Reaching the far end of the lot, the convoy turned right at the exit and followed the side roads that would take them back to Gilmanton.
CHAPTER FOUR
Natalie Bazargan stood in front of the window to her holding cell. She had been staring out of it for over an hour, her attention focused on Alcatraz Island in the middle of San Francisco Bay. The abandoned prison complex, which used to symbolize despair for the inmates incarcerated there, now represented the best chance for humanity’s survival. Alcatraz was where the government-in-exile had established itself and had been marshaling forces. If mankind hoped to take the world back from the living dead, it would begin here. If they succeeded, it would be in no minor part due to Natalie and her Angels having transported the vaccine for the Zombie Virus across the country. For the first time in almost a year, the world saw a glimmer of hope that it could finally stop this rotter apocalypse and take back the planet. Even if it was the dullest of glimmers, it was more than the world had a few days ago.
Natalie, more than anyone, needed that thread of hope to hang on to.
Now that she had time to reflect on the past few weeks, she realized how much her life had changed. A month ago, she and the others in her group of survivors had been living a comfortable life along the coast of Maine, or as comfortable as one could in a post-apocalyptic world. They had established a nice community for themselves at Fort McClary, an early-eighteenth century fort outside of Kittery that once had been a tourist attraction. They had food, comfortable living conditions, and, most of all, security. Natalie had gathered fourteen other women from the camp and formed a zombie hunting team, respectfully referred to as the Angels of Death. She had even fallen in love with Mike Robson, the leader of the camp’s raiding party. Their lives had settled into a semblance of normalcy until Dr. Compton, the creator of the Zombie Virus that had caused the outbreak, arrived at camp. He claimed to have a vaccine that could give the survivors the ability to fight back, and told them it was kept in storage at Site R, an underground military facility more than five hundred miles away. The camp elders had decided the benefits of acquiring the vaccine outweighed the risks, and had ordered Robson’s raiding party and Natalie’s Angels to accompany Compton to retrieve it.
That mission had ended in disaster.
Having lived in the shelter of their own camp for so long, no one had been prepared for the journey down to Site R. The group had grown used to dealing with minor numbers of rotters, and now had to confront entire cities infested by them. They’d lost several good people on the way, although nowhere near as many as when they arrived at the underground facility. The vaccine for the Zombie Virus was effective only on humans because it had been cultured with human DNA. If given to the vampires, it would change them into the living dead. Compton wanted to use the vaccine to infect the vampires and murder them. When Robson refused, Compton released a horde of close to four hundred rotters into the compound and tried to escape. They had been able to stop Compton and fight back the living dead, at the cost of almost every member of Robson’s raiding party and one of the Angels.
Their situation had deteriorated even further after arriving back at camp. A rape gang they had encountered on the trip south had followed their tracks back to Fort McClary. The gang had destroyed everything in camp and murdered everyone except for one four-man group out on patrol and Windows, who they had taken back to their compound. Robson had made the decision to split the group. He and the rest of the camp survivors would attempt to rescue Windows. Meanwhile, Natalie and her Angels had acquired a yacht and headed down the East Coast and then west via the Mississippi River to the government-in-exile in Omaha. Natalie felt a cold shudder race down her spine at the thought of that voyage. The Angels’ morale had been shattered by the battle with hundreds of rotters at Site R, and psychologically they were in no condition to make such a dangerous trip. They had eventually made their way to Omaha, only to find the government-in-exile overrun by rotters, and traveled by plane with the last military unit leaving Omaha to the new government in San Francisco. Everyone on that flight would have died fighting thousands of the living dead on the Golden Gate Bridge if the government hadn’t sent out a rescue party to save them and bring them back to the Beachhead, the old San Francisco Port of Embarkation located inside Fort Mason that served as the gateway to the new government-in-exile on Alcatraz Island. Natalie had succeeded in bringing the vaccine for the Zombie Virus to the government, although at a cost of five of her Angels dead and two missing. Those who survived were lucky to be alive.
It had been a long time since Natalie felt safe and secure in her surroundings. She had only been away from camp for a few weeks, yet those had been some of the most difficult and dangerous weeks she had experienced since surviving the initial outbreak. Since the group’s departure from Site R, every waking moment had been spent on the edge, anticipating the next danger. Christ knew they had encountered more than their fair share of mishaps until she trusted no situation. Even while being escorted into the Beachhead she had expected the worst, especially after their group had been separated and detained for forty-eight hours in separate holding cells, three people per cell. Thankfully, their captors were gracious hosts, offering a hot meal and a good night’s sleep, both of which Natalie took full advantage of. She slept for seventeen hours, a deep REM sleep that allowed her to wake refreshed.
The group had spent most of their first full day in detention being debriefed. The government personnel were especially interested in Ari, who had been bitten on the hand during the battle on the Golden Gate Bridge and showed no signs of infection. Natalie had been questioned by Brian Thomas, the chief of staff for Secretary Fogel, on the vaccine and what she knew about it, as well as her knowledge of the rotters. Although Natalie had no medical expertise to answer questions about the former, she had been more than happy to describe her experiences with the living dead. Other than the debriefings, the past two days had passed without excitement.
Now, on the morning of the third day, their detention was almost over. Natalie studied herself in the window’s reflection, taking in the change. Physically the changes were insignificant. Her brunette hair still flowed down her shoulders, although the ends were frayed and she desperately needed a trim. The brown eyes that stared back at her were fatigued. Of course, she could have said that about every part of her body. Her face and five foot six frame were gaunt from the strenuous nature of the past few weeks and the lack of food. No, the change was in her attitude and how she bore herself. The desperateness, the hopelessness, and the fear had all been replaced by confidence. Not confidence in herself, because that had never wavered; a confidence that mankind had a future.
She only wished she knew whether or not Robson was still alive.
Natalie heard a commotion by the door leading from the main building to the detention area. The rest of the Angels who shared the space with her stood up from their cots and joined her. Each of her Angels seemed more optimistic than a few days ago. Stephanie, the oldest member of her group, pushed her shoulders back and pulled down on the hem of her jacket. Josephine, a petite young woman of Asian descent, smiled at Natalie. She had a slight bounce in her step, a sign she was anxious to begin her new life. Amy, who usually wrapped her long blonde hair in a ponytail, let it flow naturally down her back, something she had not done since arriving at camp. Ari pushed her librarian-style glasses up her nose and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length dark hair to straighten it. She then reached out, clasped her hand against Natalie’s, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
A few seconds later, Captain Rogers, the Army officer who had led the rescue operation on the Golden Gate Bridge, centered himself in front of their cell.
Captain Duane “Butcher” Everett, the pilot who had flown them out of Omaha, and Private Carver Duncan, the only soldier with them on the bridge to survive the battle, stood off to the side. Everett favored his right leg, his left thigh wrapped in bandages from where he suffered an injury during his cra
sh landing on the emergency airstrip north of the bridge. A corporal came up with a set of keys and unlocked the door.
“Good news, ladies.” Rogers clapped his hands together and rubbed the palms. “Your forty-right hours are up. You’re free to go.”
“Go where?” Ari asked as she exited the cell.
“Alcatraz. We’ve arranged accommodations for you. Once you get there, we’ll give you your passes to the mess hall.”
“Three hots and a cot,” said Stephanie.
“More like two hots and a cot,” Rogers chuckled. “But you get the drift. You’ll also get hot showers and a change of clothes.”
Ari performed a vertical fist pump and hugged Stephanie. Natalie stepped out in the hall and said, “Thank you.”
“You’re part of the team now, and we take care of each other.” Rogers headed for the exit and motioned for the women to follow. “Once you get settled in you can either choose a job posting or we can assign one to you. We’ve got plenty of openings in the armed forces. There’s no need to make any decisions yet. First, let’s get you cleaned up and settled in.” The captain glanced over at Natalie. “I’ll have to show you your quarters later.”
“Why’s that?”
“Right after you take your shower, Secretary Fogel wants to see you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Bruce Denning stood on the front porch of his house, a cup of warm coffee in one hand and an apple in the other, alternating between the two as he looked out over his farm.
A bright morning sun balanced perfectly with the cool air. Birds chirped in the surrounding woods and a pair a squirrels chased each other around the trunk of an oak tree. On the far end of his pasture, a family of deer ventured out into the open to graze. Denning took a sip of coffee, savoring the flavor for a few seconds and relishing another perfect, quiet morning.
He was probably the only person who enjoyed the zombie apocalypse.
“Enjoy” sounded too harsh. A better phrasing would be “least affected.” When the zombie outbreak spread, civilization collapsed because the infrastructure that supported it fell apart. One by one, utilities and services ground to a halt. Most of those who had survived the dead hordes couldn’t cope with living in a world that had regressed by more than a century. Those who had been weaker or unready were either absorbed into larger, more prepared groups, or culled out by those who were tougher. The strong survived, or the incredibly lucky, and more often than not they were not the people you’d want as neighbors. None of this had any impact on him, however, because Denning didn’t rely on anything that most people associated with their day-to-day lives. Since the death of his wife ten years ago, he had gone off the grid and become self-sufficient.
The thought of Anna always brought a brief flicker of happiness to his heart. Sadly, that flame soon fanned itself into a raging conflagration of anger. Not at Anna. He loved her more than anything in the world. She had been his wife of twenty-seven years. More than that, she had been his best friend, his lover, and his soul mate. No, he directed the anger at the cancer that had ravaged its way through her body; at the insurance company that refused to pay for a procedure that could save her life because, despite its success rate in clinical trials, they deemed it “experimental;” at the hospital that wouldn’t perform the treatments to save Anna’s life without getting their payment up front; at the real estate agency that agreed to help him sell half his farm so he could raise the money for Anna’s surgery, and then tricked him into selling it at fifty percent of its value after making a corrupt deal with a land developer. Not a day went by when he didn’t imagine every one of those assholes as one of the living dead. If he ever came across one, he knew he wouldn’t put them out of their misery, and would let them suffer for eternity like they had made him suffer.
A smile crossed his lips as he imagined Anna chastising him for having such a negative attitude and for not being very Christian. She had always been his better half, and lovingly called him “her misanthrope.”
Her pet name for him happened to be closer to reality than even she realized. Denning had associated within society because of Anna. Their friends were her friends; after Anna’s passing, contact with them became less frequent until it stopped altogether. He never owned a cell phone, and only maintained the landline in case of emergency. Anna had used the Internet and cable television, and with her no longer around he had gotten rid of both, limiting what little TV he viewed to the local channels that he could tune in with the antenna in his backyard. He learned how to do things for himself so he didn’t have to rely on contractors or repairmen and spend money he didn’t have. A well and a septic system provided his plumbing, and a few years back he had installed solar panels in order to remove himself from dependency on the utility companies. Over time, his DIY attitude became full-blown self-reliance. Whatever Denning couldn’t produce for himself, he stockpiled. Many of his neighbors thought he had gone nuts, while some of the more gracious referred to him as a survivalist. He would agree with the latter, although not with the negative connotation that it implied. If the death of Anna had taught him anything, it was that was life could be unpredictable and unfair. As far as Denning had been concerned, if disaster struck, he did not want to rely on anyone.
Denning took a bite of apple and chewed. He wondered what the locals thought of him now, if any of them were still alive.
Finishing his apple, Denning flung the core toward the pine tree near his house so nature would recycle it. Drinking the last of the coffee as he stepped inside, he placed the empty mug in the sink and prepared to make his morning rounds of the perimeter. He strapped on his utility belt with the hunting knife and machete, grabbed his 450 Bushmaster rifle with scope, and headed out the back door.
His farm covered twenty acres. Denning had surrounded the property with a five-foot-tall, reinforced wooden fence interlaced with barbed wire and topped with rusty nails. At the time, he had considered the measure somewhat overkill since his property sat a mile from the closest public road. Over the past year, he had thanked God for his paranoia. That fence had kept out trespassers and the living dead, although he really hadn’t seen much of either. In the beginning, four or five groups of people came across his farm and wanted to stay, and every time he refused, not wanting to bring strangers into his house. His caution had been justified when the first four groups became belligerent. The third had been the worst, threatening to take his farm away since they outnumbered him seven-to-one. Denning used the Bushmaster to narrow the odds to three-to-one before the survivors broke and ran. The only group he had felt guilty about turning away was the last, a family with three kids, all under ten. That had been ten months ago, and he had not seen another human since. He occasionally came across a zombie sauntering outside the fence or entangled in the barbed wire, and would dispatch it with the machete. The last of those had been four or five months ago. The only reason he continued to walk the perimeter every morning was out of force of habit and the need to exercise.
The main property consisted of five acres of yard surrounding the sides and back of his home, a two-thousand-square-foot ranch style house. In front of that sat ten acres that he farmed to raise the grains and vegetables he lived on, as well as the chicken coop and pig enclosure. Denning crossed behind the house to the eastern border of his property and proceeded south. As usual, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Making his way along the south and west perimeters, he eventually backtracked to the front of the property where he had enclosed five acres of land into a pasture for Walther, his prized bull from when he had unsuccessfully tried his hand at raising cattle. The business failed because Walther was an ornery son of a bitch who didn’t get along with other cows and hated everyone except for Denning, which explained why he and Walther got along so well. Most mornings his friend waited by the corner of the fence to greet him as he made his rounds. Not today, though. At first, Denning thought Walther might not be feeling well until he saw the animal at the far end of the pasture, its attention fo
cused on the road leading to the farm.
Two figures approached from half a mile away. Crouching by the wooden fence that surrounded the pasture, he raised his Bushmaster and centered the scope on them. They appeared to be a young woman with short blonde hair and a little girl about ten years old. Each carried a backpack. The woman sported two AK-47s, one strapped over her right shoulder and the second clutched in her hands. Denning watched carefully for several minutes to make certain these two were not being used as bait to lure him out. Using the scope, he scanned the surrounding area for any signs of an armed group. He saw no indication they were with anyone else. Well, he might as well confront the intruders and get this over with.
Standing, Denning held the rifle in front of him so it didn’t appear threatening, but so he could raise it to fire in an instant, and moved forward to greet the newcomers.
Upon seeing him, the woman stopped and grabbed the girl’s shoulder, signaling for her to do the same. She stepped in front of the girl, her body shielding the youngster, and waited for Denning. She held her weapon the same way as he, sending the signal that she posed no danger yet should not be trifled with. Denning sized them up. Both wore filthy clothes that had seen better days. They hadn’t washed in God knew how long and smelled from twenty feet away. The woman’s demeanor stood out most. The slumped shoulders and drawn face indicated that she had gone through Hell, an impression reinforced by the partially-healed gouge taken out of her left cheek. Despite her physical appearance, a spark of defiance in her gestures and eyes warned that she still had some fight left in her. Her spirit had been beaten, not broken. The situation out there must have been far worse than he imagined.
As Denning approached, the blonde spoke. “I’m Windows. This is Cindy. We’re not looking for trouble. We just need a place to stay for a while.”
Rotter Apocalypse Page 4