Year of the Dead

by Jack J. Lee

  My company—i.e., Sam and I—started making suppressors for AR-15s. The stock AR-15 weighs about six lbs. Our suppressors were huge. We had to make them big to get enough sound suppression. Look at the difference between a motorcycle and a car muffler and you’ll see why size matters. A round fired from our suppressed rifles still made noise but didn’t bring zombies from miles around.

  We ended up with suppressors that weighed 3 pounds and were 18 inches long; this made the AR-15 difficult to hold and use because of the increased weight on the end of the barrel and the extra length. We solved this problem by converting the AR-15s to a bullpup design. One of the first places to be foraged by the militia was a gun shop four miles north and slightly west of us. They were able to get me a bullpup AR-15 rifle to use as a prototype. A bullpup design gets rid of the buttstock of a rifle while keeping the barrel and receiver the same length. By getting rid of the stock and moving the trigger assembly further up, we improved the balance and decreased the length of the rifle with the suppressor on. We made it possible to attach a bayonet to the suppressor. All the modified rifles used a low-power optical scope which was mounted high enough that the suppressor didn’t affect the sight picture.

  After Sam and I made one prototype rifle and suppressor and made sure it worked, we built fourteen more in an assembly-style method by making fourteen of each part at a time and then assembling them all at once. On November 1st, I was able to give Mark fifteen suppressed AR-15 bullpup rifles. By then we had an assembly line set up so we could produce twenty new rifles and suppressors a week.

  I was smart enough not to hire Cheryl to work with me and tried to escape her as much as possible by working, but it’s difficult to avoid someone who makes you happy. I had always known what Simone was going to do. I even knew she wanted a divorce a couple of weeks before she brought it up. It was the opposite with Cheryl. I never knew what she was going to say or do. When I was with Cheryl, I almost forgot I had a belly wound, that we had no privacy, and the world as we knew it had been destroyed.

  Finally, I told her the truth. I explained to her that I was at best an accidental hero. I had no idea what I was doing when I stood in front of her. I told her I didn’t even feel the pain of my wound until after the vampires were all dead. I thought by explaining to her I wasn’t a hero, she would lose interest in me. I thought by explaining to her we were totally incompatible and it couldn’t work out between us, she would be convinced to look at guys her own age. This backfired on me. Once again she did something that completely surprised me. Turns out she’s not used to men who try to discourage her. I’m now intriguing. I’m really bad at saying no to a woman I’m attracted to. I’m in deep shit.

  Chapter 32: Hiram Rockwell, October 10th to November 18th, Year 1

  The last two months had been incredibly busy. A few days after the vampire attack, we went outside the compound to replenish supplies and search for people holed up in their homes needing rescue. There were roving bands of zombies everywhere. The best way to kill zombies was to take them out at a distance but we couldn’t use regular guns because gunfire would attract zombies from miles around. We only had three air rifles that could take out zombies quietly.

  I asked Frank Burns if there was a store in town where we could scavenge more air rifles. He answered that pre-charged air rifles were expensive toys that didn’t sell well in the US. In Europe where it was almost impossible for a civilian to buy a firearm, they were popular. You could buy three good .22 LR rifles for the same price as a pre-charged air rifle. A .22 rifle could be used against the same kind of game, required a lot less upkeep, and was more reliable. He and his friends had to special order their air guns. He didn’t think there was a store in Utah that had them in stock.

  My next question was whether we could modify a typical pellet gun or a paint ball gun to take out zombies. He replied these kinds of hobby guns produced at most 400 foot pounds of energy. A minimum of a 1000 foot pounds was necessary to penetrate a zombie’s skull. A regular pellet gun could be modified to shoot with more force but it would probably take a lot of work—more work than it would take to make a suppressor for a regular rifle.

  We managed to work out a patrolling system. We were often attacked by up to fifty zombies, sometimes as many as a hundred. Frank Burns was our best shot. As soon as we were in shooting distance of a zombie mob, he used his air rifle to take out the first twenty-five zombies until the pressure canister of his rifle went out. He then switched to a new fully-pressurized air rifle and acted as backup in case we got overwhelmed by too many zombies while another man used a hand pump to re-pressurize the empty rifle. The third air rifle was kept at the ward to help keep the area around our settlement clear.

  Director Jones, armored in a helmet and leather jacket, attacked while Frank shot. He ran in the midst of the zombies, chopping off legs with his sword, trusting to his speed and Frank to make sure he never got caught or overwhelmed by zombies. As soon as the newly crippled zombies were on the ground, the rest of us smashed in their heads. This system was dangerous. It was entirely dependent on Frank and the Director not making any mistakes. There were multiple times when Frank had to shoot a zombie, or even multiple zombies who were just inches away from the Director. Most men would not have been able to handle the constant danger; they would have broken down psychologically. The Director wasn’t stressed; he looked like he was having fun. I’ve met adrenalin junkies before. In combat, their life expectancies are usually short; they take too many chances. The Director was a walking mass of contradictions. He was a Federal administrator who was competent. He was a politician who turned down power. He was an adrenaline junkie who only took necessary chances.

  We needed supplies. We needed to rescue as many people as possible before their food and water ran out. We needed to clear out the zombies as fast as possible and, for now, we needed him to take point and risk his life. I was more stressed about the Director’s life and safety than he was. If he died, his problems were over. The rest of us were fucked.

  Mark Jones had the speed, reflexes and coordination of a professional athlete. His lack of fear made him less likely to make a mistake but if he ever mis-timed a blow or his sword got stuck, or if Frank missed, it wouldn’t have taken much to get a cluster-fuck. Frank, and to a lesser extent Jim Wright, were sharpshooters; they were as good as any military snipers I have ever seen. I’m a good shot but I’m no way close to their level.

  I volunteered to take point with a sword. The Director showed me it was a lot harder than it looked to cut through a thigh with one blow. He had me try to cut through some dead zombies we hung up in an upright position. I know I’m stronger than the Director. But one time out of five, I couldn’t cut through a thigh. There was a trick to it and I don’t have it perfected. The entire militia tried it but no one besides the Director could do it every time. I got frustrated until it dawned on me that there were other ways to take out a zombie’s leg. I got a ten-pound sledge hammer and lengthened the handle by two feet so I could hit a zombie from far enough out of the way it couldn’t grab me. I was able to snap a zombie’s knee with one strike of the hammer every time. Once I got my hammer, I was also able to take point, which gave the director an occasional break. The Director knew if he was able to take breaks, he would be less likely to make mistakes. I wouldn’t say he was grateful to have someone share point with him, but he didn’t protest, and he made it clear he thought it was a good idea.

  The first priority was to get more ammo and then to get suppressors so we could fire our AR-15s without drawing too many zombies. We knew if we kept going hand-to-hand with the zombies, eventually someone would make a fatal mistake.

  Because of the vampire threat, no one went out except in bright daylight. If it was an overcast day we didn’t go out. The thermal camera was in constant use day and night. The camera was a priceless irreplaceable object. Every other thermal camera in existence had been destroyed by the EMP. The duct-tape-and-styrofoam protective case that the Director
had built was replaced with a custom-made stainless steel, covered with foam padding case that could help the camera survive being dropped to the ground, and maybe one swipe from a vampire. We used the camera to make sure a vampire wasn’t holed up in any building before we entered it.

  While we were out foraging for supplies, other ward members, under the direction of Sara and Lisa Beiger, reinforced the walls and roof of the ward house. We needed the ward house to be vampire proof. All of the men and women who were competent shots were given rifles powerful enough to take out a vampire. We had over a hundred rifles in the ward. Vampires were rare, or they were wary of our ward, because we weren’t attacked again. By mid-November our comfort level had improved to the point that we started turning the lights off at night.

  Frank Burns wanted to help Jim build suppressors, but we needed him out with us. He was our best shot. Whenever one of us looked like we were in trouble, he was there. At first it was nerve-wracking to know Frank was shooting a zombie a couple of feet from us, but the man never missed. Regardless of how good the Director and Frank were, men should have died. Given enough time, everyone eventually makes a mistake. It was God’s will no one did.

  It took a couple of weeks for Jim Wright’s company to build fifteen suppressed rifles. The suppressors made our original AR-15s so unwieldy he had to also modify the rifles. He explained to us that he could have built suppressors that were almost completely silent which would wear out after a few hundred rounds, or suppressors that weren’t as effective which wouldn’t wear out. Most likely there were hundreds of thousands of zombies that still needed to be cleared from the greater Salt Lake area. He built suppressors that wouldn’t wear out.

  Christmas came early on November 1st when we got the first set of suppressed rifles. Bullets weren’t a problem. There was an overrun ward in every neighborhood in Salt Lake City. There were approximately thirty-thousand rounds stored in almost all of these wards. These wards were full of easily transportable fuel, water and food along with ammunition.

  Once we got our suppressed rifles, we didn’t need as many men on active duty. The militia got split into two groups: active duty and reserves. Every able-bodied man who could hold a rifle was a member of the reserves and had to train for at least two hours, twice a week. Active duty was for the elite. You first had to volunteer and then you had to be accepted; most volunteers were not accepted.

  I don’t know how it came about, but we stopped using the name militia to describe the active-duty men after we got our rifles. It was fine with me because in the past, I always associated the term militia with amateurs; the reserves were still called the militia. Everyone called us Salt Lake Troopers, or SaLTs for short. It was great being a SaLT. There was no bullshit about supporting the troops; everyone knew they needed us to stay alive. We were volunteering every day to be in harm’s way. They treated us like heroes and it didn’t hurt that we were being paid well. There was so much to be done; every job was important but some jobs, like foraging in an area that had already been cleared of zombies, could be done by anyone. Heading out into unknown, uncleared areas was one of the most dangerous and highly-skilled jobs around and we were paid accordingly.

  One of the first places we foraged was a gun shop at 160 East and 200 South. This was four miles north and slightly west of us. The shop was just a couple blocks away from the Temple. We were too close not to see what had happened. The Temple and the surrounding buildings had been completely overrun. The only things we found were zombies, blood stains, and some scraps of clothing from the people who had been eaten. We cleared out the Temple as best we could, then closed it up and weather-proofed it. We knew we would be back.

  The Director wanted to save as many people as possible. We knew from experience water ran out fast. When we got the guns, our first mission was to get to as many wards as possible. The wards had the greatest chance of holding people. If people weren’t present, the wards had necessary and easily transportable supplies. Prior to the EMP, Helen Hansen had been in radio contact with just six wards out of the hundreds that had been within radio distance of us. There were four wards in Murray and Draper, towns a few miles south of us. One ward was in Provo, 40 miles south of us and another in Logan, 80 miles north of us. Art Bingham’s daughter and son-in-law were at the Provo ward.

  The Director decided we should go south first. The Riverside 2nd and 7th wards shared a meetinghouse at 464 W. Germania Street in Murray, Utah which was 6.5 miles south of us. Their meetinghouse was the closest one to us where we knew people had survived the zombie outbreak. We had lost radio contact with them after the EMP. We knew there had to be survivors because we could occasionally hear gunshots coming from that direction.

  By November 12th, we were ready to re-establish contact with and possibly rescue the Riverside ward. We had two squads of ten men, one of which was led by me and the other by Todd Bloom, who was now a sergeant. Todd may have been 66-years-old, but other than me and the Director, no one else was able to keep up with him. He was an extremely fit guy, not just for a 66-year–old, but for a guy of any age.

  It took us three hours to make our way by foot to the Riverside 2nd ward. It took time to properly clear out the zombies on our way. The ward was surrounded by about fifty-thousand zombies. We spent the next couple days clearing a path big enough to drive four armored trucks to a point a couple hundred yards away from the ward. Our armored trucks started off as full-sized diesel 1960s-era trucks, which had been minimally affected by the EMP because they basically had no electronic components. While we had been exploring, foraging, and clearing out zombies, the Beigers had been building armored vehicles for us. Sheet metal from metal dumpsters had been triple-layered with plywood between each layer and welded over every exposed surface of the vehicles, including the undersurface. All of the tires were run-flats.

  The glass in the front window and two side windows had been taken out and replaced with wire fencing. When the vehicles were not being driven, metal shutters could be shut from the inside to completely seal the windows. The rear windows on the trucks were kept glass-free and opened wider so people could crawl between the cab and the rear bed. The rear bed was entirely enclosed and could carry twelve men sitting, or sleep six in tight and cramped collapsible bunk beds. The metal shutters and the walls and ceilings of the enclosed beds had small two-inch diameter holes that could be opened to look and shoot through. These were always two holes placed vertically, positioned perfectly so the optical sight of a nonsuppressed barrel could be used through them. Our armored trucks had a top speed of 12 miles an hour. Loaded on top of the trucks was zombie fencing taken from overrun wards. If the four trucks were parked in a rectangle, the fencing could be anchored to the trucks, creating our own mini enclosure. When the fences were up, stabilizing legs were placed at the four corners of the trucks so zombies pulling on the fences wouldn’t cause the trucks to rock back and forth.

  Jim Wright and his partner made new super-quiet suppressers for us. With these suppressors the sound of a shot was about as loud as a quiet cough. We set up on a street where homes and buildings kept us out of sight of the ward. There were only a few zombies in this area. We used the new suppressors to take these zombies out. It’s too bad these new suppressors wore out after 200 shots.

  Once the enclosure was set up, three of us headed toward the ward shooting our rifles without any suppressors. This got the zombies attention. All of us quickly walked back to our enclosure. Every few steps we turned and fired some more rounds. By the time the three of us were back in our portable enclosure, almost all of the fifty-thousand zombies were headed our way. We locked the gate behind us and climbed on top of the trucks where the rest of the troops were.

  We had set bench rests and chairs up on top of the trucks so we could be comfortable while we shot the zombies. It was exactly like shooting fish in a barrel. We shot the zombies furthest out from the fence. Each truck had five to six guys assigned to it. There were two guys at all times on top of the trucks s
hooting. The zombies were at most fifty feet away from the shooters. All of us were SaLTs, which meant all of us were reasonable shots and, at these distances, almost never missed. We used regular AR-15s that weren’t suppressed. We didn’t care about the noise. We wanted to draw as many zombies toward us as we could. Eventually, if you shoot enough rounds, you need to clean the suppressors or they will stop working. There was no point in fouling our suppressors if we didn’t need them.

  We had 300,000 rounds with us. All of us were wearing ear protection. Each shooter shot ten rounds then switched guns. Just firing bullets doesn’t place much wear on a barrel. Firing bullets out of hot barrels really wears them out. Every shooter had a loader that handed loaded guns to the shooter. The other guys cleaned the weapons every time 100 shots were fired. The shooters switched out every time they got to a 100 shots or they missed twice, whichever came first. All the guys on active duty were competitive; it’s almost a requirement of being a SaLT. We had a contest going on who would get the most perfect rounds in with the least amount of misses. All 100 shots had to be taken in three minutes or it counted as a miss.

  The EMP had destroyed every electronic watch in existence, but every jewelry store had mechanical automatic-winding watches that were there for the taking. All of us had 100-meter water-resistant watches with stop-watch functions that, prior to the zombie attack, would have cost thousands of dollars. We were competitive, but not stupid. Frank was going to win first place; we didn’t set aside any money for him, no matter how well he did. The rest of us were playing for second place.

  Frank is a quiet guy and he usually doesn’t talk much. He got cocky. He claimed he wouldn’t miss a single zombie and started taking side bets from SaLTs who didn’t believe him. There was a lot of good-humored trash-talking going on. Morale was great.