It was time to move.
* * *
Daylight was fading fast, and there would be no moon tonight.
“All right folks, you know the drill!” a man built like a linebacker called from the head of the line. “It goes like this every time. Everyone draws one straw and one straw only. No re-draws. It shouldn’t be a surprise, and I definitely don’t want to hear any bitching. Just man up, draw your goddamn straw, and drink a big glass of shut the hell up no matter what you get.”
“If I draw the short straw again, I fucking swear I’m outta here,” a shaggy-haired, forty-year-old named Dave grumbled to the man standing behind him in the line of at least 70 other men.
“I hear that,” the man nodded in agreement.
Dave didn’t know the man well. He was a relative newcomer, but Dave wasn’t particularly close to anyone in the group.
“Drew it a couple weeks ago, and biters ‘bout chewed my ass,” Dave went on. He glanced back at the man behind him. Dave pegged the guy to be somewhere in his mid to late twenties. “You ever done this before?”
“Nope,” the guy shook his head. He was wearing a zippered leather jacket, jeans, black boots, and a black ball cap from beneath which sprouted strands of curly blond hair. A lump beneath the guy’s jacket indicated a shoulder holster.
Dave had to admit that the guy certainly fit in with the look of their group. But he was showing his inexperience with the shoulder holster. There was nothing wrong with a shoulder holster. The problem was that the dude’s zippered coat made it very inaccessible. That meant should an issue arise – either with biters or someone else within the group – this guy was going to be in for a world of hurt.
Dave wore a holster too, but it rode on his hip where it was within easy reach and ready to go at a moment’s notice.
Dave snorted. “Last one I went on, the damn ATV ran outta gas about halfway there. Asshole in charge of makin’ sure it was gassed up and ready to go was busy doin’ some broad instead of doing his job. We barely made it. Biters were right on our ass. I had to run almost two miles. When I got back and found the dude responsible for fuelin’ the damn thing, I beat his ass.”
It was all bullshit, well not the running out of gas or being chased by biters part, but the part about Dave beating the guy’s ass certainly was. If anything, it was the other dude who would have beaten Dave’s ass given the chance. But no such chance had been given. Dave knew better. The guy in charge of refueling the ATV was a good ten years younger, three inches taller, and 30 pounds heavier than Dave. And while Dave was tough, he wasn’t stupid.
“All I can tell ya, is that if you draw one of the short straws, make damn sure you check the ATV’s fuel gauge before you roll,” Dave told the guy with the blond hair in line behind him.
“Thanks,” the guy nodded. “I will. Name’s Harold…Harold Washington. People call me ‘Locks’.”
Dave frowned. “Dave Flock,” Dave extended a hand toward the man for him to shake. “Why Locks?”
“Harold Washington…people used to call me Hair Wash.” He removed his ball cap revealing a full head of blond curls. “And with hair like this, I just ended up with Locks as a nickname.”
“Humph,” Dave nodded. “Glad to know you. I think I’d stick with Harold if I were you. You go flashin’ those girly lookin’ locks around here and you’re gonna be the one getting your ass beat,” he nodded at the rough looking cast of characters in line around them.
Harold quickly re-donned his hat.
Two minutes later, both men had taken their turn. Both men had drawn short straws. Both men were pissed off.
“Un…fucking…believable,” Dave shook his head in dismay, throwing his straw on the ground disgustedly. “I don’t think I could have worse luck if I paid for it. Now I have to drive all night in the fucking freezing cold, playing goddamn Pied Piper to a herd of fucking biters.”
“Aw, stop your whining,” the big linebacker dude known as Groush at the head of the line, growled.
Groush had been the leader of their band of miscreants for the past few months, ever since he’d deposed their former leader, Trawler, by deadly force. It had been a mutiny of epic proportions. At least 50 of their band of over 200 scumbag mercenaries had been slaughtered in the takeover.
Groush gestured to a nearby pen of biters. A 10-foot-high chain-linked fence surrounded the nearly basketball-court-size pen. “You don’t like your draw; you can always spend the night in there.”
The chatter and clatter of biters’ teeth was overwhelming. It was obvious the beasts were starving. They gnashed their teeth. They pulled, they kicked, they bit, and they tore at the metal fencing that contained them.
Dave wanted to say something, to make a smartass comment to save face in front of this new guy, but he held his tongue. He knew better. Groush wasn’t someone to be fucked with. When he said that you could spend the night in the pen, he meant it. He wouldn’t think twice about acting on his threats, and he had the muscle and the balls to back up his words.
“That’s what I thought,” Groush nodded at Dave’s silence. Harold lingered somewhat timidly nearby. “Why don’t you stop your bitching and go get that quad over there warmed up?” he nodded to a nearby ATV.
“What if the biters don’t follow us…like that one time?” Dave asked Groush.
“They were too well fed that time,” Groush shook his head, casually dismissing Dave’s concerns. “We learned from that. These biters here, they ain’t been fed in days. They’re on the verge of starving. Don’t you worry. They’ll follow you all right. You just make sure you stay close enough to tempt them but not so close that they get a hold of you like they did Toby and Bill that time.”
Harold hadn’t been around for that, but Dave remembered well the incident Roush was referencing. Two of their former members had been leading a herd of biters. They’d been drinking heavily before they’d departed to get their courage up. During the trip, they’d started arguing and lost track of a few biters who had broken from the herd. By the time they realized the biters had gotten too close, it was too late. The biters got hold of them, pulled them from their ATV, and the whole herd was on them before they could radio for help.
The men were devoured completely. When they were found, bones, some hair, and some shredded clothing were all that was left of them. And the herd, which had taken several weeks and the lives of eight men to accumulate, had spread itself across the landscape like dandelion fluff in the breeze.
It was a terrible incident; but it was the incident for which Roush had been waiting. He used the death of the two men, and the escape of the herd as an excuse to question the group’s leadership. And the ensuing effort to re-capture the majority of the biters only stiffened the discourse sweeping through the ranks and bolstered by Roush’s constant efforts.
“We got enough gas?” Dave asked Roush.
“Should. Last I saw, tank was half full. Should be plenty to get you there.”
“Rather have it full,” Dave grumbled.
“Yeah, well I’d rather have two broads suckin’ my Johnson right now, but that ain’t happenin’ either,” Roush sneered. “Now get moving. You got a lot of ground to cover, but you know the route. Once you get on the main road, all you gotta do is stay straight. No moon tonight, but you shouldn’t need it.”
And with that, he turned and left the two men.
Their group’s other members had already climbed into their vehicles and retreated a safe distance away after having been saved by not drawing the two short sticks.
Dave and Harold stood looking forlornly after Roush who walked over to the gate in the chain-linked pen’s fencing.
“Better get your asses moving,” he pulled a key from his pocket for a padlock securing the gate.
At the sight of Groush unlocking the gate, Dave and Harold hurried over to the waiting ATV, 30 yards away, and quickly hopped on. They got it fired up just in time.
Groush swung the unlatched gate open, and then jogged
to an idling truck nearby, hopping inside and driving off in a cloud of dust.
“Hold on tight!” Dave called to Harold, who had climbed on the ATV behind him. He gave the quad some gas. It lurched forward and then stalled. “Damn!” Dave snarled.
“What’s wrong with it?” Harold asked as he glanced behind him.
Biters were pouring out of the pen, headed directly for the two men on the ATV.
“Not sure,” Dave tried re-firing the quad. The motor caught, sputtered, and died again.
“Hurry up, man!” Harold scooted toward the rear of the ATV in preparation for a quick dismount should they not be able to get the vehicle running.
The biters had locked onto their targets, and they were rapidly closing the gap between them and where the two men sat on the ATV.
Dave checked the fuel gauge. It was indeed half full, just as Groush had said. He tried the starter again. This time it caught and the quad stayed running. He hit the gas. The quad lurched forward and maintained its momentum this time. What neither man expected, however, was that as the ATV moved forward, Harold moved backward, tipping off the ATV from his precarious perch behind Dave. He had released his grip on Dave in preparation for running from the biters. And in the process of having scooted back on the ATV, he had left himself no room for error as the vehicle suddenly, haltingly jerked forward.
Dave slowed the ATV, but he didn’t stop it, fearing that it would die again.
“Move your ass!” he called over his shoulder.
Young Harold was scrambling to pick himself up from where he’d landed flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him. He couldn’t breathe. He was terrified by the approach of the biters – the nearest of which was now less than ten yards away. And he was even more frightened that Dave might panic and speed away, leaving him stranded with a 200-biter herd on his trail. He could hear the noise of chattering teeth closing, and he knew his time was short. At this point, he didn’t even care that he couldn’t breathe. In a few seconds, he wouldn’t be breathing anyway if he didn’t get his ass in gear.
With the nearest biter just ten feet away, Harold made it to his feet, finally catching his breath in the process. He ran as fast as his out-of-breath body would carry him to the ATV that was now almost 50 yards from him and quickly disappearing from sight in the evening’s fading light.
Finally catching up to Dave, he jumped on the back of the quad.
“You all right?” Dave asked.
“Yeah…fine. Thanks for fucking waiting,” he spat.
“Sorry. Ain’t gonna get my ass chewed by biters,” Dave shook his head. “Next time, hold on.”
“Yeah…right,” Harold frowned.
“All right, you’re on watch,” Dave handed Harold a flashlight that Groush had given them. “Every couple minutes, you check our distance from the biters and tell me what it is.” He slowed the ATV to a steadier pace, not wanting to stop it completely. “Turn around so that your back is to me,” he instructed Harold. “It’ll make checking on the biters easier.”
Harold did as he was instructed, awkwardly swiveling himself around on the quad.
“Biters start to get close, you tap my side one time and I’ll increase our speed a little bit. We’re getting too far ahead of them, you tap me twice and I’ll slow down. They get too close, and you fuckin’ say something. Got it?”
“Got it,” Harold replied solemnly.
“And I’d keep that gun of yours out and handy…just in case.”
* * *
“Is today Valentine’s Day,” Ms. Mary asked Michael as she set several cans of baked beans to the side and scribbled a number on her inventory count sheet.
They were working together on the fourth floor, two lanterns guiding them in their efforts. They were surrounded by an assortment of boxed food and canned goods, although the size of the piles had greatly diminished since their arrival.
“Heck if I know,” Michael shook his head. “I know that today is sometime in mid-February…other than that, well, I couldn’t give you a specific day or date. Living inside this gloomy tower for so long, all the days tend to blend together. Heck, my circadian rhythms are so out of whack, half the time, I don’t know if it’s day or night in here.”
“True,” Ms. Mary agreed.
“Would it matter much if it was Valentine’s Day?” Michael asked.
“No…I suppose it wouldn’t,” Ms. Mary sighed. “I was just keeping a sort of journal, a little account of our situation here. But I missed a few days, and now I’m having trouble figuring out if it’s the thirteenth, the fourteenth or the fifteenth.”
“Sorry I can’t be of more help on the matter. Sad thing is, it doesn’t even make a difference. All that matters now is food, water, fuel, guns, ammo, secure shelter, and warmth.”
“Most of the items on that list are in far shorter supply than when we arrived here,” Ms. Mary nodded at the remaining goods the Blenders had brought to the tower with them.
“I know. We’re getting low on stuff. Not good,” Michael sighed. “That’s why I tend to wait until late at night, after all the youngsters are asleep, to conduct our inventory counts. I don’t want to worry the rest of the group regarding our situation. I’m not sure how much longer we’re going to be able to hold out here. The fish that Charla and Chris occasionally catch help, but they’re just not enough to make much of a difference. We’re safe here, and we have plenty of fuel because we can keep siphoning from the vehicles. But we can’t eat fuel. And the river provides us with plenty of water, which is great, but it doesn’t fill hungry bellies either.”
“How long you think we have left before we start running out of stuff?” Ms. Mary eyed him with concern.
“A month…maybe a little bit more. I’m not really sure. It just depends on how much we can cut back and do without. We’ve already reduced our meal portions, but we might have to start really working to conserve. I’m talking like cutting out an entire meal…breakfast or lunch or something, or maybe combining the two into a brunch. That might give us an extra couple weeks.
“So five or six weeks? Maybe a little more? And then what?” Ms. Mary frowned.
“Don’t know,” Michael shrugged sadly. “Still don’t know. I keep waiting for something to show us the way, but nothing happens. It’s like we’re stuck in purgatory here. Every day is the same, and we just keep plodding along trying to survive.”
“Better than the alternative, I suppose,” Ms. Mary said.
“I suppose,” Michael conceded. “But is this what life is going to be from here on out? Just a struggle to survive? Just putting one foot in front of the other in an effort to see tomorrow?”
Ms. Mary was quiet for a moment and then she said, “Well, that’s all it really was before. It was just slightly easier then. Unfortunately, we’re only realizing now how good we all had it back then.”
“We sure did,” Michael agreed.
Suddenly his radio beeped. “Come in, Michael,” came a voice.
It was Manny. He was paired with his wife Margaret, downstairs on the first floor for the evening watch.
“Go ahead, Manny,” Michael said into his radio.
“Yeah, we got biters outside…a lot of them.”
“How many is a lot?” Michael radioed back.
“Hard to tell from down here. Might want to have someone upstairs check it out.”
“Copy that,” Michael huffed, rolling his eyes. “Thanks.”
“Wonder why the biters are suddenly back?” Ms. Mary said with a wrinkled brow. “Especially at night. Seems rather unusual.”
“Eh. What’s new?” Michael shrugged. “Who really cares in all honesty? They’re probably as bored as we are and just wanted to get outside for an evening stroll,” he chuckled, half to himself. “Can’t say I’d mind one myself after being cooped up in here for so long. Change of atmosphere would be nice.”
Michael checked his watch. It was just after nine o’clock.
He changed frequencies on his radio
and mashed the talk button on its side. “Come in, Josh.”
“This is Josh. Go ahead,” came the tired response.
“Can you run upstairs and take a look outside? Manny just reported some biters in the vicinity.”
“Sure. Can it wait a minute, though? I’m waiting on all the boys to finish up using the bathroom and getting ready for bed.”
“No problem,” Michael responded. “It’s probably just a meandering herd. I’m sure they’ll continue on their way without even taking notice of us in here, just like all the rest.”
“Copy that,” Josh answered. “I’ll give you a call back in a couple minutes and let you know the situation.”
Michael looked at Ms. Mary. “I wonder if we should change our protocol regarding the biters. Seems like we’re constantly running up and down stairs to see what’s going on outside. And nothing ever comes of it.”
“I think checking on them is a good idea,” Ms. Mary said. “Keeps us from getting too complacent. Remember, it only takes one breach in our security. One biter gets inside, and it could mean the life of one of the people closest to you. I know it has been a while since we lost the Hines and Mendoza families, but you remember how difficult that was.”
Michael nodded. “I guess you’re right. Not like we have much else to do anyway.”
“And people like routine. They like to know what to do in a particular situation. You start changing stuff around now, and it can throw them out of whack. Suddenly they aren’t taking the biters seriously and they start getting lackadaisical. And that’s when mistakes happen. And mistakes these days can result in lost lives.”
Michael nodded, smiling at this motherly figure. “How’d you get so smart?” he grinned at her.
“Not smart,” Ms. Mary shook her head. “It’s just that Midwestern realism.”
* * *
“This cold is freakin’ killing me! It’s gotta be what, twenty, twenty-five degrees at best?” Dave huffed as he guided the ATV down the darkened road, using the double-yellow lines as his guide. Every so often, a patch of leaves or other forest debris would obscure the lines, and Dave would have to wait for the debris to pass or his compatriot to flick his flashlight on during one of his frequent “biter checks” to realign their course.
The Last Bastion (Book 3): The Last Bastion Page 12