­dle of the who­le se­tup. We par­ked our two je­eps we ha­ve con­fis­ca­ted along with the tank as clo­se to the front do­or as pos­sib­le. We’ve of co­ur­se ta­ken mo­re things from the ar­mory with us as well - tank shells, C-4 exp­lo­si­ves, guns, etc.

  Lo­we had a mind to dash for the kni­fe co­un­ters and the back wall of mac­he­te’s, hatc­hets, axes and am­mu­ni­ti­on of sorts, no­ne one of which we ne­eded com­pa­red to the ar­mory sup­pli­es, but he was qu­ite ex­ci­ted abo­ut them. As so­on as he got the­re, a gho­ul in a ca­mo­uf­la­ge ball cap stumb­led to­wards him. It was as if he was co­ming for as­sis­tan­ce, and Lo­we tre­ated him as such al­so. Lo­we star­ted grab­bing par­ti­cu­lar kni­ves he li­ked, sa­ying things li­ke, “ I’ll ta­ke this one, “ and then stab­bing that kni­fe in­to the gho­ul’s chest. The man kept it up for a whi­le. He’s in­sa­ne.

  The rest of us ma­de runs for the mo­re im­por­tant stuff, tho­ugh. We he­aded to the cam­ping ge­ar and snatc­hed so­me pro­pa­ne bot­tles and gril­ling sets. Al­so in the bo­ating ge­ar area I grab­bed se­ve­ral fla­res and a fla­re gun. The pla­ce al­so had be­ef jerky in hu­ge card­bo­ard box disp­lays - a re­al nob­ra­iner the­re. Lo­we dis­patc­hed his help­ful pin­cus­hi­on of a gho­ul and fi­nal­ly tho­ught to help us out. We we­re ma­inly the­re to gat­her things li­ke back­packs and uti­lity belts with sturdy poc­kets. We had plenty of guns al­re­ady from ra­iding the ar­mory but no hols­ters or we­arab­le sto­ra­ge to help lug them with us.

  Fred and El­len star­ted to lo­ok aro­und in the clot­hing sec­ti­on of the sto­re. The­re they fo­und the rest of the gho­ulish sto­re emp­lo­ye­es. The gho­uls we­re in the back area be­hind the shoe de­part­ment and be­gan stumb­ling out af­ter them. I was just as fast as Lo­we in dis­patc­hing the gho­uls - Lo­we with two mac­he­tes and myself with the ka­ta­na. El­len then slap­ped us both. She is star­ting to lo­se it in terms of de­aling with things, but this par­ti­cu­lar melt­down was be­ca­use she wan­ted so­met­hing to we­ar, for on­ce, that wasn’t sta­ined with blo­od spat­ter. Fred grab­bed her and held her as she be­gan figh­ting him. It to­ok qu­ite a bit to calm her down. El­len even­tu­al­ly just wal­ked off and sat down in one of the tent disp­lays. Beth punc­hed me in the arm and ga­ve me a smi­le. She then went over to sit with and con­so­le El­len. Fred step­ped to Lo­we and I and be­gan exp­la­ining that we ne­eded to find a ni­ce stab­le pla­ce be­fo­re she star­ted to re­al­ly crack.

  We’ve sin­ce de­ci­ded that for now, this was just as go­od a hold as any. It’s very ro­omy, the­re’s one way in and out, and the back, wa­re­ho­use do­ors are pad­loc­ked and/or se­cu­rity loc­ked with no keys that we’ve co­me ac­ross yet. We’ve got am­mo, va­ri­o­us we­apons and hell, w
e’ve even got pil­lows to sle­ep on - a first sin­ce we left the bed and bre­ak­fast.

  DAY - 94

  I still say that El­len is lo­sing it, but Fred says it’s mo­re than nor­mal for her to want to go shop­ping for clot­hes. I me­an, ye­ah, I ex­pect that of a wo­man, but damn. May­be if it wasn’t a fuc­king apo­calyp­tic set­ting out in the world or so­met­hing im­por­tant, li­ke that? Still, tho­ugh the ap­pe­al of new clot­hing even­tu­al­ly star­ted so­un­ding go­od to all of us. Bet­ter yet wo­uld be so­me sho­wers, but the clo­sest we’d co­me to­day was just fin­ding big­ger bath­ro­oms. We did ma­ke it a po­int to get so­me de­odo­rants and per­fu­mes. Hell, we even bo­ught a shit­lo­ad of tho­se scen­ted cand­les from a Yan­kee Cand­le Sto­re.

  Pump­kin spi­ce is the best and most ap­pe­aling scent we co­uld find. May­be it’s just that it’s so strong a scent, too? The smell of a rot­ting Earth can be mas­ked bet­ter for us now.

  We star­ted out by ag­re­e­ing that we we­re le­aving the tank to block the front, glass do­ors to the sto­re. It kept us go­od and sa­fe for last night, so it wo­uld suf­fi­ce for a qu­ick shop­ping spree, so we tho­ught. The fal­se part of that as­sump­ti­on was that it wo­uld be a QU­ICK shop­ping spree. El­len, Beth and even Lo­we tre­ated it li­ke a ho­li­day and se­emed ca­re­less as to how long we we­re out and abo­ut. Fred and I we­re pa­ra­no­id eno­ugh for ever­yo­ne, I gu­ess.

  By the ti­me we had en­te­red the third lit­tle sto­re of the pla­za, Fred and I be­gan to re­cog­ni­ze se­ve­ral tiny ho­les in the back walls of the sto­res. They we­re rif­le shots we be­li­eve. We didn’t find that many corp­ses at all, tho­ugh. It was ob­vi­o­us that the mi­li­tary types pro­bably to­ok a ni­ce swe­ep of this pla­za a go­od whi­le ago. I’m ho­ping that the mis­sing corp­ses me­an the mi­li­tary are ali­ve and well and do­ing re­se­arch on all of the bo­di­es. I’m al­so ho­ping tho­se mi­li­tary types went stra­ight to the ba­se on An­te­lo­pe Is­land. I re­al­ly don’t want that pla­ce to be anot­her de­ad end.

  Ti­me fli­es when you’re ha­ving fun, so they say. I don’t exactly re­mem­ber any of to­day be­ing fun for me. I wor­ri­ed my ass off, and I ac­tu­al­ly at­tac­ked a co­up­le of man­ne­qu­ins out of my pa­ra­no­ia. I sho­uld ha­ve known bet­ter, as Ca­mo ne­ver tur­ned red on us. By the way, I ma­de it a po­int to en­ter a hu­ge pet sto­re for him. That was the only pla­ce that we fo­und gho­uls of any kind. They we­re se­cu­red in the­ir thick glass ca­ses, tho­ugh. I still told ever­yo­ne to ke­ep aim at anyt­hing that even re­mo­tely lo­oked li­ke it co­uld get out. I wasn’t abo­ut to suf­fer from a dam­ned kit­ten bi­te aga­in. I got a shop­ping cart full of sup­pli­es and fo­od for li­zards. I’m ke­eping my cur­rent best as­set ali­ve and he­althy. The worst prob­lem I en­ded up de­aling with all day was con­fis­ca­ting Fred’s fla­meth­ro­wer for a mo­ment, and I ro­as­ted every fuc­king lit­tle crit­ter in that sto­re. The prob­lem was that I burnt the who­le dam­ned bu­il­ding down, but luc­kily it was a sto­re all to it­self and not con­nec­ted to any ot­her parts of the pla­za.

  I’ve be­en stud­ying the map of the city li­ke crazy ever sin­ce re­tur­ning to our sporty lit­tle sa­fe ha­ven, he­re. I’m still all for le­ading the gho­uls in the area to an iso­la­ted exis­ten­ce. I’m al­so thin­king that we co­uld use as many di­esel tan­kers on the ca­use­way as pos­sib­le. I co­uld set one char­ge and exp­lo­de them all at on­ce in­ci­ne­ra­ting every one of tho­se fuc­kers we co­uld cor­ral.

  My tho­ughts for now, tho­ugh, we ha­ve va­ri­o­us disp­lay tents that we can cho­ose to sle­ep in­si­de of, and I’ve fo­und one for Beth and I. The win­dows zip clo­sed, and not­hing abo­ut the tent’s ma­te­ri­al is see-thro­ugh. She and I both smell a lot bet­ter than la­tely as well. Let’s see what hap­pens.

  DAY - 95

  We had tro­ub­le from the ti­me we wo­ke up. Gho­uls had so­ught us out thro­ugh the night. They we­re snif­fing at the glass do­ors of the sto­re, and alt­ho­ugh the­re we­re pro­bably only twenty right at the do­ors, we co­uld see a mass of them co­ming our way. We grab­bed every fi­re­arm in the sto­re and be­gan lo­ading them. Rif­les, shot­guns and hand­guns - we had them all lo­aded and re­ady. We car­ri­ed ca­no­es and tip­ped them over on the flo­or abo­ut ten yards from the do­ors. They ser­ved as sand­bags wo­uld in a war and had it co­me to it wo­uld ha­ve be­en anot­her bar­ri­er to stall the gho­uls. Luck was ba­rely on our si­de as our sho­oting be­gan. It to­ok se­ve­ral shots to se­pa­ra­te the thick glass in the do­ors. Most of our shots the­re af­ter we­re true and to­ok the gho­uls down, but we al­most did our­sel­ves in with the shots that went thro­ugh the gho­uls. Tho­se shots we­re bo­un­cing off the tank be­hind them and go­ing in va­ri­o­us di­rec­ti­ons. Among the many ri­coc­hets, we to­ok out ti­res to both je­eps ren­de­ring them use­less to us. We had no cho­ice but to pi­le in­to the tank and ma­ke the best of it. Li­ke be­fo­re in the par­king ga­ra­ge, Fred and I sta­yed atop the tank for a go­od whi­le to ke­ep the mo­re nimb­le gho­uls from clim­bing abo­ard.

  I ma­de a qu­ick po­int to open the duf­fle bag and check Ca­mo’s co­lor. He was as red as he co­uld be. I glan­ced at him con­ti­nu­o­usly thro­ugh the fight un­til his co­lors cal­med and he be­gan to blend back in­to the co­lor of the bag.

  Fred’s fla­meth­ro­wer is go­ne. He left it in one of the je­eps. He fo­und se­ve­ral hand­guns and fi­nal­ly so­me of Lo­we’s mac­he­tes to be his we­apons of cho­ice. Af­ter using a few shot­guns, I to­ok back to my trus­ted sword, but then I ma­de my last swing when it went thro­ugh a gho­ul and in bet­we­en the tank track.

  The bla­de snap­ped in half and slung the hand­le from my hand in one qu­ick mo­ti­on. I think that’s what en­ra­ged me eno­ugh to start using so­me small hatc­hets that Lo­we had al­so thrown atop the tank. Ne­ver wo­uld I ha­ve used a short dis­tan­ce we­apon, but I was pis­sed. I wasn’t thin­king cle­arly. Still, tho­ugh, Fred and I both to­ok ca­re of the gho­uls.

  It wasn’t un­til abo­ut an ho­ur la­ter on I-15 that we re­ali­zed the ot­her prob­lem we had cre­ated for our­sel­ves. All of our sho­oting had put ho­les in the gas cans on the back of the tank - our re­ser­ve fu­el for the tank. Lo­we was sho­uting for us to find a pla­ce to get mo­re di­esel - a gas sta­ti­on of any kind be­ca­use he hadn’t fil­led the tank all of the way. Fred and I ur­ged him to push the tank as far as pos­sib­le. We even­tu­al­ly had to exit back off of I-15, but it was in­to the bu­si­ness dist­rict and no im­me­di­ate gas sta­ti­ons we­re to be se­en. We ran dry just be­si­de a hu­ge na­ti­onal bank. Everyt­hing we’ve got for sup­pli­es and we­apons are now in­si­de the bank. We’ve go­ne over many sce­na­ri­os abo­ut ma­king a run for the next pos­sib­le gas sta­ti­on al­re­ady, but gho­uls ha­ve be­en a prob­lem he­re as well.

  They ca­me out of now­he­re it se­emed. You’d think they we­re just wa­iting to am­bush us. As far as in­si­de the bank, tho­ugh, we fo­und the only gho­uls to be three pe­op­le who had loc­ked them­sel­ves in­si­de the bank va­ult - the se­con­dary, thick, glass do­or. They we­re po­un­ding at the glass wan­ting to co­me af­ter us. Lo­we be­gan pre­ac­hing to them lo­udly and even in La­tin be­fo­re he fi­nal­ly ope­ned the do­or to sho­ot them all in the fa­ce.

  To­night has set in inc­re­dibly fast it se­ems. We’ve spent much ti­me exp­lo­ring and sco­uting the en­ti­re bank. It’s a so­lid sto­ne bu­il­ding and three sto­ri­es tall. Every win­dow in the pla­ce is thick and pro­bably bul­let pro­of. The alarms and se­cu­rity me­asu­res are still func­ti­onal as well - we ha­ve se­aled the pla­ce li­ke the fort­ress it can be - me­tal ga­tes, sli­ding me­tal blinds and all.

  DAY - 96


  I got to stud­ying the three gho­uls that had be­en in the bank va­ult. I’m thin­king they loc­ked them­sel­ves in­si­de, star­ved to de­ath and then when tur­ned, they lo­oked to ha­ve be­en che­wing at each ot­her for a short ti­me. On the ot­her hand, tho­ugh, they we­re smar­ter than each one of us. Why hadn’t we tho­ught abo­ut a bank be­ing among the most se­cu­re pla­ces to hold up in?

  Furt­her exp­lo­ra­ti­on thro­ug­ho­ut the day bro­ught us to a re­cords/fi­ling ro­om in the ba­se­ment of the bank. The ro­om is abo­ut what you’d ex­pect to see - very dusty, full of cob­webs and smelt funny. We so­on fo­und out why it smel­led so we­ird as well. The­re is a small, cir­cu­lar dra­ina­ge ga­te in the flo­or, way back in one of the far cor­ners of the ba­se­ment. Lo­we sa­id that it was pro­bably the sa­me prob­lem he’d had ti­mes be­fo­re at his church. The ba­se­ments of the bu­il­dings in the area are pretty much bu­ilt right atop the old se­wer systems. Ne­wer systems had long rep­la­ced them, but un­derg­ro­und col­lap­ses and so­me­ti­mes, even earth­qu­akes had al­lo­wed salt wa­ter from the la­ke to flow fre­ely in­to the old systems. The salt wa­ter, alt­ho­ugh qu­ite a bit cle­aner, it wo­uld so­me­ti­mes gi­ve off that odor if it hadn’t be­en flo­wing so well. So, it’s the sa­me as any ot­her wa­ter if it sits still for long eno­ugh. A plan pop­ped in­to my he­ad as so­on as Lo­we was fi­nis­hed tal­king. I pra­ised him for be­ing so fi­xa­ted on his sled­ge­ham­mer li­ke I was with my sword. I as­ked him for it, to­ok in my hands, told them all that we now ha­ve a way out and pos­sibly to the ca­use­way, and I to­ok my first swing down in­to the conc­re­te flo­or be­si­de the dra­ina­ge ga­te.

 

‹ Prev