by S. P. Durnin
“My thoughts exactly. None of us are really up for this kind of thing, so—”
“Speak for yourself.” Kat sniffed. “I’m pretty much a bad-ass when it comes to zombie slaying. Not too shabby at kicking the crap out of Nazis either.”
Jake snorted. “That’s true, but we all need to get in some trigger time. I want everyone to be as comfortable as possible; not just at using their weapons, but actually using them under pressure. We’ve been lucky so far. Sticking to the back roads and away from any cities, like we’ve done, has kept us hidden from large concentrations of the dead. I’m fairly sure, at some point, we’re going to encounter larger groups, though. I don’t want any of the others freaking out when the things are coming at us in greater numbers.”
He wrapped the towel around his midsection as best he could, retrieved his crowbar from against the wall of the shower, and headed back out into the locker room. Jake found Kat reclined along the bench running down the center aisle; legs crossed, hands pillowing the back of her skull, absently humming, “I Hate Myself for Loving You” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. The writer gave her a suspicious look, rolled his socks and underwear into a tight bundle which he wrapped with his sweaty pants, and then took a seat on a nearby bench to put on his boots. He made sure he sat far enough away that she wouldn’t be able to look up his towel while he tightened his laces. That was something she’d do, if only to tease him about it later. He’d worn his kilt often enough however, that he knew how to move, sit, and even lie down, without unintentionally “flashing the family jewels.”
“Spoilsport.” Kat pouted, still looking at the drop ceiling of the locker room.
Jake ignored the comment, secured his assault boots temporarily, and stood. “I knew you’d try to look. Not everyone’s as comfortable with casual nudity as you are, you know.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said loftily.
Passing the strap to his crowbar sheath over one shoulder, Jake raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. A certain someone stretching daily at the back of the Mimi ring any bells for you?”
Kat’s gaze flicked to him in surprise. “Wait a minute. How did you know I’ve been doing that?”
The writer gave her a wry look. “For obvious reasons, I haven’t really slept much over the last two months and, if you’ll recall, my bunk is right beside the rear hatch? How could I possibly miss the show?”
“But, you were… Well, you know!”
He snorted again and passed a quick hand through his still-messy hair, doing it no good at all, but causing Kat’s fingers to itch with the need to smooth it herself. “Yeah, I was messed up, not dead. Watching you contort on the floor for almost an hour straight twice a day could cause a rock to sit up and pay attention.”
That was more than a little surprising. Cho hadn’t realized Jake had even noticed her daily activity. While her level of flexibility was impressive, to say the least, it would deteriorate quickly if she didn’t maintain it, so Kat had taken to rising in the wee hours of the morning and evening to stretch. Every day she arose naked save for a pair of briefs—to allow herself total freedom of movement—and proceeded to work out the kinks. She limbered up her core and shoulders, loosened her quadriceps and calves, then moved on to back bridges, along with butterfly and groin stretches. Sitting on the cool metal floor of the transport, she grasped her toes and folded her body in half until her temples literally rested between her knees. She did both forward and side splits with ease, rolling her hips forward and back to insure the maximum level of height if she needed to say, kick a Nazi—or zombie—in the teeth. Not surprisingly, her morning routine had been much more expedient as of late. Ever since Cho convinced Jake’s neighbor, the now-absent Gertrude, to give her a short, pixie-style haircut when they’d reached Rae’s junkyard cache. Not having to braid, twine, or stick her deep-blue hair—that once hung most of the way down her back—into a ponytail, greatly cut down the amount of “primp the mop” time she had to engage in exponentially. Besides, when Jake had seen her new do he’d smiled broadly, and then informed the already stunning woman her new cut took her up to “Keira Knightly level” hotness.
Well, he hadn’t phrased it in that exact way. He’d said it very much reminded him of how the actress wore her own hair occasionally, and he liked how the look softened Kat’s eyes. While short hair was utilitarian in the Apocalypse, she was determined to keep the style for that fact alone.
“So, what? You’re upset I saw you in the buff, but you got an eyeful of the twins every morning?” Kat gave him a quizzical stare that was fighting an amused grin. “You do realize that’s more than a little bit hypocritical, don’t you? And it’s a little pervy.”
“Hey, I’m fine with other people’s nudity, just not my own,” Jake replied as she followed him to the door. “Never claimed I was consistent. Self-conscious, yes. Consistent, no.”
Kat laughed and, removed the chain on the locker room’s exterior door while she readied her sword. The writer hit the opening bar quietly, edged the door open about a foot and looked out.
“Nothing.”
The pair headed for the garage housing the Mimi and Kat made sure to lag behind as they walked through the streets Langley. She knew it was usually a “guy move,” checking out someone they though was hot that way, but hey, it was the Apocalypse and all. Time for a little role reversal, maybe.
I wonder if I can find him a kilt somewhere. She thought.
* * *
Cho sat on the Mimi’s loading ramp next to Jake, absently humming Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, “I Hate Myself For Lovin’ You,” and watching him as he consumed a third MRE. He’d said he was hungry, but the pretty Asian had no idea where he was putting it all. Your average, government-issue MRE contained over three thousand calories.
Most of the other survivors, with the exception of Leo and Elle, who’d relieved the hot, sweaty Gwen on guard duty, had gathered about the pair as Jake shoveled caloric fuel into his belly. They lounged in camp chairs or sat on the chipped concrete floor, like Foster’s niece and their most recent addition, Mel, did; talking amongst themselves quietly and waiting for O’Connor to get his fill. The writer’s transformation from basket case into a Hungry-Hungry Hippo was nothing short of astounding, and more than a few speculative looks had been aimed in Kat’s general direction. She didn’t acknowledge them, however. The blue-haired woman was still near-jubilant over the change in Jake, and spent most of his extended meal looking at his face as the others filled him in on everything he’d missed while coming to a hesitant truce with his pain.
“…so we smeared the pod all over the landscape, and managed to convince Mel to come back with us,” Elle concluded, as yet another small pound-cake disappearing down O’Connor’s throat.
He grunted, wadded up the empty MRE packaging and tossed it into the nearby trash barrel. Even though “going green” was a thing of the past, just throwing trash about their sanctuary would be a bad idea. The smell alone, after a few days, would’ve been reminiscent of an unwashed grease trap, so they used the handy trash barrels and, when those were full, emptied them into the dumpster around the back of the post office.
“We’ve already scouted the next leg.” George puffed on one of his Cubans. The fixer’s supply was half gone, and he’d taken to savoring each cigar as opposed to just burning them down. “We should head south through Muskogee, then we’ll wanna circle west after we hit Durant, through Graham. At that point we’ll cut south again to Brownwood, skirt past Abilene and Midland proper, then on to Pecos. No way do we venture any closer to the Dallas-Fort Worth area than that.”
“Yeah, that’s an idea I can really get behind. We’ll want to stay well away from the Cowboys’ old home. Estimated population was almost 1.24 million when we played them last year.” Henry sat on the floor, running a swipe-cloth through the barrel of his SPAZ riot shotgun. “That’s a whole lot more maggot-heads
than I personally feel comfortable facing. Ever. In life.”
Forster chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth?”
“Where’s the next cache?” Jake asked, pulling an American Spirit from the tactical vest he once again wore and applying his Zippo to the business end.
“A regional airport, just north of Wichita Falls near Lawton.” Rae sat next to the big ex-linebacker, instructing him on the maintenance of his firearm. “It’s small, relatively isolated, and all but backs up against the nearby lake, so we’ll have it behind us. That should make it much easier for anyone we have on watch to keep an eye on the area, seeing how the place doesn’t have much of a fence.”
Jake nodded and exhaled a lungful of smoke. “Well, we won’t be there long. Just a day or two. It’ll take us... What? Three or four days to get that far?”
“Just over six,” Kat supplied. “We drove it early last week in the Troll. There are some dicey spots near Oklahoma City. Someone used cars to try and block a few bridges early during the outbreak, I guess. We had to tow over a dozen out of the way to get the Hummer through. That took almost a whole day, but the rest of the roadways are basically clear.”
“Place is undisturbed, too. I’m certain of that.” George sat back in camp chair and crossed his ankles. “Believe me, trucking roughly 270 miles for an empty cache would suck ass. We’d have just bypassed it and headed for the one up near Peoria if need be, but that’s a hell of a long distance off our route. It’d put us dangerously low on food too. We’re sitting at a third of our stock now, and we need to resupply.”
Beatrix Foster sat to her uncle’s right with Mel, brushing out the teen’s still wet hair. The pair had taken a turn at the showers with Henry standing guard outside, and the grungy girl they’d rescued as she fled the dead turned out to have naturally blonde hair. This pleased Bee, and she’d been discussing what shade they should dye it with Mel as she gave the girl a thick braid.
“God, what I’d do for some real food,” Bee fantasized. “The MREs and stuff keep you alive, but damn. I’d part with blood for a mango. Or even a banana at this point.”
“Obvious comment aside,” Gwen said—to which Bee stuck out her tongue at the unassuming blonde woman—”I know exactly how you feel. I’m not complaining, mind. I’m very thankful we have food at all. It would be nice to have a tomato, or a big bowl of peas, or even just a fresh carrot.”
“We’ll worry about things like that once we get over the Rockies,” Jake said firmly. “For now, let’s just focus on staying alive. Besides, we’ll all go up to the Sunset tonight and see what they’ve got cooking.”
“Probably beans and rice with chopped Spam. Again,” Rae grumbled without enthusiasm.
Jake showed no sympathy for her. “Right now food is food. How are we on fuel?”
Rae shrugged. “The diesel fuel tank behind the Turkey Hill station was just above the halfway mark when we got here, and we’ve kept the Troll topped off. Its reserve cans are all full too.”
“And I changed out the Mimi’s water—” Foster began.
“We changed it out.” His niece corrected. “We. As in you, me, and Gwen.”
George rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. We changed it out. The levels on the hydrogen cell still showed about a month’s worth of possible production, but swapping out the old water gives us another eighty-eight days of operation before we need to do it again. With any luck we’ll at least be in Pecos—if not over the mountains—by that time.”
The hydrogen drive cell of the Screamin’ Mimi had been a godsend. If it had been necessary for the survivors to stop and siphon gasoline to fuel their massive transport, they’d be forty-four years making it to the West. Jake thought about that as he took another drag of his cigarette.
“Good. What about our ammo supply?”
“We’ve used surprisingly little ammunition,” Rae said. “Four of our six reserve bins are still full, even after somewhat equipping the survivors left here in Langley. I have to admit, George did a fairly competent job estimating which types to bring along. It wouldn’t hurt to replenish what we’ve used, but our stock is more than sufficient.”
“And folks ask why I never got hitched.” Foster told Sampson, who was attempting not to laugh. “Can you imagine listening to someone rip on you like that, all day-every day?”
Henry grinned, applied oil to the swab, and ran it through the barrel of his SPAZ. “Better than becoming a lonely conspiracy theorist I suppose. One of those jumpy guys, who live in bunkers way off in the hills, paranoid about letting anyone into their homes, who exist only to clean their guns and upgrade their security measures?”
George gave the hulking man an amused look.
“Yeah, okay. Maybe that’s a bad example, considering our situation and all,” Sampson admitted.
Jake shook his head. “I want those bins full. Full to the bursting point. We’ll replace one of the food storage containers with rounds for the M4’s when we reach the next cache, too.”
Kat glanced at him. “That will cut down on our edibles. We’ll have to stop more often for eats than if—”
“So we strap a few boxes of MREs to the hull next to the motorcycles to compensate.” Jake frowned and went on. “We’re not going to be caught low on ammo if we have to face a large pod of those rotten things down the line.”
Kat shrugged. “Why would we need to fight a big group? If need be, we can just button up in the Mimi and—”
“We’re not just running anymore. We’re sticking to our route, and any infected that happen to be around when we stop get a bullet. I don’t care if it’s four or forty. They die.”
O’Connor’s companions displayed varying levels of enthusiasm—or the lack of—at his statement.
“Um. I’m not sure that’s such a good plan,” Rae pointed out with a frown.
George shrugged. “I got no problem with that. Better than letting the smelly fucks wander around outside, beatin’ on the hull when we stop for the night.”
“But the zombies can’t actually get inside the caches, or the Mimi for that matter.” Gwen sat beside Rae and Henry, quietly sipping on a bottled water. “Won’t going out, intentionally to fight them be really dangerous? What if—”
Jake flicked the butt of his cigarette to the floor, then crushed it out with the heel of his boot. “I’m sick of being afraid of the maggot-heads. I’m not losing any more members of our group to them, so we’re going on the offense as of this fucking moment.”
Cho was more than a little shocked. “What if we find more people?” She asked.
When the writer turned his gaze to Kat, and the dark bruising under his eyes sent a shiver down her spine. “That’s why you, George, and the Langley survivors have been prepping that pair of tour buses we found them, up at Water’s Edge RV Park. I told you there would be vehicles there we could refit.”
Rae’s frown deepened. “But—”
“We’re going to Pecos, then on to the West, and nothing is going to stop us,” O’Connor snapped. “If we find others who want to tag along, fine. They can pack into the buses somewhere. But if they fuck with us? We treat them the same way we do zombies.”
His emphatic proclamation went over with varying levels acceptance and trepidation, and there were a few noticeable glances exchanged.
Foster displayed what could only be termed as a ‘vicious, predatory grin’ when he sat forward, eyes bright with anticipated mayhem. “So, we’re gonna go ‘full ahead, and damn the torpedoes’?”
“Oh for God’s... You’re unbelievable.” Rae gazed at George with narrow eyes. “Do you have any restraint at all?”
“When it comes to blowing those things away with heavy weaponry? Nope. Not a bit,” Foster admitted with a smile. “Doin’ that’s better than a case full a’ Coors Light and a big-tittied brunette at Sunday barbeque.”
“I’m not so sure about this.” G
wen frowned and toyed with the water bottle in her hands, obviously nervous. “We can’t really treat any other people we come across as if they’re hostile. Not all of them will be like the Purifiers, right? I mean, everyone here in Langley’s been pretty welcoming.”
The writer lit another cigarette and stared at the fidgeting blonde.
“We’re not taking any chances,” he replied evenly.
“But what if—”
“No, Gwen. No more playing nice, no more bullshit. It is way too late in the game to worry about helping everyone, or even second guessing whether our actions are moral or not. Oh, we’ll help the people here in Langley get ready to leave. That’s fine. We’re here, and they’ve sheltered us for weeks now. But if none of you have noticed, civilization went to shit months ago. Now? The only ‘laws’ are the ones enforced at the barrel of a gun. If I have anything to say about it, we’ve going to be the ones with the guns.”
Jake began pacing in back and forth in front of their group.
“We take care of ourselves, first and foremost.” He halted, folded his arms across his chest, and made eye contact with each of them. “In case I’m being too vague, allow me to quantify that with two very simple statements.”
Jake began ticking off points with his fingers.
“One: We kill as many of those things as we can. Two: We annihilate any of the living who threaten us. Whether that means putting a bullet through their skulls or ramming the Mimi through their fucking walls—”
Gwen flinched and looked away.
“—that’s what we’re going to do. If any of you don’t like it, fine. We’ll find a vehicle George can hotwire for you, you’re welcome to take a weapon, ammo for it, some MRE’s, and then have a nice life. Because if you’re all damned and determined to make me ‘The One In Charge’ yet again—against my wishes—then this... is... the... way... it’s... going... to... be. Period. Are we all very clear on that fact?”