The Broken and the Dead (Book 1)

by Jay Morris

  “Livingston’s Esso” and below that “Cold Soda, Ice Cream, Snacks”

  We both exited the SUV and I held the M16 ready and flipped the safety off. OMT was carrying the shotgun and while it was made in the 19th century, those twin 10 gauge barrels looked menacing in his hands. He nodded at the door and I stepped up to it but it was not only locked it was boarded from the inside. I looked over at him and shook my head ‘negative’.

  I could see he was weighing his options when I heard a man’s voice from inside

  “Don’t shoot!”

  And I saw the 2x6’s that had been mounted crossways inside the door being removed. OMT looked around but still not seeing anything else he rested the big gun on his shoulder and waited. Finally the door opened and an older black man held the door open for us.

  “Come on in!” he said with genuine happiness.

  We walked inside and soon were having a nice conversation with Mr. Livingston. He and his wife had a small house just up the hill from their gas station. He looked to be perhaps 70 but from a photo he showed us his wife looked younger, maybe 60. He wanted to know what we had heard or seen. OMT and I took turns explaining to him just how bad things had become. Mr. Livingston said he had two sons and a daughter. One son was in the Army and was stationed in Germany. The other lived in St. Louis but they hadn’t heard from them in over a week. His daughter, well he didn’t know exactly where she was, she was a wild spirit and traveled with her friends most of the time. Much to my surprise OMT told him about the lodge, he said that we were on a mission but we would be coming back in a day or two at the most, assuming all went well.

  He said that Mr. Livingston should talk to his wife and if they wanted to they could travel with us back to the lodge and join the group. He seemed thrilled with the idea and promised to discuss it with his wife. I was wondering what he was up to when OMT brought up the issue of gasoline. Mr. Livingston said he had over 5000 gallons in the ground but didn’t have any power so the only option was a hand pump he had. OMT said that would be fine and that maybe they could trade for it, we had food and water, maybe some ammo but Mr. Livingston said

  “Forget it, what I am going to do with a bunch of gas that will probably just go bad in 3 or 4 months anyway.”

  They shook hands and Mr. Livingston produced a strange, clear plastic hose, about 10 feet from one end there was a hard plastic tube with a crank on it. We all went outside together, Mr. Livingston showed us where a blue colored fill cap was, it had a white cross on it. It wasn’t locked and he spun it off, then he shoved one end of the hose into the underground tank then how to work the crank and after a few moments golden colored gasoline began to flow through the hose and into Rock-3’s gas tank. OMT took over and I kept watch, Mr. Livingston went inside then reappeared with a 12-pack of diet Dr. Pepper. OMT looked thrilled and actually I wasn’t too upset either. We all had one but as soon as we finished filling the tank Mr. Livingston appeared a second time with two red plastic 5-gallon gas cans. We filled those too. We started to put things away but he said that not to worry that he would take care of things.

  Once we got into the SUV Mr. Livingston went around to the driver’s side window and taking out his wallet he showed something to OMT. They spoke quietly then shook hands again. “See you in a day or so” OMT said. The smiling Mr. Livingston said he would keep an eye out for us.

  We drove down the service road but this time just took the entrance ramp to the highway since it was in the direction we were going anyway. After a few minutes I finished my Dr. Pepper. OMT had not said anything so I asked

  “What did he show you back there?”

  OMT didn’t take his eyes off the road,

  “He asked if we would keep an eye out for his daughter, Janae, and to bring her home if we could. He showed me a picture.”

  I asked him “do you think you would recognize her?”

  He nodded, “already did Johnny, I killed her day before yesterday.”

  I felt my stomach plummet and I thought I would vomit. I looked at him and he was looking at me. Misery painted on his face, pain burned in his eyes, despair carved on his heart.

  Neither of us spoke for a long time but I eventually broke the silence and offered a new subject.

  “Just what kind of weapons will be looking for?” I asked.

  OMT said “hi powered hunting rifles, semi-automatic if possible. Ruger makes a .44 magnum carbine. Henry, Winchester, and Marlin all make big bore lever guns; we will try to get some in .44 mag, .444 Marlin or .45-70 government if possible. They even make some pretty good replica single shots in .45-70 and someone makes a double rifle too I think. We will try to get some new revolvers, Smith and Wesson makes one in .500 and in .460 but failing that we will look for Ruger, Colt, or Smith and Wesson revolvers in .454 Casull or .44 magnum. I think Taurus and Freedom Arms make some as well.”

  OMT was on a roll now, so I let him go on;

  “We can also look for some safari grade guns, the really fancy stuff, super high powered rifles that they use on rhinos or elephants or Chevy pickups but even if we find them I doubt there will be much ammo for them. Not too many people want to spend $70.00 a bullet for .700 caliber nitro express. No, the best option we can actually hope for is a British Royal or better yet a Barrett .50 BMG. I don’t care how much scaly armor the dammed crazies grow, those puppies will punch a hole in it.”

  I let him drone on about the muzzle velocity and 200 yard absolute energy advantages of 7.62 NATO and God knows what else.

  I looked at him, this was not the same guy as 20 minutes ago, he seemed actually happy, just talking about stupid guns. I shook my head and thought to myself “pathetic.” I said no more and left the Old Man to his escape dreams of high powered rifles and death. I decided to let him have his moment free of guilt, free of the realization the he had strangled to death the daughter of a kind and articulate black man we had left behind; a generous man who just helped his daughter’s killer drive away with a tank full of gas. I thought I might cry.

  I was half listening, half dozing as OMT droned on and on about some crappy stuff when I thought I saw something far off in the distance, far down the highway.

  “Slow down” I said.

  He asked “What?”

  “I said slow down and look!” I said with more urgency.

  “WHERE?” he barked.

  He was looking around, searching this way and that.

  “Right there!” I was practically screaming and pointing down the highway in front of us. I looked over at OMT and he was squinting over the steering wheel. Clearly he wasn’t seeing what I was, but he did as I asked anyway, he slowed the SUV until it was barely moving. Finally the black shapes came into focus.

  “Zs.” I whispered.

  “SHIT!” OMT spat under his breath.

  There were 6 of them, it was getting harder to tell which had been male, which female, even young and old were indistinguishable the only attribute that made them so were their size. Some were smaller than others, but none were fat, their skin was turning black, like the shell of a beetle. They were moving at a good clip, maybe not Olympic level but certainly NFL. There were heading right towards us in two rows of three but not right behind the other, they were staggered as if they had started in a straight line before every other one started off before the others, a military formation. They had seen us long before I had seen them. They were closing the gap fast so I asked OMT,

  “What are we going to do?”

  They were close enough now that he could see them too; I could see the panic in his face, the gears spinning in his head. Suddenly he reached down and drew his two colts from his holsters and handed them to me. With his left hand he pressed a button on the armrest and the moon roof started to slide open,

  “UP THERE JOHN!”

  I nodded and stood up as soon as I could, OMT started to rev the engine, it was a game of nerves. I held the Colts out in front of me, one in each hand. At 50 yards the SUV jumped forward and the tires
squealed as we raced towards the Zs. I pointed with the revolver in my right hand and squeezed a round at the one directly in front of us. I hit it in the upper left chest and it spun to one side, I raised the pistol I had just fired and pointed with the left one. I fired at the one most center but missed. We were moving too fast, and then we hit the Zs. The one on the left was thrown off to one side, but the one directly in the middle first hit the grill, was almost drug beneath the SUV but it managed to right itself and it started to climb up onto the hood. I heard OMT yelling at me,

  “Take your time son, but not too much time.”

  I dropped the revolver from my left hand and pointed the other as carefully as I could at the Z. Its eyes were bright white, two black slits made a cross in each. The creature blinked and the slits opened and closed like the shutters of a camera. I fired and the round glanced off of its forehead, it didn’t kill him but it certainly got his attention and he released his hold on the hood, his claw like fingers tearing gouges in the sheet metal beneath them. The SUV bumped high into the air as we drove over the creature. OMT nearly lost control and we served from side to side several times but he eventually he straightened it out.

  I looked behind me; one crazy was far off in the distance, jogging towards us. That was the one I had shot I thought. The remaining four crazies had given up the chase instead they gathered around the one we had ran over, it was flopping around on the asphalt, clearly alive and very upset. Just as clearly it was suffering from several broken bones. Somehow that made me smile.

  I had slipped back down inside the SUV before I realized I was missing one of his revolvers. I started to frantically look for it.

  “What’s wrong John?” he asked.

  I gave up and sat down. I held out one of the Colts for him and said

  “I lost the other one; I am so sorry Mr. Tucker.”

  I surprised myself even as the words came out of my mouth. I knew that OMT loved those guns; at least I thought I did. He glanced over at me and then to my surprise just asked if I would please reload it. He kept driving, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, I looked at the speedometer and it looked like we were going over 90. I took a box of bullets from his pack and pulled the spent shells, replacing them with live ones. I held it out to him and I was afraid that he could see how upset I was because my hand was trembling. But instead of being angry, instead of yelling at me, he just shook his head.

  “John, those are just guns, tools, and hunks of metal. They really don’t matter. People matter.” he paused then added “we matter John, you and I and the people we love, that is all that really matters.”

  I sat there for a moment, holding the revolver out to him. “Why don’t you just leave it on the dash, we might need it again soon and you see better than I do” and OMT smiled at me. We sat there together, driving towards Morgantown at 90 miles an hour, neither speaking, both of us; at long last, understanding.

  Later that afternoon we pulled off onto an exit ramp and then onto the overpass. OMT said that from the extra height we might make sure we were not being snuck up on. We parked and got out but he left the engine running just in case. OMT was reaching into the back seat for a couple of MREs and some bottled water and I walked around to the front of the SUV. I ran my hand over the hood, the metal was torn, ripped open by the creatures fingers. There was a yell from Tucker, he held up the colt I thought I had lost. Each rupture was between 5 and 10 inches long, violent gashes with the metal pulled upwards as if there had been an explosion beneath it. I ran my finger carefully over one and with a start realized that there was no blood, no damage to the Z from this. I startled as I looked up and saw OMT watching me. He held out a bottle of water to me and said

  “Pretty damn scary ain’t it?”

  I nodded in agreement and opened the water and drank. He handed me one of the MREs and we both leaned against the front of the SUV. I looked at it, ‘spaghetti and meatballs’, should be fine I thought, I glanced at his, ‘chili con carne’, figures. Then in honor of my little sister I said

  “Ain’t is not a word.”

  He barked out a laugh.

  After our lunch I asked OTM how much further and after he considered it he said

  “Maybe 3 hours? Not too sure where we are exactly.”

  I nodded and walked back around the passenger side, looking the direction we were heading it appeared that a storm was heading our way, the sky on the horizon was very, very black.

  “Check it out.” I said nodding towards the black clouds.

  He had the driver’s door open so he just stepped up into it just to gain a bit more height. “Hmmm...” was all he said.

  “Think we are in for some bad weather?” I asked.

  “I don’t know John.” he said.

  He reached into the SUV and produced our binoculars. He watched for a minute then stretched across the roof and handed them to me.

  “What do you make of that?” he asked.

  I actually got into the SUV, popped through the moon roof then climbed up onto the roof itself. I looked for a few minutes.

  “I don’t think those are clouds” I said, “I think those are from a fire.”

  I looked down at him and he said

  “I agree, and it’s a big one.”

  We finally got back on the road but kept our speed down to about 60. After 15 minutes or so we began to smell the smoke, it was revolting, burned rubber and wood smoke and lots of other things I didn’t recognize. I didn’t have to ask because OMT slowed the car even more, even though the highway was still basically clear with the exception of an occasional abandoned car or truck on the side of the road. Ten minutes after that we came to a complete stop at the city limits of Fairmont, West Virginia, it was only about 20 more miles to the outskirts of Morgantown. OMT said it was a bit more than half the size of Morgantown and from where we were it looked like the whole of the city was on fire.

  We sat and watched for a few minutes when suddenly OMT yelled “LOOK!” and he pointed at an incredibly fast, low flying jet aircraft came from our west and headed right for Fairmont. The noise from the jet reached us a few moments later, that was followed by a thunderous explosion and while we couldn’t see what the jet fighter had done, it clearly had done something because a new wall of flame was reaching into the sky obscuring the jets path.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “It was a napalm run, basically a jellied gasoline bomb” he said, “but if you mean what kind of plane it was I have no idea. I have not been able to identify anything since the Phantom.”

  We watched for a minute or two more and then we heard or more accurately felt the rumble of large artillery fire, but we couldn’t see where it came from or where it was going. It was more like thunder that was bouncing around in a valley someplace.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked.

  “Well,” he said clearly buying time. “option one, we can turn around and go home but if we do we will still be in the same situation as before, option two, we can try and find a way around Fairmont, but there is no way of knowing if there will be any route that is better, or option three, we can drive right through that.” and he nodded in the direction of Fairmont.

  I thought long and hard about the problem, well not really that long, but I had no intention of driving through a city that was on fire and most likely a warzone between the U.S. military and a bunch of Z’s and I said so.

  “I agree” he said, “but we need weapons so I don’t want to turn around unless we have no choice.”

  “That leaves number two then.”

  I said. We got back into the car and started looking for an alternative route. OMT knew that Fairmont and Morgantown were on US Highway 79 and had been along that highway a few times but he had never actually explored the area but then again what did we have to lose?

  We tried a couple of exits but finally had some success on something called White Hall Blvd. We turned north and followed along the bank of a rather good sized river. Fo
r a while I could see a road on the other side but I didn’t like looking too much. There were burnt out cars and military vehicles. When the Fairmont Airport just became visible across the river we turned away. I had seen hundreds of corpses on the river bank, some in army green, others in civilian clothes; a few others seemed to have that black bug armor. We crossed several other intersections when we came to a bridge, it was a wreck and flaming vehicles were scattered all over it. Some of them so hot that the flame appeared to be under pressure, like a propane torch.

  We drove carefully, painfully across the wrecked bridge. Several places the guard rails had been punctured and in at least one the road bed had fallen away to the river below. We had to swing wide to get around it but we finally managed. We reached the other side but still did not make much better time. Several times OMT used the SUV to shove wrecks to one side or the other of the road. I noticed that the road we were on had several names; Highway 250 and Fairmont Avenue being the most noticeable. Finally things cleared a bit and we started making better time. I could tell that things were straining OMT. He didn’t like to leave things to chance and on this trip nothing had gone according to plan.

  Suddenly OMT seemed to regain some energy and he looked at me with a grin,

  “I know where we are!”

  It was so genuine I could not help but smile back. We took the next exit and to my amazement we were back on Highway 79 but this time heading south, we crossed a bridge that seemed basically undamaged. I read the name of the river

  “Mono-go-ella?” I asked.

  “Monongahela” he said and looked at me excitedly.

  “What does it mean?” I asked. “Well, it’s a native American word, it means something like …”,

  He seemed to be looking for the words in his own head,

  “Something like ‘the river bank falls in’, something like that.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “What does the river bank fall in?”

  He laughed “into the RIVER John, the banks fall into the river.”