A Shrouded World 5

by Mark Tufo

  I sit and begin taking my M-4 apart, stuffing it in my pack as best I can. I would just leave it with Otter, but with zombies closing in and who knows what else may happen, I want it always close.

  “How are you going to get them to drive out there?” Otter inquires.

  “I’ll think of something,” I say, rising and shouldering my pack.

  “Say, would you mind picking up a hammock on your way back?”

  “Do you want for me to bring a proctologist back as well? Or, would you prefer to make your own appointment afterward?”

  “I’ll bite. What for?”

  “To retrieve your hammock, of course,” I reply.

  “Oh, I get it. Because you’re going to stuff the hammock up my ass. Oh, now that’s very funny. I didn’t know you were a comedian as well.”

  “See, that’s always been a problem. No one could tell when I wasn’t joking,” I respond. “Now, is there any heavy machinery in or near the town?”

  “Heavy machinery? You’re going to use excavation equipment to help with the hammock? That does not sound like a lot of fun.”

  “’You just have to decide how much you want that hammock, then.”

  “Fine, no hammock.”

  “But I was serious about the equipment. If the town stays to fight, we’re going to need every edge we can get,” I say.

  “Well, there might be an old snow plow around. At least, there was years ago. And ol’ Ted had a farm on the outskirts. I’m pretty sure he had one of those large harvesters. That’s about all I can think of,” Otter answers.

  “Okay. While I’m arranging for a road trip, why don’t you head out to see if that combine, harvester, or whatever it’s called, is still there?”

  “I suppose I can do that,” Otter replies, rising.

  “Your leg seems to have healed quickly,” I comment.

  “Miraculous, isn’t it?”

  Gusting winds drive gray clouds that whip past overhead and bring along the briny smell of the ocean. Long-branched trees lining the streets thrash like snakes from the blasts of air. Scraps of paper race down the avenues, catching momentarily under car tires or against curbs before being taken again and flung further.

  Yards that had held laughing children are empty, their yells of fun now just a memory. With the storm approaching, they’re now trapped inside to drive their parents crazy. At one house, the lid of a garbage can flies off, a strong gust carrying it into a neighboring yard. A woman comes out, holding a jacket closely wrapped around her as she stomps to retrieve the errant lid.

  Walking down the sidewalk, I see each gust approaching, the tree limbs shaking one after the other like kelp bending as a wave passes over. The wind hitting my cheeks has a cold bite to it and I’m thankful it isn’t raining yet. Working my way toward the town proper, I begin to encounter more people. They have their jackets pulled tight around them as they walk quickly toward their destinations. Fabric flaps violently from those waiting at crosswalks as they huddle closely, waiting for the light to change.

  I can’t help but think how odd it is to see such normality with a horde of zombies just a day or so away. I also can’t fathom how these people don’t know about it yet. I’ve seen minimal traffic on the highway, but I do remember seeing at least one vehicle traveling down it. Someone had to have seen and reported the undead. If so, the people I’m seeing are still quite unaware of them. It only further strengthens my idea that this place is in some kind of seclusion; that they don’t travel away nor does anyone make their way here.

  At the police station, I pause for a moment. The arched gold lettering of the Valhalla Police Station taking up both sides of the two glass plate doors seems unreal, almost out of place. My reality is that this town is surrounded by monsters, some of which are closing in. But the sign on the door shows a different kind of reality: one that carries a sense of stability and security; something eternal. To my mind, it feels like an illusion.

  Realizing that I’m heading down a deeper rabbit hole, I shake my head and reach for the handle. The door is nearly ripped from my hand when a gust whips past just as I open it. That’s all I need for an entrance, the plate glass shattering all over the front steps. Struggling to close the door feels like trying to pull a sock from a Rottweiler’s mouth. The wind abruptly calms, and the door nearly smacks me in the face, further cementing my belief that we’re merely entertainment for the gods.

  With the door closed, the chill of the approaching cold front is replaced by warmth. The hum of printers and the clack of something like a teletype faintly echoes within the foyer, along with the unseen source of heels clicking on the tiled flooring. Turning, I catch the eye of a woman behind a sliding glass panel underneath a “Fines” sign before she lowers her head back to a book on the counter. A tall bench-like counter stretches across much of the entryway, a bored-looking uniformed man leaning on his arms behind it. Three diagonal lines adorn each upper sleeve of his dark blue uniform.

  “Can I help you?” the man asks.

  “Yeah, I think so,” I reply, walking over to the desk.

  The man stares at me as I search for the right words. I thought about what to say during my walk through town, but nothing jumped out as to why an officer would drive out with me to see the zombies firsthand. Just telling them that a horde of undead is closing in on the town would be met with a laugh and a gentle ushering into a padded cell, even though they’ve already been attacked by night runners.

  “I’ve come to report that there’s a man carrying some kind of weapon out on the highway and he’s heading this way. He didn’t give the appearance that he was coming for a picnic,” I continue. “I’m not sure, but I also believe he came out of the hills.”

  The policeman straightens and tenses a touch at the mention of a weapon, even more so when I mention coming out from the hills.

  “I see. And where did you encounter this man?” the officer asks, eyeing me and my clothing up and down.

  “A few miles out of town. I’m not exactly sure of the exact distance,” I reply.

  “Hmmm … and what were you doing out there?”

  “I was coming here,” I state.

  “Uh huh. I don’t recognize you. You’re not from around here, are you?” the man says, his once bored look turning into a searching glare.

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “And what makes you believe he came out of the hills?”

  “Well, I suppose that would be because I saw him walk out of the trees.”

  “Okay, let’s start at the top,” the officer states, rising from his leaning position and grabbing a form. “What’s your name and purpose for being here?”

  I was hoping to incite a little more action by mentioning a weapon, seeing as they’ve apparently been banned. But the man behind the large wooden desk seems more interested in me as a stranger than some armed man on the highway. This is exactly the attention I was hoping to avoid. Now, I’m not sure what name to give the man.

  “Jack Walker. I’m on leave and hitched a ride here,” I state.

  “Walker … Walker … that name sounds familiar,” the man says, writing my name on the form.

  “It should. I grew up here before entering the military. I’m on leave and figured I’d come to visit my brother Bill and his family.”

  I have to admit that it feels a bit bizarre pretending to be another me. The officer stops writing and looks at me, his gaze lingering.

  “Bill, you say?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t seen them or their two kids in a long time. I figured it was time to reconnect,” I answer.

  The man’s demeanor instantly changes, his suspicious manner softening. “Well, Jack, I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you, then.”

  He sets the pen down and pushes the form off to the side. “Now, what were you saying about an armed man on the road?”

  “Well, there is one,” I reply.

  “How far out and how long ago did you see him?”

  “I guess it was abou
t an hour or so ago and not really sure exactly how far out. I just glimpsed him as I had passed him, but I definitely saw him walk out of the woods carrying a weapon. I can take you out and show you where,” I respond.

  The officer turns around, his eyes scanning the desks behind. Finding no one there, he lifts the phone and punches a button.

  “Yeah, Jimmy. I have an errand for you. Bring Frank as well,” the desk sergeant says into the phone, and then hangs up.

  “There’ll be someone up shortly. So, the army, huh? What’s it like on the front? How’s the war going?”

  “It’s like anywhere else, really—long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. We’re making progress, but it will be some time before we actually win this thing,” I reply.

  There’s no time to stand here and talk about a war that might or might not be real. There’s a closer danger heading this way.

  “Yeah, that’s the news we’ve been getting here,” the sergeant replies.

  I wonder exactly how they’ve received any news. Not that I’ve planted myself in front of a TV or heard the radio. I don’t even know if they have newspapers here. The man behind the desk is about to go on when a door opens from the side of the foyer. Out steps two uniformed men, one large enough to pull semis with his teeth and the other so thin that I bet he could slip between cell bars.

  “Jimmy, Frank. You’re heading out to the highway and you’re taking this man with you. There’s apparently an armed man a few miles out of town. Find him and bring him in. If he gives you trouble, call for backup,” the desk sergeant orders.

  “Who is this and why are we bringing him?” the large man asks in a deep baritone.

  “Jimmy, this here is Jack Walker, Bill’s brother. He’s a war hero, home visiting family. And you’re taking him because he knows the location and because I said so,” the sergeant answers.

  “Ah, okay then. You know, I ran into your Uncle Vinny the other day,” Jimmy says.

  I have no idea who this Vinny person is and the large man is staring at me, expecting some kind of response.

  “Oh yeah! I haven’t seen him in what, fifteen years or more. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s alive. How’s he doing?” I respond, hopeful.

  “A little strange, but overall he seems to be doing alright. The obnoxious asshole in the bright green poncho watching him is a different story. What was his name?” Jimmy asks, pulling out a notepad and thumbing through the pages.

  A vision of Mike and Trip surfaces and it’s really all that I can do to keep a straight face. Mike didn’t tell the story of running into this cop, but from his brief description, it could only have been them. It seems that Trip plays “let’s dress up Mike” at times, resulting in a truly unfortunate choice of clothing. I still remember Mike in the pink sneakers.

  “Oh yeah. Here it is. Steve Rogers. Do you know him?” Jimmy says, looking at his notebook and then to me.

  “I can’t say the name rings a bell,” I answer.

  “Well, if you see him, let him know that he and I still have a discussion to finish.”

  “I’ll, uh, make sure and do just that.”

  I get to occupy the back seat as “thick and thin” settle into the front of the patrol car.

  “Okay,” Jimmy says. “Where are we going?”

  “Out to the highway,” I reply.

  “I gathered that already. What I meant, Captain Obvious, is how far are we going? Are you sure that you don’t know this Steve guy?”

  “I’ve never heard of him before. And it was several miles out. I’ll know the spot when I see it if we don’t come across him beforehand,” I answer.

  The strong blustery winds ripple the jackets of those on the streets, their hands holding hats in place as we drive through town. Curious heads turn to see who has been arrested in the back seat, but the driving wind quickly turns their attention back to the business of getting where they need to go. The town limit sign passes by, thanking me for the visit to Valhalla as the first splatters of rain hit the windshield.

  Windshield wipers squeak across the glass, pushing the small droplets to the side and leaving thin smears in their place. The sound of the blower from the heat and the humming of the tires on the pavement is a background noise to that of Jimmy and Frank talking quietly between themselves. Trees pass by the windows on both sides, their branches swaying heavily in the wind. The river can be occasionally seen through gaps in the trunks, at times showing the white of rapids; at others, the slow-moving waters of a pond.

  After a few miles down the road, I feel we should be coming close to where the zombies are. I bang on the holed Plexiglas window separating me from the two officers and ask them to slow down, telling them that I think we’re close to where I saw the armed man. The two up front were busy talking among themselves and not really paying much attention to what was going on outside. The last thing we need is to round a corner and run smack into the horde, taking out the radiator and stranding ourselves with zombies surrounding us.

  We round one sharp corner that navigates around a long, high bluff of stone. I’m thrown forward as Jimmy slams on the brakes, the tires squealing on the wet pavement. Coming to a stop, there’s only the steady sound of wiper blades sweeping back and forth, the windshield clearing again and again the gathered rain drops. Ahead is a line of zombies, their decaying gray bodies stretched across the road from shoulder to shoulder. Every face is turned our way, drawn to the sound of the skidding halt.

  “What in the fuck is that?!” Frank exclaims, his thin reedy voice rising.

  With the car idling in the middle of the road, Jimmy turns around in his seat.

  “Is this what you brought us out here for? An ambush?” Jimmy asks, his voice threatening with one hand jerking to pull his handgun free.

  “Well, you’re both right and wrong,” I reply. “It is what I brought you out here for, but not for an ambush. Look closely at them.”

  Jimmy slowly turns around, not wanting to really release me from his angered and frightened gaze.

  “Okay, what about them?” Jimmy asks.

  “Jimmy, they don’t seem right. Look how they’re walking and stumbling about,” Frank says.

  Jimmy leans forward, staring hard at the scene in front. The leading line of creatures is only about fifty yards away, their shambling gait picking up speed as they sense food.

  Not turning around, Jimmy asks, “Okay, buddy. I’m not in the mood to play any more of your games. You knew they were here and seem to know what they are. Care to enlighten us?”

  “They’re zombies. You know, undead walkers,” I reply.

  “So, why didn’t you just state that back at the station? Why make up some story to bring us out here?” Jimmy questions.

  “Well, would you have believed me if I just strolled in and reported this? With the little time we have to prepare, it was important for you to see it for yourself,” I answer. “If I hadn’t shown you, I’d be in a cell right now and they would be still be marching on an unprepared populace.”

  As the zombies advance, more appear further up the road.

  “Just how far does this extend?” Frank asks.

  “Miles and miles,” I reply.

  Jimmy’s synapses finally begin firing with both good and bad results.

  “We have to get back with this,” Jimmy states, jamming the gear in reverse.

  Looking to the rear, he stomps on the gas while turning ferociously at the steering wheel. The wheels screech on the pavement as we tear backward, turning almost violently to one side. The screech of tires turns into the crunch of gravel, and the patrol car rocks back as the wheels start down the embankment.

  “Easy there, road racer. We need to get back to town, not tumbling down the embankment,” I state.

  Jimmy stomps on the brakes, jamming the gearshift lever into what I assume and hope is drive. The tires spin out on the gravel, rocks pinging off the wheel well and undercarriage. The wheels catch and we’re thrown onto the road, the car
turning sharply with another squeal of tires. Fishtailing down the road, Jimmy manages to get the vehicle under control, and we race toward town, the splatter of raindrops on the windshield increasing.

  Following several hasty meetings, the terrified town swings into action, agreeing to make a stand at the outskirts. No one was especially keen on trekking through the wilderness, especially with a storm coming on. Vehicles are placed in long lines to block the road where the highway comes out of town with more placed further to the rear. The police empty their underground armory, which is surprisingly filled with ammo and weapons. Town residents are pressed into service as Valhalla lost a lot of its police force when the night runners attacked.

  Mobile spotlights are placed to shine on the blockade and surrounding fields. A few are set along the banks of the river, some focused on the forest edges. The creatures aren’t expected for another day, but who knows how long this fight will last. The plan is to halt the zombies at the blockade, filling it with bodies to make it impenetrable. A tall rocky bluff there will make it difficult for the leading lines to head into the woods, and the river that runs close by is swift, hopefully creating another barrier. Fuel is placed in containers with the further plan of lighting up the creatures as they become stuck.

  As the skies dull from the late afternoon turning to evening and the people working on the defenses are soaked by the driving rain, I hear the sound of machinery over the roar of the rain. From out of the downpour, a large bright purple piece of machinery emerges, its lights glaring brightly from mounted positions. The lights turn off and the rumble of the harvester’s large engine goes quiet. Wrapped in a jacket pulled close, Otter climbs down the ladder and hops off.

  “It was all I could find,” he shouts over the loud patter of rain hitting our coats.

  “It’ll have to do, I guess. The snow plow was a no-go. It’s more rust than vehicle at this point,” I state, staring at the bright purple dinosaur Otter brought.

  “Yeah, we never got much snow here. It looks like you successfully convinced the town about the zombies. By the looks of things, I take it they’re choosing to fight it out,” Otter replies.