Tales of Junction

by Davis IV, John L.

  ***

  Welcome to Junction.

  If you've made it this far, you either have serious survival skills or you have been damn lucky.

  ***

  "You wanna make me out to be a villain, I'm okay with that. Hell, I'm good at it. But keep in mind that it's just temporary. At some point all of Junction will know the truth. They'll all know who started this shit and they'll all know who the real villain was."

  Tool

  ***

  Bixsey liked to watch. It was one of the very few things he was good at, watching. He preferred to be tucked away somewhere quiet, away from the eyes of others.

  Bixsey hated being watched.

  He watched now, from a safe distance. He watched the people sitting high on their lookouts behind the walls. He watched as people went in and out of the gates, though it didn't happen too often.

  He didn't know names, and could barely see faces, even when looking through the broken rifle scope, so he gave people names based on what he could see.

  There was Fat Pig, who he'd watched feed the small drift of pigs. There was the one who looked like a washed-up rock star that he called Junkie Rocker. There was another that he'd once seen toss what had looked like a little snack chip package. He called him Tater Chip. Tater Chip was often seen with Junkie Rocker.

  Propping himself higher on his elbows, Bixsey raised the glass, looking at the man he called Eyeball standing on a lookout post behind the wall.

  Bixsey smiled when he saw the man raise his rifle, thinking there might be some action, then he realized that Eyeball was pointing the rifle in his direction.

  He didn't hear the shot or feel the bullet that grazed his temple and put him out like a switch had been thrown.

  ***

  When it rains...

  Rain is a wonderful thing in Junction. Everyone stands out in it, enjoying the feel and smell. Many openly bathe in the streams running off the tin roofs of their little shacks.

  Filler has his girls arrange barrels to catch as much as possible to use in the gardens and for the hogs.

  Even old Doc Shoup will move his chair outside, sit on his porch dozing with a bottle in his lap.

  The best part of the rain, in Tool's opinion, is that for at least a short time the smell of junction is washed away. The smell of unwashed bodies, poor sewage, and those damn pigs disappears, even if only for a few hours.

  ***

  As Frito searched the old farm house looking for small treasures, anything that might be useful to the citizens of Junction, his mind began to wander. His high school history class came to mind. He could still recall the face of his teacher, Mr. Harshbarger, and the ridiculous tie the man often wore, a huge outdated thing with paisley print. In his mind he heard the man droning on about the gold rush and how the men dug or panned for gold in hopes of finding the mother lode that would buy them a life of leisure. Day after day these men worked hard, risking their lives in the cold and rain, never sure if they would be killed by a claim jumper, an outlaw, indians or the elements. It must have been a horrible existence.

  ***

  This could be one of the Twisted. Can’t nobody really know for sure. Every person that’s lived to talk about ‘em sounded stark raving mad so the stories become rumor, myth. Folks in Junction sure do love their stories too. The best stories are the true-ta-life ones with just a little somethin’ extra added for kick. (Followed by an image of a thin, freakish creature.)

  Sometimes I think about the way things were. How easy life was. Even when it seemed hard, it was easy compared to now.

  Mostly I think about the movies we watched. The zombie flicks were my favorite. They seemed so real and so far out at the same time. Now that I’m living in one, it’s the mistakes that mostly come to mind. The things the movies got wrong.

  In the movies, they always talk about how bad the undead smell. They got that part right, but nobody ever mentioned how bad the living smell. We all live like animals now. Water is far too precious to waste on bathing or washing clothes. The best we can do is pray for rain, stand outside and try to wash off some of the stench. It never goes completely away, but you have to try. I’ve seen the old boarded up schools where groups of people live together. It must be horrible inside. All those unwashed bodies sharing the same space. Most days my own smell bothers me, I can’t imagine what it’s like to be under the same roof with dozens of stinking people.

  The other thing the movies got wrong was the flies. Flies don’t bother zombies. Normally flies are attracted to rotting meat of any species, but they seem to sense that the infected are somehow tainted. In fact, all the animals leave them alone. Birds don’t pick at them like in the movies. Even after a zombie is “killed” the animals avoid it. Nobody wants to be around them, regardless of their status as undead, dead, or other. Guess it is fitting.

  For the record, zombies don’t moan. Or maybe I should say they can’t moan. In order to moan or scream or talk, animals force air over their vocal cords. Since zombies don’t breathe, they can’t moan. It seems like a small thing, but for those of us trying to survive in a world teeming with undead, it really is a big deal.

  While we’re on the subject, zombies don’t shuffle either. Romero was way off with this one. Don’t get me wrong, they aren’t going to win any races, but they are not the shambling uncoordinated corpses the early movies made them out to be. If you just keep moving, you can easily outdistance one, assuming you have room to run. The problem is, you have to rest eventually while they do not.

  The eyes are wrong in the movies too. I was careless once and ended up nose to nose with one. As you might imagine it was not a pleasant experience. After staring into its eyes for what seemed like hours, there was obviously something weird about them. They weren’t cloudy or milky like Hollywood made them out to be. Have you ever seen a puddle of water with hundreds of little tadpoles swimming in it? That’s how their eyes looked. You could actually see small things swirling around just below the surface. It was unnerving to say the least.

  Unnerving. That’s a serious word to be throwing around in this world.

  ***

  A scav came through today and kind of threw everyone off a bit. He sat down in Filler's and had some of the brown stew, chatting up a storm, telling everyone about a group of sores he'd run across a week previous. Then he said something that seemed to quiet everyone down for a minute. He'd looked at an old calendar, and figured up the days. Today was July the 4th, America's Independence Day.

  It was odd to think about. One of those things that people had forgotten about over the years. Most of the younger ones had no clue.

  But some, guys like Filler and Bill Robb, who had been in town for about two days this trip, and Doc Shoup, they got all quiet and maudlin. I know I was feeling it myself. Yeah, I know, Bibi Reno, getting all emotional over some long-forgotten holiday, but damn if it didn't make me feel a tad heart-sick, thinking about it.

  ***

  So many things happening, most of them freakin' scary as hell, even for Junction. I'm pretty sure I saw someone skulking around outside the west wall today when I was dumping off some gray-water from the kitchen.

  Filler just ignored it, told me I was seeing things and to get my "skinny ass back to work."

  He never seems to complain about it being skinny on the rare occasion when he gets his.

  I'll be keeping my eye open. Besides, that Balmont kid could show up at any time. He scares me, and most of the girls, though we wouldn't tell anyone that.

  ***

  No one gives a shit. Not what you look like, not what your personal preferences are. The only thing that matters is what you can bring to the survival of Junction and its people.

  The scavs know this. The whores know it. Janet and Filler know it.

  The survival of Junction and its people. That's what matters.

  ***

  Full Moon Celebration

  Every full moon was a celebration. For two days, we would gather firewood. Th
e children gladly helped, knowing that Full Moon meant staying up late, listening to music and stories, then falling asleep in their mother’s arms. Everyone sang along to the songs but as the fire burned low the story tellers took over. The village would grow quiet as the elder men took turns recounting events of their lives and of their ancestors. Tales of hunting the large brown bears or giant stag. Stories of war, battles between the clans of old. We knew all the stories as well as we knew the songs. They were the same each celebration, yet each time was as chilling as the first telling.

  But even now, after all these years, there is one story that means the most to me. I guess we all have our favorites. Most of the men favored hunting stories. The adolescent boys were enthralled with stories of heroic warriors. My favorite was told by Grandmother.

  She was the oldest woman in the village. Very little of consequence happened without her approval. Hunting, planting, the harvest, all these things were left undone until she gave a nod.

  I was in my twelfth year before I ever heard her tell the story. She told it only a few times during my life, but every word has remained with me. It is not mine to share and I could not do it properly under any circumstances so I will not recount it here. Suffice to say that it was a true story, pure and unembellished. Unlike the exaggerated hunts, hers required no creative liberties, no artistic license. Hers was a true story of love.

  It was an impossible love. Not the easy kind found in our village, where the children play and grow up together, eventually pairing and having children of their own. No, the story Grandmother told was about the best kind of love. The kind that defies all the odds. The kind of love that few will ever experience and fewer still can endure.

  Being young and not knowing any better, one day, I asked her if it was true. Her eyes, usually solemn and still, began to sparkle as she looked down at me and nodded. “Is it your story? Did it happen to you?” Again, she nodded. Her eyes began to dance as a smile creased her weathered face. She placed a hand on my shoulder. Whether out of tenderness or simply to steady herself, I do not know, but it seemed she swayed a little as if her knees were going weak. She glanced away then, turning her face into the autumn breeze she repeated the last line of her story, “He had such pretty eyes.”

  ***

  Everything from the old world was valuable to the residents of Junction. Problem is, not much of the old world survived.

  ***

  Months after the grid went down for good I was sitting at home relaxing when it hit me. What about those poor bastards with their electronic books? iPads and Kindles and all that stuff. In a moment of panic I glanced across the room to rows of books lining the wall. Shelf after shelf filled with everything from westerns to sci-fi. Wood working to metal forging. I'd accumulated quite a library over my fifty odd years but what about those poor e-book people? What were they doing? How did they spend the long afternoons? How did they refresh their memories on subjects like bee keeping or grafting fruit trees? For a moment I felt pity, but the feel of warm paper in my hand comforted me, beckoned me to return to its pages. Fahrenheit 451 has always been a favorite of mine.

  ***

  The girls in Filler’s employ all agreed that he was not the worst boss in the world. Mostly because they had all experienced life outside the walls of Junction. They had scars from hiding in the trunks of burned out cars, nightmares from the men who had locked them in old tractor trailers or beat them into submission. As long as they worked for Filler the girls were under his protection. He was a powerful man in Junction, nobody dared treat them badly. Each of them had a small room that locked from the inside, plenty of food and water, and of course they got to bathe regularly.

  Bathing was a bit of a luxury in Junction, but Filler insisted the girls keep themselves clean. Not because they were required to work in the kitchen, there were no health inspections these days. His motivation was purely a matter of marketing. Clean girls attracted more customers.

  The ones who were not actively working in the “back rooms” still had plenty to keep them busy. There was gardening, cleaning and operating the stills, caring for the hogs, preparing and cooking meals. The days were full and chores were carried out according to a schedule that Filler posted weekly.

  Most of the inhabitants of Junction assumed that Filler was taking liberties with his employees. This simply was not true. On the rare occasions when Filler had an urge, he treated it as a standard transaction and noted it as such in the books. The girl received credit for her “work” just as she would with any other customer.

  Occasionally one of his employees would decide to strike out on her own. If she was not deep in debt, Filler would typically bid her a fond farewell. As there was not much work for a woman in Junction, after a few weeks most willingly returned, preferring the security of Filler’s establishment to the uncertainty of daily life in an uncaring world. A few joined up with pilgrim groups passing through Junction on their way to some fairytale community and were never seen again.

  ***

  Tool, Junction is running short on scavs... Scavs don't just bring in supplies and things to make our lives less shitty. They bring us stories of the outside world. They bring us a reason to keep living. In short, Junction needs scavs.

  ***

  The funkers were nasty. All zombies sucked, but she hated funkers more than any of the other mutations. The skin that appeared to be melting, dripping from the body in wattles and tatters that would flap wetly in a stiff breeze. The exposed muscle tissue, decomposing on the walking corpses, had a greenish cast to it when seen in the full light of day.

  Emmalee watched as the group of three funkers dragged their feet in the dry grass, leaving a trail behind them, bits and pieces of stinking gore clinging to the grass or mixing with the dirt to create a foul mud.

  She waited until they were well past the snarl of wrecked vehicles she hid in before she thought about running. Junction was still miles away, and she hoped to make it before nightfall.

  Standing tall, she gripped the worn pack in her right hand and a rust-dulled hatchet in the other. She peeked around the back of an overturned bus, ensuring that the funkers were well on their way when she heard a shriek.

  Emmalee turned as the runner dived over a burned-out Buick. There was no backing away, nowhere to run to. The zombie’s mouth met hers in deadly a make-out session, its nose pressing against her cheek as its top teeth pushed into her mouth. Screaming was impossible now. The runner clamped its lower jaw tightly and jerked, yanking her back and forth.

  Tears spilled from her eyes as her own jaw began to separate, the tendons and tissue ripping under the vicious onslaught. Darkness closed in on her vision, and she welcomed it, letting the pain take her to the dark place just as the sound of chewing filled her ears.

  ***

  Junction. It isn't much to look at. Little more than a collection of burned out vehicles and rickety buildings inhabited by some of the worst that humanity has ever offered up. To be honest, there isn't much humanity left. Those of us who survive in this place do whatever it takes to get by. It is rarely pleasant, but few things are in our world.

  Life inside the walls of Junction is safe only by comparison. Outside is a wasteland inhabited predominantly by the undead. The few people who live out there do so only because they aren't welcome in our little community of scoundrels and whores. We call them "Sores." It's difficult to tell which is more dangerous, the Sores or the zombies.

  The Sores are at least somewhat predictable. The zombies, however, seem to be in a constant state of change. The virus that created them continues to mutate, making it impossible for us to know ....

  END

  About the Authors

  John L. Davis IV - I write things. I’ve been doing it for a really long time, but only recently did I start publishing. Soon after that I was lucky enough to land a job as the editorial assistant for a small newspaper. Now someone actually pays me to write, which is pretty cool. Other than that, I have no credentials to
speak of, no education worth noting. I haven’t done anything amazing like single-handedly save an entire tribe of Ugandan children from Ebola or serve overseas and save my entire squad from a tribe of Ugandan children with Ebola.

  Along with the indie self-published American Revenant zombie apocalypse series set in and around Hannibal, Missouri I dabble in horror and science-fiction, mostly in short stories. I’ve also written several short screenplays with plans to eventually script a feature-length film.

  Need more zombie survival horror, read the American Revenant series today!

  Guy Cain - I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t enjoying the outdoors. As a child my father taught me to hunt and fish. Later, in the Boy Scouts, I found that the nature merit badges were my favorites to earn on my trail to Eagle Scout. Years after, it occurred to me that the things I had learned in my youth were not common knowledge. In fact, many simply had no clue how to behave in the outdoors, let alone survive in it. Ultimately, I founded Zombie Apocalypse Survival Camp to help families learn together so they can perform as a cohesive unit in the event of a catastrophe.

  Somewhere along the way I tried my hand at writing articles on some of the less obvious aspects of survival, like possible apocalypse currencies, using brush piles for survival, and more. A few of these have been published in Backwoodsmen Magazine.

  Whether it’s hunting, fishing, camping or just a nice long hike with my dogs, for me, being outdoors is the remedy to all life’s problems.

  Read more great stories from Guy Cain!

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