“So what is?” Alex demanded. “X minus 10 equals whatever — who gives a crap?”
Miles smiled this time. “It’s not about the Wild, Alex. Pretty soon all of this will be over. Pretty soon, we might not even need fences.”
Alex frowned as he considered it.
Miles continued after giving him a moment to mull it over. “Don’t get me wrong, some of the folks in town won’t take too kindly to not having fences. If I had to guess, there will always be something. Even if it’s to help make people feel at ease. But . . .” he trailed off. “You guys ever learn about the Dark Ages?”
Alex shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t like history.”
“Here’s the thing – civilization took a pretty big hit on Z-Day. At some point, we’ll be able to move forward in some form or fashion. But what Larry, and Miss McKee, and guys like me have to remember is that we have to keep you younger kids – no, younger people – in the loop. If we have a chance to survive long-term it’s going to fall on your shoulders. So we have to make sure that you have an understanding of how things work, of how to survive for a time when we’re not around. That way, when you have kids, there will be more to their lives than scratching in the dirt for subsistence. Art, science, industrial farming methods – and yeah, algebra, those are tools for tomorrow. You may not see the need for them now, but trust me, they’ll come in handy someday.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “If you say so; I don’t even remember half the stuff the other kids talk about.”
The marshal looked at him for a long moment, and then finally said. “Tell you what; I’ll make you a deal. You quit cutting class and popping zoms on the sly, and I’ll talk to Pete about letting you up in the Crow’s nest. You can get a little bit better idea about what we have around here.” He nodded toward the unmoving creep on the other side of the fence. “Lecture over, but I have one question – why do you think we don’t have folks out doing what you were doing right here?”
Alex opened his mouth, and then closed it. For a long moment, he didn’t know what to say. Why didn’t they have people out on the flanks taking care of roamers? It would make things easier on the scavenging parties. They already had machine guns up in several locations to protect against hordes. What made this different? Finally, he said, “I don’t know.” The admission was only a little embarrassing.
“You’re too young to remember, but after the end, when the Air Force took out the bridges, we thought we were golden. Yeah, it stunk, because it cut us off from a lot of potential salvage, but that was something we could work around. So for a while, we didn’t have a care in the world. Our noise carried, and yeah, those bridges were out, but it didn’t take long for zoms to start stacking up. After a while, they walked right across piles of their own fallen to get to us. The walls weren’t as tough as they are now, and we lost a lot of good people.” Alex opened his mouth to say something, but Miles cut him off. “Don’t apologize, it’s all right. We have scouting parties that conduct frequent checks of the creeks, but they use hand weapons to keep things quiet. Your rifle isn’t that big of a deal, but gunfire still attracts them — even if it takes a while. That’s why we made this little detour on our way to . . . well, something else. It was on the way, and we knew somebody had been up to something.” Miles stepped closer to Alex and knelt so that their eyes were on the same level. “So, what do you think? We have a deal? Can you try it my way?”
Alex thought about it. Trade some algebra for getting a chance to climb up into the Crow’s Nest and meet the Pete Matthews? Oh, yeah. So worth it. He stuck out a hand. “Deal.”
The grain bins towered over the rest of the settlement. Three of them were of a like size, just under six stories in height. The trio clustered around the final bin, which was both larger in diameter and almost twice as tall. Auger pipes and catwalks ran from the large bin to the smaller in spider-web fashion. This allowed an inspection to begin at any of the bins and move over to any of the others. The original agricultural contents were long exhausted, but the empty space was still useful.
They’d converted one of the smaller bins into secure backup housing. The interiors weren’t much; several stories of stark space constructed out of lumber with I-beam cross members. This was enough room to hold the entire population of the settlement inside on a short-term basis. There would be nothing in the way of privacy, sleeping room, or restroom space, but it was zombie proof.
The only exposed entrance was accessible at the top of the tower, just off of one of the catwalks. Recognizing that they might face other, more intelligent enemies, the survivors had taken further precautions. They’d welded covers to the bottom of the safety cages halfway up the ladders on the side of each bin. The theory was that the last person up the ladder could pull up the cover behind them and secure it from within. It was possible to climb up the safety cage. The survivor who’d designed the covers had deemed that would take ‘more bloody balls than brains.’ Even so, it would be slow going, and simplify defense from above.
The remaining bins served for general storage and warehousing. Crews sorted scavenged goods from the outside world and stored them in a semi-organized fashion. The settlement had some access to electricity via scavenged solar panels and wind turbines. It wasn’t enough for a true grid, but it was enough to provide power for a small hospital and freezers. Insulation around the freezers reduced the power load and created a large cold room. This space provided long-term storage for perishables. In the fall, the cold room burst at the seams with fruits, vegetables, and meat. By early spring, much of that excess was a distant memory.
That lack of food was the reason for re-purposing structures rather than building more efficient ones. The ground space on the interior of the fences was more valuable as gardens and farm fields. If anything they should have been tearing buildings down, but so far they’d found a use for them. They’d built cabins in some areas poorly suited for growing. Those in charge of farming had raised a fuss about even those small encroachments.
It would have been a colossal pain to haul everything up to the top of the warehouse with mere muscle power. As such, the survivors had cut large openings into the base of each of the warehouse silos. Only one of these openings was convenient to the outdoors. The other openings oriented toward the other silos. They’d poured intervening walkways of concrete, then walled and roofed them with heavy timbers and layers of sheet metal. The heavy construction of these covered hallways was, if possible, more robust than that of the silos themselves.
This was only one aspect of the security-consciousness that gone into the design. Heavy, barred gates sheathed in more sheet metal capped each opening. In the event of a breach of a hallway, doors at either end could secure the breach. For now, though, they were convenient pathways to move supplies between storage rooms. While the silo improvements were impressive, the survivors’ final construction project was far more ambitious. The survivor’s referred to it in hushed tones as ‘the Crow’s nest.’
For Pete Matthews – the Crow – it was home.
The Crow’s nest was a circular platform centered over the rounded top of the tallest bin. It had a peaked roof sheathed in rippled aluminum, though the sides were completely exposed to the elements. Welded steel pipe formed a short railing all the way around, with larger pipes ascending at the cardinal points and center to support the roof.
The floor of the platform was open and planked in wood. An access hatch offset from the center support led to a ladder that traversed the curve of the grain bin’s dome and intercepted the catwalk.
An old Army cot, metal folding chairs, workbench, and a propane heater were arranged around the rest of the center support.
At the moment, three figures stood under the roof while one sat in a wheelchair. Each looked outward, in different directions.
This high up, the wind was brisk, but not so brisk that the quiet murmur of one of the observers was inaudible. “Contact northwest.”
The seated observer turned his c
hair and raised his binoculars. “You are correct, young lady,” Pete Matthews said after a moment. He lowered the binoculars and examined each of the standing observers in turn. None of them were far into their teens, and they were there for a reason just as important as observation.
Up in the Crow’s nest, class was in session.
“Range,” Pete muttered as he rolled next to the observer who’d spotted the movement. He set the brakes on his wheelchair.
The speaker was a petite, slender girl with a freckled face and brilliant green eyes. In the end, those eyes were all that mattered – to get up here, the Crow only took the best. The girl looked out again, studied the terrain, and then commented.
“1000 yards? It’s between the bent tree and the rusty gate.”
Pete examined the girl’s sector once again and nodded once in affirmation. “Good eyes, Cara.” He paused for a moment of consideration. “Vinnie? Drop at 1000 yards. Three-three-eight.”
The boy rubbed his chin for a moment. “Two hundred sixty-two inches. But it’s a trick question, sir, you’re zeroed at a thousand on the Savage.”
Pete barked a short burst of laughter. “Right you are. Grab it for me.”
Vinnie grinned and grabbed a rifle that was almost as tall as he was from where it leaned against the rail. With slow, careful steps he brought it to the Crow. There was a reverent sense to his movements, as though he carried something priceless and irreplaceable.
That’s not all that far from the truth, Pete thought.
He shouldered the Savage 110. They’d modified a bipod to rest on the guardrail, which worked quite well with Pete’s sitting height in the chair. The rails would be knee-high to anyone of a normal height. This made the selection of sharp-eyed, shorter youngsters for the training class even more fortuitous. Anyone taller was at constant risk of tripping over and experiencing a ten-story fall.
On the bright side, heights didn’t bother Pete much.
“Bruce,” he said. “Wind?”
The third student was a bit taller than the rest, tan, athletic, and towheaded. A trio of scars ran down the side of his face and marred his otherwise handsome visage. The old wounds made Pete feel old. He could remember when they’d been cuts on the terrified child in his best friend’s arms.
“No cross wind,” Bruce said after a moment where he’d been studying flags hung every twenty feet or so on the perimeter fence. “Wind is at your back.”
“Good,” Pete agreed. He peered through the rifle’s Leupold scope, and their visitor jumped into sharp focus. Without looking, he flipped the safety off. “You know what the big irony here is, kids?”
For a moment, none of his students said a word. Finally, Cara — always the bold one — said, “What’s that, Captain?”
Pete offered them a crooked smile. “I’ve got five thousand dollars’ worth of scope, rifle, and suppressor. I’m shooting five dollar bullets at a refugee from a zombie movie, and I’d trade it all for a cold Diet Pepsi.” When there were no laughs, he muttered, “Tough crowd,” and pulled the trigger. Do they even remember dollars?
Cara’s zombie was in decent shape. Decent for values of eight years post Z-Day meant an intact shirt and pants, ragged shoes, and more than half of its flesh on the bone. Despite that, it moved with slow jerking steps that aimed it toward the settlement.
At this point, Pete didn’t care what caused them to keep walking and eating. They were just targets in need of service. In the end, one of the best things about the Crow’s nest was that it kept him out of the mess below. He’d once proclaimed to Larry that it was ironic that a people-hating grump such as himself should have to live so close to hundreds of useless examples of humanity.
Larry had laughed and laughed until Pete flipped him off.
As the trigger clicked home, everything worked to mechanical perfection. The trigger unlocked the hammer, which unleashed the tension of the firing pin. The pin struck the primer at the base of the cartridge. The impact detonated the primer and ignited the charge of gunpowder. The explosive gases created by the gunpowder expanded. The brass case that contained them channeled the force outward. This forced the mass of copper-jacketed lead to move in response to the building pressure behind it. The rifling cut into the barrel’s interior lent it a twist as it moved forward. A blink of an eye later, the bullet left the barrel, rotating in space as it shot forward. The suppressor attached to the end of the barrel caught the expanding gas in a series of baffles. As the bullet exited the suppressor, the trapped and slowed gases followed. The resulting subdued noise was still audible at close range but the report was much reduced.
It’s never as quiet as the movies, Pete mused as he watched the target through the scope. But it was better than the alternative. From this high up, anyone at ground level would hear next to nothing. He worked the action and chambered another round after the spent brass ejected. With his eye on the scope, he sensed rather than saw one of his students kneel to retrieve the brass. Later, they’d pop out the spent primer, resize and trim the case, and reload it.
Waste not, want not.
Meanwhile, the bullet shot forward at 3,000 feet per second. The pull of gravity acted upon it as it flew and changed its flight path from a straight line to a ballistic arc. Pete’s point of aim, based on a straight line, would have been far above the target. The adjustments in the scope compensated for this drop; velocity did the rest.
Just shy of two seconds after Pete had pulled the trigger, the upper half of the zombie seemed to explode. The 250-grain bullet struck it in the upper chest, and the bullet mushroomed as it slowed. Hydrostatic shock transmitted through desiccated flesh; a halo of bloodless meat blossomed in the air.
Separated from the spine, the head rolled in the air as it described a short arc that ended a few feet behind the staggering zombie. For a moment, as though unaware of what had happened, it took a step, lifted its foot to take another, and then fell to one side in a heap of lifeless meat.
Four seconds after impact, they heard the vague splat sound, and the kids around Pete cheered.
Despite himself, he smiled. I may not have my legs¸ he thought, but I’m sure as hell good for something. Eye still to the scope, he grimaced as he saw the zombie’s mouth and jaw working, despite the fact that it was no longer connected to the rest of the body. “All right, class,” he muttered. “Let’s see who can hit the leftovers. Vinnie? You want the first crack at it?”
After all, Pete mused as the teenager retrieved his own rifle and returned to the railing, they are here to learn.
Chapter 4
In life, the two zombies stumbling across the county road had probably run in different circles. The larger of the two, formerly male, wore the tattered remnants of bib overalls and a flannel shirt. His smaller partner — once female — had dressed for exercise. The yoga pants and top she wore had borne up to the ravages of time better than the big one’s bibs. Score one for synthetic fabric, perhaps.
Despite any differences they may once have had, they stood united in a new cause. Feed. Propagate.
As one, they shuffled toward the source of the noises that had caught their attention. If they recognized the shape and color of the school bus blocking the way, they gave no external indication. It was merely an obstacle in their path. The drive to feed was implacable; they would seek an opening unless another opportunity presented itself. They were nothing if not patient.
A figure stepped out into the road in front of them. As one, their heads swiveled to study the new source of movement, but the presence of one of their own kind was not enough to dissuade them from their path toward the bus, and the sounds of life behind it.
The new figure was tall, bare of chest and foot, and clad in ragged khaki pants. If not for the pallor of its skin and the flat nothingness of its eyes, it could easily be mistaken for being alive. As the other two began to move past, the new figure raised a hand, palm-out, as though performing crossing guard duties.
An inaudible command passed, and
the two fell to a stop. The new zombie eased forward and circled the pair. His flat gray eyes flickered across their bodies. The farmer was largely intact; the only wound on his body was a blackened bite mark on one forearm. His feet were clad in heavy work boots.
The exerciser was in far worse shape. A multitude of bites pockmarked the bare skin of her back. Her light running shoes had fallen to shreds, worn away by the passage of her feet over countless roads.
The new zombie came before them, decision made. Hand still up, it reached out and brought its palm close to the farmer’s face. For a moment, the other zombie stood still, as though uncertain how to react, then it snapped into a more upright posture. Its head jerked slightly back and forth, as though it were a punching bag for a set of invisible fists. This continued for a moment, and then the farmer fell still. The new zombie lowered its arm, turned away from the tableau, and walked back into the woods across the road from the bus. With no hesitation, the farmer followed, and soon vanished into the undergrowth.
Left behind, the exerciser lacked the capacity to care. Despite what had just happened, her goal remained clear, and she resumed her move toward the school bus.
Feed. Propagate.
Charlie stepped off of the porch and onto the grass as Corey and Dalton began to haul totes inside. The older man had been working with Charlie long enough to know the plan from front to back. It would take longer for Dalton to pause every so often to explain their methods to Corey, but that was all right. They had nothing if not time.
It might have been more efficient for Charlie to begin scouting the next house, but that violated one of his core rules. Unless necessary, he never went into an unknown space without backup. There was no guarantee that any other biters would be as emaciated and weak as the first one. They were, to his frustration, as different as the people they’d once been. Some wasted away to nothing, some hibernated, and others just walked from place to place until something caught their attention.
A Place Outside The Wild Page 5