“Mary! You doing okay?!” he turned to yell after shooting a biter closest to him in the chest and dropping it.
“I’m fine!” she dropped her paddle to work at the rope still tied around her.
She clawed frantically at the knot, but the rope had become wet, which had made the knot even more difficult to get undone. She then tried to wriggle her way out of the cinch. But again, she met with little success as the rope had pulled tight, noose-like around her soft midsection, making it too small to push past her hips.
Meanwhile, the other Blenders had returned from the canoe drop.
“See if you can get the fishing boat!” Michael called to them as he holstered his handgun, exchanging it for one of the few remaining rifles. “We’ll hold the biters!” he shot another biter, blowing half its face off in the process. “Josh! Go help them!” he called, not wanting to give up the firepower, but knowing the group would need the extra muscle.
But even with Wendell, Josh, and Andrew in the water, hefting from behind, and the others pulling the fishing boat from the front, it was no use. They’d get it halfway up before the angle of the raised levee and the slippery rocks from which the levee was formed caused the fishing boat’s metal hull to slip back into the water.
“Michael! We need help over here!” Josh cried. “Ms. Mary, can you help pull!” he called to the aged woman still tugging at the rope that bound her to her kayak. He knew it wouldn’t be much extra help, but every little bit counted. They were so close to getting the fishing boat up the bank. They just needed that little something extra.
“This damn rope!” Ms. Mary gestured in frustration to her bindings.
“Hold on!” Josh pulled out a pocketknife. In seconds, he had the knife open and the rope cut from around Ms. Mary’s waist.
“Thank god!” Ms. Mary heaved a huge sigh as her constricted abdomen was released. She felt like she’d just unbuttoned her tightest pants after a humongous Thanksgiving feast.
“Come on,” Josh grabbed her by the hand and led her to one side of the fishing boat. “On the count of three!” he instructed the others as they took up positions around the boat.
“One…two…three!”
Everyone pushed or pulled with everything they had, slipping and straining, red-faced and teeth gritted.
But their efforts were still to no avail.
“Hold on!” Josh called to the group over the increased firing of those securing their perimeter. “Let me get more help!”
He ran the 20 or so yards over to where Michael had just taken down two more biters. Patrick let loose with a round from his shotgun. The shot laid out two approaching biters and sent another one screeching away in pain. It hobbled back down the road, its right leg riddled with buckshot.
“Michael!” he yelled. “We still can’t get the fishing boat out! We need more muscle!”
Michael turned to look at Josh. Josh could tell the man’s mental wheels were spinning. Michael’s eyes darted back and forth as he searched for an answer as to how to handle the debacle they were facing. If he weakened their defensive perimeter by giving Josh extra people to help with the boat, he risked their position being overrun by biters. Then they’d all be screwed. But if he didn’t give Josh the help he needed, they wouldn’t be able to relocate the fishing boat. Then they wouldn’t be able to get back to the safety of the river, thus, likely facing a death by biter anyway. It was an impossible decision, but one he had to make, and had to make quickly.
“Patrick! Reload!” he called to his son as he himself reloaded his rifle. Then he pulled his .45 handgun and took up the point position in their defensive perimeter. “Charla, Julia, reload!” he said as he took down another biter. “Patrick and I have to help with the boat. Can you handle it here for a minute?”
“Yeah!” came Charla’s confident response.
Michael held his position until Charla and Julia had reloaded their handguns, then he gave Patrick’s shotgun to Charla and his rifle to Julia.
“They’re both loaded,” he explained. “Use these first, your handguns as backup pieces. Fall back if you start getting overwhelmed. Don’t be heroes.”
He could see still more biters coming down the road, and he knew the Blenders didn’t have long.
“Come on,” he grabbed Patrick and pulled him along to where the others were standing around the fishing boat. “Grab that line!” he instructed Patrick, pointing to the rope that had just been cut from Ms. Mary but that was still attached to the front of the fishing boat.
“Okay, everybody!” Michael called. “Positions!”
He took hold of the line alongside his son and waited as everyone took up their spots around the fishing boat.
“On the count of three! One…two…three!”
The group all heaved in tandem, and gradually, the fishing boat slid up and out of the water, along the sloping side of the levee, and onto the access road.
The group breathed a collective sigh of relief, but it was short lived. Michael quickly realized that while the most difficult lifting portion of their work might be over, they now had to carry, slide or drag the fishing boat the several hundred yards to the other side of the locks.
“Come on!” he urged as the others regrouped, caught their breaths, and flexed sore hands and arms. “No time to waste! Let’s get this thing around the locks and back in the water!”
Michael knew that if the biters kept coming at them piecemeal, Charla and Julia stood a good chance of holding them off while the boat was moved. But if the biters got organized, like the ones who had attacked the tower, the two women would be overwhelmed even with the additional firepower he’d provided them. It only took a group of a dozen biters attacking in unison, a fouled weapon, a little overzealous firing, both women having to reload their weapons at the same time, biters attacking from multiple directions at once, or some combination of the aforementioned issues for everything to fall apart.
Michael did a quick scan of the access road and the area around it. His rapid mental calculation put the number of biters within a 100-yard radius at around a dozen, maybe a few more. At least 15 dead or dying biters lay sprinkled around the access road. Several more had retreated after being wounded or had crawled off into the overgrowth at the edge of the access road.
Michael knew there was no time to lose. He had no idea how many more biters were out there or if this was just the advanced guard of a far larger herd.
“Let’s go!” Michael ordered the others as he placed the generator and other heavy supplies he’d unloaded earlier back inside the boat.
“Are we trying to carry this thing or what?” Patrick threw his hands up, not knowing what his father wanted.
“I think it’s too heavy,” Michael said. “I think we just have to sort of drag it along the ground.”
“Won’t that hurt the bottom?” Christine asked.
“Won’t help it. But we don’t have much choice,” Michael answered. “Now come on. Once we get this thing moving, we need to try to keep it moving. We’ll have momentum on our side.”
Everyone but the perimeter guard, and Ms. Mary, who had gone back to deal with her kayak, had formed up around the fishing boat.
“Everyone ready?!” Michael called. “One…two…three!”
The group got the fishing boat sliding along the access road pavement and eventually onto the grass, which allowed it to slide even easier.
Meanwhile, the covering fire from Charla and Julia continued. They fired a round every few seconds as a biter got within what the women felt was an acceptable range to offer a high-percentage shot.
The fishing boat team made decent progress and had reached the Corp of Engineer building parking lot in just over a minute. But there, the slippery grass ended, and with it, the ease with which they’d been sliding the heavy boat.
Back at the access road, Charla and Julia were facing a sudden influx of approaching biters. While they’d dispatched at least six, more than double that number had replaced them. And a
group of around ten more had appeared on the grassy area through which the fishing boat had just been dragged.
With their role now to act as rear-guard more than perimeter defense, Charla realized that they themselves now faced being cut off from the fishing boat by the appearance of this new group of biters. They needed to move quickly and before they ran out of ammunition.
“Let’s go!” Charla called to Julia, who had just taken down a biter with two rounds from the rifle that Michael had given her. Charla let loose with a blast of her own from Patrick’s shotgun, taking down another biter.
The two backed away from the access road and made their way onto the grassy area, taking the path along which the fishing boat had just been dragged. Their departure seemed to energize the biters approaching on the access road. The sudden decrease in gunfire seemed to quicken the beasts’ pace.
But Charla and Julia’s retreat only led them closer to the new group of biters approaching from the other direction. And they now found themselves cut off from the fishing boat that was already over 100 yards ahead of them. There were eight biters in this group spread out across the grass in front of them. Charla quickly assessed their situation and calculated the odds based on their available weaponry, skill with shooting, and proximity of biters.
“You take those three over there,” Charla gestured toward the biters to Julia’s right. “I’ll deal with these,” she nodded toward the five biters in front of them, ranging in distance from 10 yards away to 40 or more. The two closest to her of the five were coming at her side by side. Therefore, she leveled Patrick’s shotgun, waited two seconds for the biters to close the gap by a few more yards, and then squeezed the trigger.
The spray of hot lead ripped into the biters’ midsections, dropping one and sending the other one screeching away, limping and bleeding as it went. Charla didn’t bother to finish it off. Doing so would be a waste of ammunition. She advanced toward the next closest biter at a steady pace, ensuring that Julia remained close.
Julia had already taken down one of the three biters she had been assigned, and she looked ready to deal with the second. When the biter was about ten feet from her, she squeezed the trigger of her rifle, but nothing happened. She squeezed it again, and then again, in rapid succession, but with no result.
“Damn!” she hissed to herself. She swung the rifle around behind her on the shoulder strap on which it hung and pulled her handgun from where it was jammed into her waistband. But as she yanked the weapon out, it snagged on the top of her pants, pulling out of her hand and falling to the ground. She quickly knelt and grabbed it, but she picked it up upside down, and therefore had to right it. As she found the trigger and prepared to fire, the approaching biter was just feet from her, its arms outstretched, grasping at her. It grabbed the arm Julia was holding the gun in, keeping her from raising it to fire. She used her free arm to try to push the biter, a female, away, but it was grabbing, scratching, and snapping at her ferociously, and the two remained locked together. Julia held the handgun tightly and twisted her arm around and away from the biter’s hold, hoping to break its grip. After several more such attempts, she managed to free her arm. But the biter was still there, still grappling with her, scrabbling at her coat.
Julia took several steps back, hoping to give herself room to get off a shot, but the biter pursued her just as quickly as she backed away. It clung to her coat, trying to bite her, its head lurching forward, teeth snapping at her neck, her face, her shoulder, her coat-covered arm that she held out against the biter to keep it at bay.
Finally, after retreating a good ten feet, biter in tow, Julia found enough of a gap between them to get off two shots that hit the biter in the chest. It was Julia’s fourth shot out of seven that she knew she had in the magazine.
But now, several more biters had joined the attack on her and Charla. The fishing boat ahead of them was almost out of sight. Julia prayed that someone would come back to help them. But it appeared they were all too busy trying to get the fishing boat to the water.
It was then that she heard gunfire behind where she and Charla were fighting for their lives. She turned to see Ms. Mary behind them. They had forgotten all about the poor old gal in their own fight for freedom. Ms. Mary was standing beside her kayak, about 50 yards behind Charla and Julia, gun out, firing at the biters that had surrounded her at the edge of the access road.
But there was no way Charla and Julia could help Ms. Mary. They could barely help themselves. While Charla had dispatched almost all of her assigned biters, six more had arrived to join the fight. And Charla was now out of shells for the shotgun and was relying on her own seven-round handgun for which she’d already burned three rounds on the freshly arrived biters.
Julia glanced around her, searching for some way out. The locks, full of water, were behind them. They could make a jump for it, but then they’d be trapped in the frigid waters of the slick-sided steel and concrete box. It was at least eight feet from the top of the locks down to the water. Once inside, she saw no way for them to climb back up and out. They’d just freeze to death. But what other option was there? It was freeze in the lock water, be eaten by biters, or be bitten and become one.
None of the options were good, but she had to choose one, and she had to do it fast.
CHAPTER 14
It was an overcast day, but the warmer temperature made it enjoyable to be outside. Marta was on the riverbank preparing to make the first cast with her new fishing net when she heard the sound of engines on the road above her. Louise was just down the bank from her, playing beneath the roadhouse deck at the river’s edge.
“Louise!” Marta hissed. “Vehicles!”
That was one of the good things about the roadhouse location. With no one else around but Louise, and little noise other than the peaceful sounds of nature, it was easy to detect vehicles approaching before they arrived.
Louise knew exactly what to do. She and Marta had gone over this routine time and again until it was almost instinctual for the little girl. And that was exactly the way Marta wanted it. She needed to feel secure in the knowledge that in such a situation, Louise knew exactly what to do almost without thinking.
Louise, her long locks having been pulled back and bound into an efficiently tight braid earlier that morning by Marta, dropped the stick toys with which she’d been playing. She hopped up, almost animal-like from where she rested on her knees, and scrambled up the barren, deck-covered bank behind her. At a spot at the top of the bank, still beneath the deck, there was a crawlspace. Where the edge of the deck met with the roadhouse foundation, there was a tiny latched door, just a few feet wide, in the side of the block foundation.
The door itself was almost indiscernible due to a thick layer of dust and dirt accumulation that covered it. Marta only knew about the spot because Louise had stumbled on it one day while scavenging the area for new playthings. It led to a crawlspace below the roadhouse from which water, sewer, and electrical lines, as well as other maintenance components for the restaurant and bar could be serviced. The space was also accessible from a trap door inside, set behind the bar. This trap door was covered with a black rubber mat placed there when the bar was in operation. The mat protected the floor from spills or dropped glassware, cushioned bartenders’ feet, and provided a non-slip surface on a floor that could become slippery when wet. It also provided the perfect way to conceal the trap door leading down a short ladder to the crawlspace below.
The door below the deck was where Marta had trained Louise to go should biters or scavengers arrive when they were outside. The trap door behind the bar was her access point were they inside during a similar situation. They had practiced escaping quickly and quietly into both hiding spots dozens of times, often with Marta only calling out, “Louise! Time to hide!” with no further explanation.
It had only been practice – until now.
Marta hauled in her fishing net, stashed it behind a large log nearby, and charged up the riverbank, darting inside
the roadhouse’s front door. Marta left the door open along the way. She figured an open door made it look like no one was utilizing the place. She hustled through the bar area and inside the kitchen, scanning the space where they lived, ensuring there were no obvious signs of habitation. Each morning after breakfast, as part of their routine, they ensured that their bedrolls were cleaned up and safely hidden, and they put the fire in the barrel stove out. And Marta kept their food stocks stashed at all times just in case a situation like this arose. It only added to the long list of duties Marta and Louise faced each day, but in Marta’s mind, it was worth it.
As soon as she was confident there were no signs of human habitation remaining, she hurried back out to the main seating section of the roadhouse. There she stood at the window, gun in hand, waiting.
She was scared. But her fear didn’t come so much from the thought of dying. It came from the fear of what would become of Louise should something happen to her. How would the little one care for herself in this new and terrible world?
It was a question that Marta had pondered many times as she lay awake at night. Not many things kept her awake anymore. In a strange way, this new world, and all the many problems that came with it, was less stressful than the old world. It was something that Marta found interesting in a macabre sort of way.
The Last Bastion Box Set [Books 1-5] Page 73