by John Ringo
“…with fire,” said Don, throwing propane canisters at the crowd and shooting them with a rifle to make them explode.
The truck was still moving, slowly, but now Len was standing in the back holding a flame thrower. The approaching mob was engulfed in flames. He could see Sally, Garret and Sean in the mob, mouths red with blood, eyes dead, festering sores all over their bodies. They were zombies and needed to be cleansed.
Cleansed with fire.
* * *
Running out of ammunition was an unknown concept to a mountain community. Unfortunately, few of the residents had thought to stock enough ammo for a Zombie Apocalypse. The “salvage runs” had become even more risky since the trip to the propane facility. There were ammunition stores in Mount Airy, Elkin to the south, and Galax to the north up over the Blue Ridge. For that matter, there were National Guard Armories in Winston-Salem and Charlotte, but they might as well have been across the ocean for all the good it did the increasingly isolated community.
The church now served double duty as a de facto Town Hall, with the basement converted to storage of essential supplies now that the initial spread of the disease had run its course. Len sat quietly as Don and Pete Long argued the pros and cons of sending a “salvage team” to the gun shops in Elkin and Rural Hall.
“It’s too far, and too risky!” argued Don.
“What of it?” countered Pete, “Compared to the risk of running out of ammo and having the Zee’s overrun us?”
“The Camp has ammo, right Dave?” Don looked over at his neighbor Dave Wright, who was one of the year-round staff members at Eagle Point Camp.
“Well sure, we’ve got a conex full…” Dave began before being cut off by Pete.
“It’s bird shot, Dave, Don. You know that won’t do a damn bit of good against the Zees!”
Who would have ever thought that a Boy Scout camp would have a shipping container’s worth of ammo? Len thought to himself. Well, maybe the same folks who think that it’s still not enough.
He continued to listen with only half of his attention as Don started to argue with Pete about converting the shells by recasting the lead shot and reloading the shotgun ammo; meanwhile Pete argued for the need to gather additional powder, bullets and brass casings.
“Damned risky!” both Don and Pete yelled at each other until Pastor Garber finally stepped in to calm the men down before the argument got worse.
“Brother Leonard, you have been awfully quiet,” the Pastor said, sitting down next to him as the two former combatants retreated to opposite sides of the sanctuary, each surrounded by friends trying to either reinforce or dissuade them from their stated positions.
Len sighed.
“I don’t know. I just don’t understand how we’re going to make it at all, Pastor. If we’re not fighting Infected, we’re fighting each other.”
“Yes, my son, I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about the radio. I know you don’t want to hear it, but the people in this surrounding areas need to know that we alive, we’re surviving, and there is Hope. God has a plan, for you, for me, for all of Mankind. We are here to be his Witness…”
“That’s it! Witness Hill!”
Len’s sudden outburst silenced the room. He realized belatedly that he’d jumped up and much to his chagrin, had hit the Pastor in the jaw at the same time. By the time he’d sat back down, apologized and checked Pastor Garber for injury, the rest of the men had gathered around.
“Witness Hill is a myth. An urban legend,” said an unidentified person in the room.
“No, it’s real,” said Don. Pete and Dave both nodded agreement. He continued, “My cousin did some home renovation work up there. One of the houses even had an elevator down to a cave outfitted as a safe room.”
Witness Hill was the local nickname for an unnamed gated neighborhood high up on Fisher’s Peak, northeast of town. The town rumor mill had decided that the anti-social residents of those homes were either in the Witness Protection program or retired spies—or even crime lords. The fact that the residents were never seen in town coupled to the fact that it was a gated community in an area where the mountains and sparse roads made gates unnecessary, served to further the rumors. Whatever the truth of these mysterious neighbors, the few facts that were known suggested that they had very good security. In the mountains of North Carolina, security meant guns, and guns meant stocks of ammunition.
As the conversation turned to plans to “search for survivors and supplies” on Witness Hill, Len became aware that Pastor Garber was still waiting attentively at his side. With a sigh, he turned back to the minister. “Pastor, I’ve told you repeatedly, I’m not that type of engineer.”
“Nevertheless, Brother Leonard, you have a greater appreciation of electronics than anyone else since Sister Tracey left us.”
“You still don’t have an antenna!”
“Ah, but we do. The Good Lord has provided.”
* * *
Just two miles northwest of town, but nearly a thousand feet up on the Blue Ridge, was Fisher’s Peak, one of the many peaks and ridges comprising the Blue Ridge and the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway National Park. Parks and community facilities along the ridge received power from a grid that included hydroelectric, solar, nuclear and fossil fuel power plants throughout North Carolina, Virginia, and Tennessee. Lowgap residents could look up the mountain and see that the navigation lights were still lit at the four television and radio broadcast antennas on Fisher’s Peak. Occasionally a car would slowly make its way down the switchbacks on NC-89 and tell of mountain farms and communities that remained relatively free of Zee’s.
Pete Long prepared a group of residents to raid Witness Hill, while Pastor Garber and Len planned for a smaller group to attempt a more difficult sortie up Fisher’s Peak. Ordinarily, repair crews serviced the antennas via a long access road originating on the north side of the Blue Ridge. Even though Lowgap and the transmission antennas of Fisher’s peak were both south of the Blue Ridge Parkway, there was no direct road to the facility. There was, however, a steep, narrow trail running leading from the top of Witness Hill to the end of Fisher’s Peak Road about three-quarters of a mile away and five hundred feet uphill. The trail was barely navigable by four-wheel all-terrain vehicles uphill to the gravel road, but would likely be too steep for the downhill return. Therefore Len, Don and two other men would accompany the larger group to Witness Hill, then begin the climb to Fisher’s Peak. Once their task was completed, they would decide whether to risk the downhill trail, abandon the ATVs and climb down on foot, or take the greater risk of following the access road through areas with uncertain conditions and suspicious residents.
“I still don’t understand how the ham radio is supposed to connect to the transmitter.”
Len was going over final plans with Don, Pete Long and Pastor Garber. Pete was primarily in charge of the team that would inspect and salvage ammo and supplies from the fortified homes on Witness Hill, but he was in overall charge until Len, Don and the rest of their team started up the trail. For once, Pastor Garber had been overruled and would be staying behind; the elderly minister had developed a deep cough the past few weeks, and all of the residents feared for his health.
Garber tapped a dusty, leather bound book on the table in front of him.
“Sister Tracey found my son’s radio log. In it he talks of the Ham Club repeater installed at the Channel 12 antenna. With our tall aerial broken, the radio will only reach a few miles and is affected by the mountains. The club installed the relay to assist members with limited funds and low-power. Once you make certain that the repeater is on and powered, set the frequency, and we will be able to broadcast and listen from here.”
The minister began to cough again, and Len excused himself to assist the pastor back to the parsonage. After seeing him to bed, Len returned to the planning session.
Pete had changed the plan to one pickup truck and one ATV. Many of the vehicles that had been occupied by refugees remained p
arked at the camp due to the fuel shortages and missing ignition keys when the owners became Infected. However, there was a small pickup that had been configured as an “off-road monster truck” with high clearance, four-wheel drive, and oversized off-road tires. While the chromed crash bars, lights and winch were intended for show, they were fully functional. The new plan was to carry one ATV in the bed of the truck and make good use of 4WD and winch to navigate the steep trail as much as possible. The good news was that the truck would allow them to carry more tools, supplies and arms.
The day of the raid dawned clear, but with a hint of Autumn chill. Len’s team would support the larger team as they quickly checked houses lower on the hill, clearing the path to the trail-head near the highest and largest house in the gated community. There was no movement, nor survivors at the first house they encountered. Pete had divided the townsfolk into smaller teams tasked with defense, clearance or salvage. One of the salvage teams would return to check for salvage on their way back down, but they were not hopeful, as a quick survey suggested that the house had been stripped of useful items.
Shots rang out as they approached the second home. A minivan carrying one of the clearance teams had headed up the driveway before being shot at by someone at that property. The van ran off the driveway into a ditch. The riders bailed out and took cover as the shooter continued to target the van. Len heard Pete on the radio advising the other teams to bypass the house until they knew what else they would encounter in this neighborhood. The van had to be temporarily abandoned, and Len ended up with two additional riders in the bed of the pickup along with the ATV. There were no further incidents by the time they reached the trailhead near the furthest end of the development. There was one more house just past the next bend, but Len’s party would part ways and head up to the transmitters from here.
They were between the first and second switchback on the trail, a quarter mile from the trailhead, and still a half mile from Fisher’s Peak Road, when the truck began to slip. Clay Davis was driving the truck and Don was on the ATV; everyone else was on foot. Don had unreeled the steel cable from the winch and was headed uphill to tie it off to stabilize the truck. The grade was about thirty degrees, and without the line, the truck was in real danger of tipping.
Len called out, “Don! Stop!” but the ATV was too far away. He keyed the radio that they had borrowed from the Scout Camp. “Don! The truck is slipping, release the cable!”
There was slack in the winch line, so Don had it looped it over the tie-down rack on the back of the ATV and was holding the end in his hand. on the handlebar with his loosely attached to the back of the ATV. The truck began to slide, and Len could see the slack rapidly disappearing. If Don didn’t release it, it could flip the ATV over—or worse.
Clay was working the steering back and forth to try to get traction for the truck without turning sideways to the slope. It didn’t seem to be working, though, and the truck continued sliding toward the drop-off at the edge of the first switchback. Don felt a sharp pain from his hand and tension in the cable, so he turned to look over his shoulder but didn’t release his hold on the steel cable. The continued motion of the ATV caused three things to happen in rapid succession: First the steel cable dug into the flesh of Don’s hand, drawing blood. Second, the tension on the ATV caused the front wheels to lift from the ground. Third, the combination of forces on Don caused him to be pulled off of the ATV as that vehicle flipped end-for-end.
The sliding truck came to a stop partially against a large rock at the edge of the switchback. One tire was hanging out in midair and the rear axle was firmly wedged against the rock. A trickle of dark liquid started to leak out onto the rock.
Clay got out to check the truck while Len and the others hurried uphill as fast as they could. Don was lying unconscious in the trail, bleeding from hand and head with one leg caught under the overturned ATV. Frances Matthewes, the fourth member of the team righted the ATV while Len tended to Don.
“Rear differential’s cracked” said Clay as he approached. “We could disconnect the driveshaft and just use the front wheels to drive it, but that requires tools we don’t have here.”
“Doesn’t matter, now.” Len said, pointing at Don’s lacerations and the purple coloration of his leg. “We need to get Don back to the doc. Can you two get him down the hill?”
Clay was a big man, the caricature of a mountain man now that his beard had grown out, but Frances was the slim runner type. Her looks were deceptive, though, since she used to help her husband install home air-conditioning units before he became Infected. She nodded, as did Clay. “We’ll rig a sling. I can carry him on my back, and Frances can belay me with the ropes in the truck. What are you thinking?”
“Pastor’s right, we need the radio. It looks like the ATV’s not too bad. I’ll lash the tools to the rack and head on up myself. If the worst comes, I’ll walk.” Putting actions to words, Len checked the ATV to make sure it would function.
“Pete’s not going to be too happy—you off on your own.” Frances pointed out. “Besides, I’m not sure we should move Don.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll deal with Pete when I get back.” Len stopped, and considered his friend’s injury. “You’re probably right. Someone will have to stay here, and the other one can go get help.”
“I’ll go,” said Frances. “I can run faster than Clay and I’m used to cross-country.”
“Good. Clay, watch Don, but don’t move him unless you absolutely have to.”
“Got it. Good Luck”
Len strapped some tools, a shotgun and spare ammo to the ATV while Frances headed back down the trail. Soon he was past the switchback and climbing the mountain with the roar of the engine in his ears. He never heard the sounds of disturbance coming from the trail behind him.
* * *
He slept fitfully on the bare concrete floor. In his dream he was back on the pickup running from the crowd. He saw too many familiar faces behind him, twisted by disease and hatred. Sally, Sean, Garrett, Pete, Don, Frances, Clay, his parents. They were reaching for him and they were gaining. The truck was just not fast enough.
“You must give them Grace,” said Pastor Garber, suddenly looking up at him from beside the pickup. “Cleanse them, they are impure.”
Now Len was standing at the door to the transmitter, he was looking in the direction of the town, but all he could see was columns of smoke rising from somewhere in that direction. He looked down at his hands, there was a flame-thrower, but he didn’t recall picking it up or where it came from. He heard Garber’s voice. “It is the only way.”
* * *
Len had seen no one since the roadblock at the switchback of NC-89 coming down off the Blue Ridge. The semi-tractor trailer truck loaded with granite blocks and gravel had been overturned right at the point where vehicles descending the road would have to slow down for the tight turn. Don had told him that they didn’t want to risk anyone picking up speed on the downhill and ramming the roadblock on the north end of town.
He had expected more than just a single guard, and a barely out of teen-age boy at that. It wasn’t someone that Len recognized, and the young man wasn’t too talkative, just waved him on after he showed identification. It was still two miles into town, and Len had been gone for five days. It was only ten miles by road from the transmitters, but he’d only been on the road for the last mile. The Parkway was a dangerous place these days.
The town was quiet. There were a few people out, but they avoided him. Considering his torn clothes, dried blood and limp, he was surprised he wasn’t greeted with gunfire. He limped on, carrying only a long branch that he’d had to use as both cane and club.
With approaching dusk, he saw no movement or light in the parsonage, with pale candlelight coming from the lower level of the church. As he opened the door, he was assaulted by the smell—blood, vomit, feces and antiseptics. He stopped and stared at the row of cots filled with broken and bandaged bodies. A woman he barely knew from town meeti
ngs came up and guided him to a chair next to Pete Long’s caught.
“Len. You made it.”
Pete’s head, chest, and arms were bandaged, one eye was also covered.
“Well, you may be figuring out now that it was a trap. We lost …” Pete coughed. He raised a bandaged hand to wipe his mouth. The bandages were red with blood, whether from his wound or coughing, Len couldn’t tell. Pete coughed several more times, and the familiar-looking woman sat him up to give him water from a hard plastic cup.
“The houses were booby trapped. There was still someone living in one—you saw that one—but the others had mines. We tripped them when we started to search.”
“What about Don? Frances? Clay?” Len started looking around the room looking for other familiar faces.
Pete was grimacing with pain. Len was getting a stern look from the woman. She was Pete’s wife, he remembered, now. He’d only been introduced to her when he first bought the property. She and Sally hadn’t gotten along—not that that meant anything now.
“We never saw her. Frances. Clay came back into town the next day, carrying Don.” More coughing. There were tears coming from the unbandaged eye. “He was too far gone, he never woke up. Clay stayed all night, and when Frances didn’t return, he carried Don back down the mountain. It was too late, though.”
His eye closed and he lay back down. Pete’s wife started to make her patient comfortable, then turned and gave Len a look that told him it was time to leave.
Clay met him on his way across to the parsonage. “They told me you were back. Please tell me you were successful.” He sat down on the steps to the back door of the building, effectively blocking Len’s entrance to the residence.
“I did it. I have the access frequency to the transponder, and it’s powered…for now.” Len sat on the step beside Clay. “But the Blue Ridge is dangerous. There’s gangs up there on the Parkway. It took me days to work my way around them.” He paused a moment in memory. “And you? Tell me what happened.”