Alaskan Undead Apocalypse (Book 3): Mitigation Book 3)

by Sean Schubert

  The biggest challenge for most of the civilians was moving from the second floor, perceived as slightly more secure, to the ground floor for their living quarters. The library’s windows were covered over with heavy wooden tables and lumber, but those measures only went so far to calm frayed nerves. The library, now illuminated with the sparing light of a handful of fluorescent tubes and a smattering of battery-powered lanterns, began to resemble a prison for refugees.

  Without showers and no water to clean their clothes, rising body odor permeated the walls of books which had been moved and adjusted to afford some level of privacy for those forced to live in such conditions. All of this was done and endured in the name of survival, despite the fact that the militiamen were not subject to the same conditions or deprivations.

  Those men lived in the classrooms primarily on the second floor. Many of them had private rooms all to themselves and enjoyed such basic comforts as beds and working electrical outlets. The divide between the haves and the have-nots was stark and troubling.

  And troubles certainly followed. Such disparity cannot persist indefinitely. Things would first go from bad to worse for one segment within that arrangement.

  A few young women moved upstairs, seeking comfort and security. They were willing to become wives of some of the militiamen, some even having mock ceremonies with vows and as much pomp and circumstance as could be mustered. The wives would clean clothes, maintain living quarters, and, of course, avail themselves of their new husbands’ every nocturnal whim.

  The first handful of wives came somewhat willingly. They were recent widows nearly paralyzed with fear or orphaned daughters or sisters who dreaded the agonizing solitude. Those with husbands or boyfriends or family of any sort stayed in the library...at first.

  When a pair of covetous militia eyes spied the soft feminine form of a wife, the status quo changed. It was no longer a matter of choice. The woman was taken against her will and the protesting husband was beaten within an inch of his life by a beer-plied group of militiamen. The next to suffer the same fate was a father of a late teenage girl.

  Other complaints were met with more intimidation and more threats. Food supplies and other materials gathered in trips were stockpiled in the militia-controlled kitchen and doled out to the others after the Colonel deemed that his men and women had been properly fed and equipped first. It was largely his men, after all, who risked their lives on the excursions and supply runs. Because they shouldered the greater risk, they were entitled to more of the spoils.

  Continued objections by the “civvies”, as the Colonel referred to all those outside of his militia circle, led to mandatory duty rosters for all civilian residents. These duties included emptying latrine buckets, building projects, and any other job the Colonel could imagine.

  No one in the little community realized that their home, once a school, was now an ad hoc military installation under the official command of the Colonel. But looking around after a few short weeks, most recognized their little refuge had changed dramatically. They all felt safer. But at what cost?

  The sinister reality of their situation was finally apparent to all of them when another woman was being forcibly taken. Her brother, seething with contempt and rage, flew at her abductors. He swung his fist as hard as he could and struck one of them. The militiaman’s large, gin blossomed nose was crushed, spurting jets of thick, red blood. The other two uniformed men conducting the raid each plunged their long combat knives into the brother’s chest again and again, finally standing up and shooting him several times for good measure.

  This all took place in the hall, just outside the library entrance. The young girl, barely a teenager, was dragged away as her brother’s life drained away onto the floor. Everyone still in the library watched all of this grisly scene play out without any apparent way to stop it. They cowered and waited and watched.

  If it wasn’t before, the dark costs of their decision to allow the militia to join and then gain control of their lives became apparent to all of them...and still no one acted.

  44.

  Looking down as he spoke so that his words were barely audible, the old man with a grizzly, gray beard and an equally grizzled and gray suit said, “We should be ashamed of ourselves. What are their plans for those kids?”

  The old man was among a group of people reinforcing the fence barricade with sheets of pilfered plywood and lumber. They had already covered any exposed first floor windows similarly. The fence they were trying to fortify was something which had been added by the militia and was, therefore, not completely fastened and secured to the building. In order for the fence to truly do its job, work needed to be done to it.

  The other benefit to the work was that it produced a distraction for the people residing at the school. And the people who needed the distraction were all those without guns, which was everybody who wasn’t part of the militia.

  From their elevated position on the loading dock, a few of the militiamen watched as the work progressed. Ostensibly, they were there to provide security if any skins decided to show their faces. Everyone knew better though. The men and women with guns were as much or perhaps more about watching the workers as anything else. They were the eyes and the ears of the Colonel.

  Other projects had also been implemented to improve their situation over the past weeks. When all was said and done, all the projects simply served to pass the time. And that was exactly what it felt like they were doing again.

  A woman to his left, her head held up recklessly, said, “They had a woman and another person too.”

  Another man, this one younger but appearing just as beaten as the older man, said, “I heard one of those bastards got shot. I mean one of our “Protectors” that is. Got killed too.” He looked back to the wall he was helping to construct and returned to hammering nails into the wood.

  The old man answered, “Good. I hope the son of a bitch suffered. I figure it wasn’t the Colonel. How about Carter or Sullivan? Either of them maybe?” Defiantly, he dropped his hammer and stood back from the wooden palisade which was rapidly reaching completion.

  The younger man shook his head apologetically.

  Sighing, the old man shook his own head and spat. “Seems like a bad time to find ourselves stuck in a rut of bad luck.”

  Her anger flushing her cheeks, the woman, her hair a storm of knotted blonde locks, bristled. “Well, I’m not going to sit here and just let them turn that poor girl into...” She paused, out of breath and wishing for a cigarette, but then continued, “That’s just not gonna happen! Not again!”

  The younger man paused his own hammering. “Keep your voice down,” he warned. “Christ, I don’t want them killing any more of us. I don’t think I can take anymore butchering. I can’t stop thinking about that day and then every day since. It’s bad but it could be a whole lot worse.”

  Fed up, the woman snapped, “That’s bullshit Daniel and you know it.”

  “Would you rather we were all dead?” asked Daniel.

  The woman fired back, “That’s bullshit too.”

  Pulling her further down the wall and away from watching eyes and listening ears, Daniel hissed at her, “Are you saying that they won’t shoot one of us next? They’ve already shown us what they are capable of. The only difference between those militia assholes and the skins on the other side of the wall is that the militia boys don’t eat us after they kill us. What do you want us to do? I mean, what do you think we really can do? Jess, I agree with you. But Christ, what can we do about any of it? They’d probably do the same to you that they’re planning with that other girl just like all the others and I’d be shot or thrown in with those things in the dog kennels or—”

  “I know, I know,” Jess, the blonde woman, interrupted him. “It’s still bullshit. Royce is right. We should be ashamed. And I am.” She thought back on those days that led her to this place filled with fear and regret. That day so long ago seemed more like the images from a long forgotten movie that was
on in the background during one of her many naps than memories from her past. In disjointed bits and pieces, the images presented themselves at unpredictable times.

  The only truly clear memory she had was when they first learned that something horrible had set upon Anchorage and was ravaging the city and its population like a voracious blaze. She had been in her cubicle at work trying to force herself through the endless bureaucratic processes of the modern office when a breathless co-worker burst in and demanded that they all go online to see what was happening. Each of the six of them went to different web based news sources and saw for themselves the chaos erupting in Alaska’s largest city, which lay just so many hours up the only road from where they were. Most of them simply stood up from their desks and departed, not certain if they would ever see the office or their co-workers again. A few quiet, tearful farewells were shared, but fear muted all of their thoughts. There was no reporting to supervisors or asking permission. In point of fact, most of the supervisors had already gone.

  Jess sat at her workstation for several minutes after everyone else had gone. She had never felt so alone in the office in all her many years of working there. She was very nearly stunned into a stupor, thinking about all those souls she knew in Anchorage and wondering if each was safe. Her first actual thought was of her daughter.

  She dialed first from her office phone and then from her cell phone but continually encountered that nauseating series of beeps and then the condescending voice informing her that her call could not be completed as dialed...all circuits were busy...or simply the fast busy signal which was the death knell of a failing communique. She was directed to voice mail time and again, which she filled with increasingly desperate messages.

  Her boyfriend Bob had taken her teenaged daughter, Syd, with him in their boat on a late season fishing trip. Jess had burned through all of her leave on prior excursions and was unable to join the two of them for this last trip. She had been talked out of calling in sick to be able to join them, and presently regretted it. She would feel much more comfortable if she could somehow talk to them to ensure that her daughter was safe.

  Leaving one final message on Bob’s phone, she got up from her desk and went out to her car, which sat in a now empty parking lot in the old Carrs Mall in Kenai. She made it back to her house before the roads filled with desperate motorists trying to flee the city. By the time she had arrived to her largely undeveloped neighborhood, which was closer in kinship to the collective prairie homesteads of America’s past, full blown panic was starting to take hold. Cars and trucks of all sizes and varieties started to crowd the highway, desperate to put every inch of pavement as possible in their rearview mirrors. Most towed either fishing boats or, in some cases, small aircraft. Like the frustrated line at the Division of Motor Vehicles, the traffic forced its way in frustrating fits and starts down the highway.

  Her first instinct was to get back on the road and head south to the boat launch in Ninilchik. She was, however, wise enough to realize that she wouldn’t be driving anywhere any time soon. There was very little point in contributing to the growing mess on the main road on the opposite side of the trees.

  She sat there at the window for the better part of the afternoon and evening, sipping a beer absently as she watched the nearly motionless line of headlights on the highway. She listened to a chorus of honking horns and revving engines. The television blathered in the background for some time until a test pattern appeared on the screen. The signal, which originated in Anchorage, had been lost but it was of little interest to her. The Pope could have passed by outside and she would have been oblivious to it. She worried about her daughter. She was at once thankful that she was away from whatever horrible thing might be coming down the road and fretful that Syd was out of her sight and therefore away from her protective maternal sensibilities.

  When her cell phone began to vibrate excitedly on the end table next to her, Jess nearly leapt clear of her pants trying to answer it. It was a text from Bob. He said that he’d heard what was happening in Anchorage, that Syd was safe with him, but he was trying to figure out how to come for her. He’d heard the National Guard or Coast Guard or someone had closed the roads to try and contain the problem. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get to her but he was going to try.

  Crying as she punched letters on the tiny keypad, she explained to him in her best text speak that keeping her daughter safe was much more important than his coming to get her. She said that she would try and make it to them instead. He protested, but she held her ground and made him understand that he needed to protect her daughter.

  He, of course, promised but also said that he would find a way back to her. In mid-text, the signal bars on her phone disappeared and the words ‘No Service’ appeared on her screen. Jess remembered wanting to throw the phone across the room but couldn’t part herself from the only thing which still might lead to a connection to Bob and Syd. She collapsed on the floor, holding the warm phone against her cheek, the phone’s bright lights reflecting in the tears coursing down her cheeks. She hadn’t cried with that much abandon in years; she really hadn’t any cause.

  She remained on the floor for quite some time. The evening gave way to night, which seemed so much darker than usual. The test pattern on the television behind her was the only light she had on in her house.

  Jess gathered herself enough to stand on her feet again. Her neck, a constant source of pain and irritation, was throbbing due to the angle at which she had been lying on the floor. She didn’t much care for pharmaceuticals in dealing with anything, but she was thankful she let her doctor talk her into having a supply of pain medication on hand just in case.

  With the main road in front of her house still full of traffic and the air stirring with the buzz of gears shifting and horns blaring, she realized that her options for leaving at present were fairly limited. She couldn’t get on the road and she didn’t particularly want to start walking, not knowing what was waiting at the other end of the road. Instead, she swallowed two pain pills, curled up under a blanket on the couch, and fell into a deep slumber.

  Sleep was Jess’ secret weapon with which she fought stress. Actually, it wasn’t that much of a secret and it really wasn’t much of a weapon either. When she awoke, the stress was still there but then she also had to deal with the guilt she assessed herself for running from her troubles. Under the present circumstances, it seemed like sleep was as good of an option as any for her to take.

  The next morning, Jess woke suddenly, startled. She sat bolt upright from her position on the couch and looked around in the fading darkness. Autumn mornings were crisp and reluctant. The sun, having been on nearly round the clock duty for the past few months, seemed as tired and hungover as she was.

  Jess didn’t see anything out of place in her house or in the slice of yard she could see through her window. Still, something seemed amiss. She draped the blanket around herself so that it resembled a Roman toga. She wasn’t quite sure any respectable Romans would have Hello Kitty as their traditional attire, but she was comfortable with it. She drifted from the living room to the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot and was headed to the bathroom when she heard a sharp, echoing crack outside. It was down the road a bit, but near enough to draw her back to her window to investigate.

  She couldn’t see clearly due to the angle, but she detected a bit of a commotion up the road. A handful more of the pops convinced her that it was gunshots she was hearing and that she should get herself ready to leave.

  Her thinking limited to taking the next step in front of her, she grabbed her car keys, the couple of bottles of water on the top shelf of the refrigerator, and her cell phone and ran out to her car parked in the driveway. She shot a cautious glance over her shoulder as she dropped into her front seat.

  There were still people down the road. She thought she recognized one of the men carrying a rifle of some sort across his shoulders, but from that distance it was hard to be certain. Maybe she had seen him
at the liquor store or maybe at the Carrs grocery store. He might have been a client of some different component of her office for all she knew. Regardless, with the man were a handful more, all of whom appeared to be armed.

  Jess paused in her car, worried that perhaps she didn’t want to draw their attention toward her. The keys were already in the ignition, but she seemed incapable of turning the key. She waited and watched, trying to decide what to do next. The air outside was cool but not yet cold, but her breath generated enough warmth to fog the windows and cloud her vision.

  From the road and the gathered young men, raised voices and sudden movement caught her attention. Jess wiped a clear but streaked spot on the windshield but was confused by what she thought she was seeing. The four or five men were shouting at something out of sight, but their shouts very quickly gave way to shooting.

  They were shooting at someone! Shooting!

  Jess’ hands were shaking uncontrollably as she reached for the key and turned over the car’s engine. Thankfully, her car cooperated and started effortlessly. She turned on the defrost which quickly cleared the windows. Feeling trapped, she didn’t know what to do next. To her right was the unfinished side of what would eventually become a neighborhood. The paved road gave way to a muddy gravel road which came to an abrupt end in an as of yet incomplete cul de sac. It was a dead end. And if she were to turn left, she would drive straight for the shooting and the insanity that seemed to be taking hold in her neighborhood. There would be no avoiding the armed men standing guard behind the trucks.

  Not seeing any feasible options, she put her car into drive and slowly crept out of her driveway. She felt the worried tears burning her eyes and blurring her vision. Jess had no idea what she was going to do once she was spotted by the men, but she had few other options. The men had two trucks sitting nose to nose across the road in the fashion of a police roadblock.