Tales of Junction

by Davis IV, John L.

  When in Rome.

  It was obvious that the world had gone completely crazy. Perhaps it was time to join in the madness.

  The next day Phillip filled both tanks on his father’s truck with “farm fuel” from the raised tank next to the machine shed. He grabbed the large tool box, placing it on the passenger seat he fastened it in place with the seat belt before grabbing a few of the larger tools and stowing them behind the seat. With the truck backed up to the house, he began loading the bed with supplies. Food, camping gear, anything he thought might be of use. He briefly considered taking his old football pads but thought better of it.

  Once satisfied that he had everything out of the house, Phillip headed into town. The supplies from the house were lacking in ammunition so he figured on stopping by the hardware store. Cassady was like a ghost town. Absolutely nobody was on the square despite it being midafternoon. The door to the hardware store was locked, displaying a “CLOSED. Please come back during regular business hours” sign. Phillip returned to the truck and reached behind the seat recalling his father’s advice, “Anytime you work on this old tractor, be sure to keep your crowbar handy.” Smiling at the memory he smashed the glass with the well-used crowbar, reached through and turned the bolt. Once inside he headed for the ammo case. Six cases of twelve gauge were loaded onto a Western Flyer wagon along with some one-pound propane tanks for his camp stove and a few miscellaneous items that struck his fancy on the way back to the truck.

  For several months, Phillip moved from one small town to the next. Each place was the same as the last. Undead wandered the streets, homes and shops were boarded up, the living that survived were divided into a few easily recognizable categories. Predators, prey, and “non-player characters” like himself. Phillip saw them all.

  The prey hid in basements, barely surviving. They hid from the undead. They hid from the living who were just as bad, sometimes worse. The undead wanted only to eat you, to consume your flesh. The predators wanted everything they could take and would stop at nothing to get it. It was especially rough for the women.

  Occasionally, Phillip would cross paths with someone like himself. Guys who kept on the move, scavenging along the way, doing their best to not get involved. Encounters with other NPCs were always brief. Information was exchanged on the whereabouts of the predators and the latest changes in the zombies who seemed to be in a constant state of metamorphosis. All of them told him to avoid the cities.

  Phillip wasn’t stupid. He knew he couldn’t keep moving forever. Fuel was getting difficult to find. The only reason he had been able to keep the truck for this long was that it ran on diesel. Diesel has a much longer shelf life than gas. The predators seemed to miss this detail. While the pumps at the filling stations no longer worked, most farms had tanks of diesel on stilts making it possible for him to refuel when needed but even those were empty sometimes.

  As the months wore on, Phillip was beginning to wonder if he’d ever see normal people again. Normal people, as if there was such a thing anymore. Then one day as he headed north on a virtually abandoned highway, he could see movement up ahead. The highway was completely blocked off. A tractor and tow truck were dragging cars into position to form a crude wall that connected a little motel, gas station and other small buildings on either side of the divided highway. Phillip watched from a distance then slowly eased his truck closer to the action.

  One man, who had been standing guard with a rifle as the others moved pallets and sheet metal into position, broke away and moved towards the new arrival. Phillip got out, shotgun at the ready and waited. The man greeted him, “Sorry for blocking the road. There just isn’t any traffic these days, so we decided to take advantage of the buildings and junk in the area.”

  “What are you trying to do?”

  “We are building a town. A safe haven for the few decent people we meet. You’re welcome to stay if you are willing to work and treat people right.”

  “I was beginning to think there weren’t any regular folks left in the world.”

  “Got any skills, kid?”

  “Phil. My name is Phil.”

  “I’m Bill Robb. If you have any skills, we could find a place for you here, Phil. What did you do before the world went to hell?”

  “I was a farmer, not much call for that now.”

  “People still gotta eat. We have some space set aside for a garden and we managed to get a few wild pigs corralled in a pen over there.”

  “No kidding? Hogs are great. You can always count on hogs to make money.” Phillip laughed at his father’s words coming from his mouth.

  “Not sure I get the joke, Phil.”

  “What about my stuff? I’ve got a truck bed full of supplies, things I’ve scavenged. Don’t really feel like turning it all over to a bunch of people I don’t know.”

  “I get it, Phil. Your stuff is yours. If you feel like helping out with something, it’s appreciated, but no obligations.”

  “Alright, Bill. I’ll stay and help out for a while. If I don’t like the way things are going I drive away. No hard feelings.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me. Let’s find a place for you.”

  Phil spent his days tending the hogs, working the gardens, and helping with the wall. Water was a big issue, but several men had dug a trench from a nearby creek and diverted it into the ditch that ran along the east side of the community. The water was obviously not safe to drink so several women worked days filtering and boiling it. Phil talked to the women as he filled buckets to water the hogs and gardens. It was getting to be a real problem, but Phil had an idea. One day he jumped in his truck and went to find the solution to their water problem.

  It took several days but eventually Phil returned. In the bed of his truck were several rolls of copper tubing, four fifty-five gallon steel barrels, and what appeared to be the plumbing department from a major farm store, including a few propane torches. In a week he had completed the first still and begun to produce crystal clear water. The creek water still needed to be filtered before it went into the still, but it saved the community a tremendous amount of time and effort.

  Suddenly Phil was respected by the others. They asked for his input on everything from slaughtering hogs to what to build next. The latter question, he felt, was most important. So far everyone had been building their own little quarters. Small shacks with just enough room to sleep and store a few personal items. Phil suggested they build a large community building. A place where they could meet, share meals. Most agreed and work was begun on a new “public house” that would be available to all.

  When it was finally finished the building was large enough to seat nearly fifty people. In the back was a kitchen area with a wood burning stove. Just outside the back door was Phil’s still. Each morning the residents would show up at the still before going to their respective jobs. Handing him a couple empty bottles they would say, “Filler up, Phil.” His still became the community version of the water cooler from the bygone days of corporate America.

  Slowly, more people were trickling in to their little “junk town.” Most were starving. Many had been worked over by predators. All had terrible stories, but few shared them. The safety of the walls, the gates, the guards, helped the new comers feel human again. New arrivals were given an opportunity to clean up and regain their strength a bit before pitching in with the daily chores. Those who didn’t pull their weight were asked to leave. Those who refused to respect the other inhabitants were escorted to the gate. Some had trouble coming to grips with the fact that life inside the walls of Junk Town was not the same as life “out there.” They were dealt with.

  In time, the increased population was such that Phil had to build a second still. His entire day was spent producing and distributing water. He wanted to get a third still going so they could actually keep more on hand rather than just producing safe water on an as-needed basis, but that meant that they would need a way to store it. At Phil’s request, a few of the men went out to look f
or barrels. Eventually they returned with a half dozen blue plastic barrels previously used to hold vinegar. The barrels were plumbed together so that water from the still flowed directly into them. After a few weeks there was just over three hundred gallons on tap at any given moment.

  Phil was admiring his handy work one afternoon when Bill Robb approached him.

  “Hey, Filler-up-Phil. You sure got this water system down.”

  “Thanks Bill. It does seem to be working out.”

  “So what’s next? Indoor plumbing? Hot showers?” Bill chuckled.

  “I do like the thought of a nice hot shower. If we could get a barrel up on stilts…” Phil trailed off as the mental gears began to turn.

  “I’ll bet folks here would really go for that. What do you say we go out and see what we can find?”

  Phil turned to look at Bill. “You know, it seems like years since I was outside the walls.”

  “Well, thanks to you, we have enough water in reserve to last a few days. You and I could get out and stretch our legs a bit if you want.”

  “Let me get a couple people up to speed on running the stills while you see about getting us some fuel for my truck. Then we’ll go for a ride.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Phil. Give me a few days?”

  “Looking forward to it, Bill.”

  It took Bill three days to collect nearly ten gallons of diesel fuel for the pickup. With the walls completed the tractors were not being used much and Bill figured they could justify it for an extended scavenging run. Besides, if they brought back a few goodies to improve morale it would be worth every drop. The residents were getting tired of the smell from the hogs and from one another. The gardens were doing well, but until the vegetables were ready it was just another chore that needed doing. Tempers were getting short all over.

  Bill and Phil loaded the majority of their gear in the back of the truck, except for the guns, water and a few MREs from the storeroom which rode up front with them. There had been a little fuel left in the truck. Phil figured that they could cover about a hundred and fifty miles with the fuel they had as he reset the trip meter to all zeros. The gate was opened as a few good natured remarks were exchanged between the trucks occupants and those manning the gate.

  They stopped outside the walls and waited as the gate was closed behind them.

  “Where we headed, Bill?”

  “How about north and west? Gotta be something out that way.”

  The two were quiet for some time, enjoying the ride.

  Phil was the first to break the silence. “So how did the famous Billy Robbins end up in Junk Town?”

  Bill kept looking out his window. “We’ve got to come up with a better name than Junk Town.”

  “I don’t know, it seems fairly accurate.”

  “When did you recognize me?”

  “Took a few weeks to sink in. At first it was just sort of a deja-vu feeling. Eventually it was your voice that gave you away more than your face. I loved your standup bits. Better than your movies in my opinion.”

  “Do me a favor and keep this between us. That life is over. Hell, that whole world is over.”

  “What if we built a stage back at Junk Town? Maybe have you do a couple shows a week? Might boost everyone’s morale.” Phil started to laugh.

  “I fucking hate you, Phil.” Bill smiled, shaking his head.

  “Gonna make for a long trip. Know any good jokes?” Phil laughed harder.

  “Seriously, fuck off.”

  Five days later, Phil’s red truck sputtered to a stop outside the gate. The truck looked rough. Its windshield spider webbed severely, the large steel bumper battered, the grill smashed in and covered in what looked to be blood and bits of flesh. The gate opened slightly as Phil got out and walked around to the passenger door. When he opened it, a semi-conscious Bill Robb slumped over into his arms. Makeshift bandages covered most of his face and head.

  More people shoved through the gate as the bandaged man was held up on either side and helped through the gate.

  “Let’s get him over to the hall. The bleeding has stopped but he needs water and rest.”

  “What about your truck, Phil?” A voice from the group asked.

  “Keys are in it, but you may need to push it in.”

  It was two days before Bill Robb was up and walking around again. He still looked a bit gaunt but was clearly on the mend. There was a light rain on the fourth day and he decided it would be nice to walk the outer perimeter. It felt good to be upright, pistol strapped in place on his thigh, the weight was comforting. As he slipped through the gate his attention was drawn to the large metallic sign newly fastened to the wall. Junction pop. 139

  “Oh, now that’s cake.”

  The guard from on top of the wall yelled down, “What’s that Bill?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just admiring the new sign.”

  “Phil said you would like it. It’s about the only thing you guys brought back from your run.”

  “Yeah, that was a rough one.”

  “What went down out there? Filler refuses to talk about it.”

  Bill Robb touched the large scabbed-over wound. “I better finish my walk before the rain really starts coming down. Seen anything in the area that I need to know about?”

  “No. Been quiet all day, but I’ll keep a close watch until you get back inside.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

  To Be King in the Land of the Dead – Part 2

  1

  Corey Balmont lay huddled in a depression behind a pile of crumbled brick, watching a group of Sores about seventy-five yards away through a pair of binoculars with a cracked lens.

  There were five males, several of which were taking turns rutting with one of the three females.

  What he watched was not procreation, or anything so romantic as sex. Rutting was the only term that seemed to fit the greedy, animalistic behavior of the Sores in their throes of violent passion.

  Corey shifted in the shallow dip in the dirt, his growing erection pressing uncomfortably against the ground.

  “Bunch of horny bastards, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  Balmont had been watching this group off and on for several months, learning their habits. He knew that after their rutting, several would fall asleep wherever they lay.

  Despite the risk of being out in the open, Corey settled in to wait for nightfall. The next several hours would keep him wide awake with tension, knowing he could be found by a random zombie or one of the Sores he now watched.

  Waiting, he considered the Sores, what they were. No one was certain, but many speculated that they were yet another form of viral mutation. A more human zombie. Others believed that the Sores had been infected, survived the virus, but that it had basically melted their brains.

  The Sores used weapons and tools. Mostly crude, hand-made implements, though they showed some cognitive reasoning by carrying a knife or other man-made weapon. Crude spears seemed to be a favored instrument.

  Corey had no idea if they were a result of viral mutation, or survival aberration; he did know that Sores often exhibited characteristics that would be attributed to prehistoric man.

  Their sexual habits and tool-making aside, they also showed a cautious respect for fire and an uncanny ability for hunting.

  The huge rats that had taken over the farmhouses were slowly thinning as the Sores ate their numbers. Rats were a staple of their diet, although he had witnessed the group eating human remains, as well as the uncommon sight of wild game.

  Corey watched through the binoculars as one of the group piled together tinder and kindling, using a disposable lighter to ignite it. He would chuckle quietly, watching the man using the lighter twitch and jerk every time he flicked the wheel with the index finer of one hand while gripping the lighter with the other, as if, even though he knew what would happen, it still startled him.

  Corey carefully lifted a bottle of water laying next him in the dirt, cautious not to make any sudden
movements that could draw the eye of a distant Sore. He set the bottle back down after a long swig and lifted the binoculars to his eyes again.

  Two of the group crawled into a rusted-out car sitting near the smallest house, one in front the other in the back seat, where they would sleep for several hours or more.

  Corey waited anxiously for the light to dwindle, imagining what he might find inside the houses. Realistically, they were probably picked clean years ago. Hopefully, the cluster of houses was so far off the main roads that it had been missed by other scavs.

  The firelight dimmed to the faintest glow as night crept in, silently renewing one of the oldest fears of man; that unknown thing in the dark.

  Unable to wait any longer, Corey slipped the small bottle Doc had given him out of his pocket, swirling the contents to ensure they were fully mixed. From his pack he tugged out a bundle wrapped in a stained old shirt.

  Moving as quickly as sight and sound would allow, Corey skirted the camp carrying with him only his knife, the bottle of poison, and the wrapped bundle.

  The rats seemed to realize that a sideways canted shed, boards worn rough and gray by weather and disuse, was the furthest point on the homestead from the Sore’s camp. They congregated here, and the smell of rat filth caused him to gag as he crept as near as he dared.

  Taking a knee, Corey opened the bottle and sat it beside him. Then he took the bundle, unwrapped the shirt, to reveal a white plastic garbage bag. Opening the bag with deliberate care, minimizing any noise the plastic may make, Corey dumped the contents out on the ground before him.

  While the smell of the partially devoured cat was ripe and noxious, it was unable to push away the reek of rat. He had found the carcass several miles away, lying amongst the rot and ruin of other animals. It fit his purpose perfectly.

  The smell of the cat would quickly draw out the rats. With hurried hands, Corey doused the body with poison, closing the bottle tightly before shoving it into his pocket as he rose to a crouch. Even as he backed away, squeaks and screeches came from the shed. The rats were hungry.