LZR-1143: Evolution

by Bryan James

  It looked nothing like a school bus. Heavy steel beams crossed at regular intervals, reinforcing the sides of the cabin; in the rear, a simple cot was welded to the floor, and a medium sized fridge was bolted to the exterior wall. A crude bench was fashioned on top of what looked like a one hundred gallon tank, and above that, canned and boxed food lined several rows of shelves, with netting installed on the edge to prevent falling or dislodging. In the front of the cabin, a small flat screen television with large, digital aerial antennae sat screwed to a small desk next to a citizen band radio; a huge map of the Delaware, Maryland and Virginia peninsula was tacked to the wall behind the television.

  All of the windows had been blacked out, but four shotgun embankments at regular intervals along the walls had been fashioned from window frames and reinforced with galvanized steel around the barrels. Only eye slits and enough play for the guns to swivel remained. Two were fully retracted, and two were still protruding from the left side.

  I caught Kate’s eyes, and she shrugged. I raised my voice to the driver, hoping not to shock him or worry him by approaching.

  “Nice place you got here,” I said collegially, and Kate groaned quietly. I looked back at her with a “what else do you say to the guy that just saved your ass in a totally zombie-proof bus?” look. She rolled her eyes.

  On the floor, Ky had been forced to the ground, and the dog was actually sitting on her chest, happily bathing one side of her face while she smiled and squirmed.

  “Y’all make yourselves at home. I’m gonna park here in a sec, then we can chat.”

  I spared a glance for the fully stocked gun rack inside the driver’s cabin, which encompassed the driver’s seat, the stairwell into the bus—where passengers used to get on board, but which was now permanently welded shut and reinforced with metal plating—and one row behind the driver’s seat, all of which were enclosed in plexiglass reinforced with thick metal bars and wire mesh. Several shotguns, automatic rifles, and pistols were secured to the rack, along with a large, serious looking compound bow.

  The bus slowed down as Kate flopped into a chair near the television—also bolted to the floor through one leg, allowing the chair to swivel on the screw. Ky had managed to disengage from the canine welcome wagon, and was sitting back against the wall, the dog’s head now panting in her lap as she scratched his ears.

  “What’s his name?” she yelled, as the driver brought the bus to a stop and engaged the emergency brake.

  “Romeo,” he said, standing up slowly and stretching his arms as he turned around. He didn’t move toward the gun rack, and I relaxed slightly, moving my hand to my lap from my side, where I had been ready to draw if necessary.

  Ky smiled as he lifted his head to his name.

  “I like it,” she said.

  The man grunted once, in an affectionate way, as he ducked through the small opening to the cab and entered the main cabin.

  “Seemed like a good name for the little bastard, since he can’t stop licking people,” he said gruffly, pouring a cup of coffee from a dented metal container lashed to the wall.

  He took a sip, then added, “Or his balls for that matter.”

  Ky’s face went from smile to frown as she started to wipe her cheek vigorously. Romeo watched for several seconds before closing his eyes, completed nonplussed.

  Our new friend appeared to be in his mid-seventies, and had a full white beard underneath a lined and worn face. He wore a simple blue shirt underneath overalls, and clutched an unlit pipe in his teeth, bright blues eyes surveying his new passengers as he sipped from a dingy coffee mug that read “World’s Best Grandma.”

  I stood up and offered my hand, making sure to move slowly. “Mike,” I said, unsure of whether he recognized my face or not.

  “George,” he said simply, staring at my face as if he found me familiar.

  “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate the save ... and the ride,” I said, as he clasped my hand in a big, calloused bear paw. “We were ... well, let’s just say our options had become limited.”

  He squinted at me as he released the hand and approached Kate, extending his hand to her. She shook it, wincing slightly at his grip, as he replied.

  “Don’t know what the living crap you’re doing in the middle of farmland with this little girl, seeing as you’re wearing military flight suits—”

  “Hey—” objected Ky in mid-sentence, no doubt taking issue with the ‘little girl’ comment, but he went on.

  “—but I heard over the radio about your little run ins with the local militia back at the Route 89 cross roads and in Leigh’s house.” He shook his head.

  “Poor girl. I tried to get her to leave with me, but she was ... Well, anyhow, I’m glad to help.” His rough face split into a thick grin, blue eyes flashing.

  “Anything to piss off those sons ‘a bitches.”

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  He spit and waved his hand as he leaned forward to turn on his radio.

  “They’re just a group of self-important, inbred yokels who discovered that when the law breaks down, the men with the most guns are in charge. Kind of a self-appointed militia, but with no interest in protecting innocent folk—just out for themselves. They’ve been terrorizing this area of the state for a week now, ranging pretty far afield looking for supplies, and herding groups of those things. If you stay clear of ‘em, you’re usually okay. They’re not too bright, and they don’t take much with folk that offer resistance, but if they catch you...”

  He trailed off, scratching his beard absently.

  “Well, I don’t know what they’re doing in the middle of that town, but it’s too fortified to find out. Suffice to say, not many folk coming out.”

  He looked back briefly as he turned to fiddle with the radio.

  “So, what’s your story?” he asked.

  I sat down heavily, putting my hands behind my head and smiling at Kate.

  “Well, how much time you got?”

  He eventually sat down and forgot about the radio. We started with the Enterprise, and left out the portions that revealed too much of our own peculiar circumstances, but the flight from the ship and our path to this point was enough to warrant full attention. He chewed on his pipe fitfully and listened closely, asking some pointed questions—particularly about coming under fire near Dover, and about the location of the Humvee.

  When we finished, he leaned back in his small metal chair and took the pipe out of his mouth.

  “Now that is an interesting story,” he said simply, then more to the point he asked, “So what is it that you’re needing to get to D.C. so badly to deliver? It’s gotta be something good, or you wouldn’t be traipsing all over creation to get there.”

  I glanced at Kate and looked back at him. “We think we might know ... that is to say, we might have information about a possible vaccine.”

  His eyes widened briefly, then narrowed again. I wondered briefly if he recognized my face. If so, he would definitely suspect lunacy.

  But then again, who expects to run into a crazy movie star in the middle of the backroads of Delaware? If he recognized me, he would likely dismiss the suspicion.

  “Is that so?” he asked quietly, pipe going back to the mouth.

  I didn’t want to get too detailed on this point, but if he were willing to give us a ride, we’d be almost guaranteed to get as far as the bridge in safety, if not further. It was worth the risk.

  “Where’d you get the bus?” came the interjection from Ky, who had transferred to his bed, along with Romeo, thirty minutes prior. I was thankful for the interruption, since it prevented any follow up questions about the nature of our information.

  He chuckled once and stood up, flipping the television monitor on and scanning through a feed of external cameras rigged with night vision sensors. The bus engine was off, and the internal lights and electronics apparently ran on battery reserves. Each screen, illuminated in green light, cast a sick quality to the internal lightin
g—already dim from low-wattage bulbs. Nothing moved outside, and he switched the screen off to conserve power. Still turned away, he said gruffly.

  “Built the frame for my son,” he said, turning back to the rest of us, but looking at the ceiling. His hand rested on one of the internal girders that lent support to the side walls.

  “He was into demolition derby, believe it or not, and had more money than sense. Didn’t build the plow attachment or the guns or spikes or anything of course, not for that purpose. But I did retrofit the thing for derbies. Reinforced roll bars, extra strength sides, plexiglass cabin and windshield, wire mesh windows, souped up diesel engine, double strength steel tread, off road tires ... Turns out, demolition derby cars work pretty good on the undead.” He laughed, without humor.

  “And the rest?” she asked, still curious.

  He squinted one eye at her and looked at me briefly, one hand stroking the white beard. “She’s a curious rascal, huh?”

  I simply nodded, smiling slightly.

  He looked back at Ky.

  “Well, little lady. I spent twenty years as a mechanical engineer and spent the last five years doing artistic and architectural welding for private clients. I drove a snow plow in the winter, and I had a store of heavy gauge steel in my barn, and a lot of spare time after my wife ...” he cleared his voice.

  “Anyway, I figured after the first few days that moving around would be the best way to survive. Better than getting surrounded and being forced to the roof.”

  He looked at me sideways, then back to her.

  “The other stuff I added piecemeal, when I had the time and ability to get back to my farm. Added the bed, the television, and everything else in pieces. Didn’t take long. Once I had the reserve battery installed, it made for a pretty good RV.”

  He didn’t smile, but I appreciated the joke.

  Ky was impressed and nodded once while laying down.

  “I like it,” she said, closing her eyes. Next to her, Romeo whimpered once in his sleep and his tail thumped twice.

  George smiled once, quickly. Then turned back to us, lowering his voice.

  “I don’t reckon you’re going to find a car anywhere near here,” he said, voice serious. “They’ve been rounding up functioning vehicles back to town, trying to gather everything of any value hereabouts. Don’t know what their end game is, exactly, but don’t much care. I’d just as soon make a getaway from this area and leave those bastards behind. But I don’t know if I truck much with you two and your cure. Seems a little far fetched if you ask me.”

  He sounded serious, as if he were asking for harder proof that teaming with us—let’s be frank, saving our asses and giving us a ride to D.C.—would be worth the trouble, and maybe his life.

  I looked at Kate, and she stared back, her eyes troubled. I looked back to George, who was clearly waiting.

  It was our move.

  I spoke to Kate. “We need to show him. It’s the only way. And if he’s going to help, he needs a reason.” She nodded once.

  I drew a small knife from my boot, and pulled back the sleeve of my shirt.

  “Kate and I have both been injected with a serum that immunizes us from the effects of a bite. It also has regenerative and healing qualities, so while I can’t prove that I’m immune...” Without over-thinking it, I pushed the razor’s edge of the blade against my forearm and dragged it two inches before stopping. A thick tear in the arm began to bleed copiously, and I held the wound shut to avoid blood loss. George grunted once as I began the cut, and now watched in rapt attention.

  “We are the only ones left with this serum in our blood; the raw form ...”

  I struggled to explain it, as I wasn’t sure what had actually happened to it on board the Enterprise, “ ... was lost, some time ago. We’re trying to get ourselves to the military doctors who might be able to synthesize more from our blood.”

  I felt the blood stop, and lifted my hand. Confirming the effect, I asked for a paper towel, and he handed me one quickly. I wiped the thick blood from the arm and held it up for him to see.

  “See? Magic.”

  He took my arm roughly and peered at the area, rubbing his coarse thumb over the area several times to confirm. I handed him the knife I had used, and he ran the blade against this thumb, as if to test the edge.

  “Well I’ll be a ...” he trailed off, still staring at my arm.

  “Needless to say, we’re trying to keep this somewhat quiet,” said Kate. “We’re not entirely sure how this type of news would be received by normal folks, and it has a slightly undesirable effect on folks who haven’t been exposed to zombies yet.”

  He looked up.

  “What does it do?” he asked warily.

  “Oh, well. It turns them into zombies,” she said simply.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, then.” He wiped the knife carefully with the paper towel and handed the blade back to me, handle first.

  He looked up at the ceiling, exhaling sharply as he did so. Then he looked back at us, smiling briefly and extending his hand.

  “Son, you just got yourself a ride straight into the devil’s ass. Let’s get you folk to D.C.”

  In the back of my head, the A-Team theme song booted up, and a chill ran up my spine. This was it, I could feel it.

  I grabbed his large hand with both of mine and shook it, smiling.

  We were going to make it.

  Chapter 29

  No way we were going to make it, I thought, looking through the thick window at the horde of creatures in front of us. There were hundreds of them, and they were crammed closely together on the narrow bridge. The engine roared underneath us.

  “Hold on!” George shouted, as the bus roared forward.

  We had driven all night, slowly making our way through the back roads of the countryside until we came upon a moderate sized town. George had been tracking the movements of several packs, and gave us a decent chance of being able to top off the diesel tanks at one of several secret stashes he had located based on his knowledge of the area.

  The stash was at an industrial chicken farm, whose tractors used so much fuel that they found it more economical to buy in bulk. The tanks were three-quarters full, but George estimated the fuel needed for a trip to D.C. was almost an entire tank, and wanted to top off the reserve tank underneath the bench in the cabin.

  The farm was abandoned, and the small gas pump in the back unattended. The pump wasn’t functioning, but George had a small, battery powered siphon that could suck the fuel directly from the ground tank. I watched him as he worked, his motions efficient and competent as he moved. The refueling was accomplished with no problems, and we took to the road again at first light after parking the bus inside one of the large industrial barns for several hours of sleep.

  The plan was simple, but nothing was ever as easy as it sounded.

  Several days ago, George had made contact on the CB radio with a fellow survivor on the West coast of the peninsula, who was living near the marina on the Bay. He described the few survivors left in the area, and where they were holed up. One of them had been a crewman on the last ferry to ply the waters of the Chesapeake, long after the construction of the Bay Bridges had made those ferries obsolete. But one boat still operated, more as a high-cost tourist attraction than a viable form of commuting to the Eastern shore. It has been docked in place for weeks, but George’s friend on the CB, known only as “Wildflower,” said that they were thinking about using it to make a trip to one of the island parks in the South, Assateague or Chincoteague in the hopes that they were zombie-free.

  Since yesterday, he had been unable to reach his friend, but after talking with George, we realized that the Bay Bridge was unlikely to be a viable option. He had heard the same reports that Ky had; not only would we be cornered in a bad way if a pack made it onto the bridge, but the prospect of it being jammed with cars bumper to bumper for four miles, which even the high horsepower engine of the bus
wouldn’t be able to move, was daunting.

  So we made for the Western coast of the peninsula, using back roads and driving carefully. There was only one hiccup. The only road that led to the coast narrowed and bottle-necked over a short four-lane bridge over a small inlet.

  And that’s where we stood now. A horde of creatures stood on the bridge, simply staring forward at the idling bus. Two cars were parked in the right lane, leaving a narrow pathway on the left side for the bus over the congested roadway. We had debated the problem for several minutes, finally determining that there was no alternative.

  The bus rocketed forward as George yelled, picking up steam as it approached the gathered corpses. It slammed into the first row, who had started toward the bus mindlessly as we approached. They disappeared from view, and we felt them grind to pieces underneath the huge machine. The bus slowed, as George shifted down to a lower, and more powerful, gear. I opened the slat of a shotgun port on the right side, and Kate did the same from the other opening, farther toward the back. They were packed into the small space, and we both aimed forward, trying to thin the creatures in the front to make the passage easier.

  The vehicle plowed forward, its progress impeded as much from the uphill cant of the bridge as by the raw number of bodies it was crushing beneath it. George had explained the benefit of the serrated edge to us earlier, as we attempted unsuccessfully to drift off to sleep.

  “You see,” he said clinically, “these bastards can function with their heads intact, as you know. So if you crush the body, the head is still a danger.”

  He looked at us sideways. “At least to most of us.”

  “But if make sure that you grind the head underneath the teeth of the plow, and you shred the bodies sufficiently to make sure there isn’t enough of them left to jam up the undercarriage of the vehicle, you’ve won half the battle.”

  We were now watching the theory in practice, as droves of zombies met their match on the sharp teeth of the unrelenting plow. On the sides of the vehicle, the shredding and tearing of flesh as the blades affixed to the long lateral panels tore through throngs of dead was loud in the air, accompanied by the thick and almost vibrating moans. Kate and I aimed forward exclusively, seemingly making little progress in thinning the massive herd, despite taking down three or four creatures with each shot. The guns had been modified, sawed very short for close range work; but even with an effective range of twenty feet, they were effective for antipersonnel purposes.