DEAD: Snapshot (Book 4): Estacada, Oregon

by Brown, TW

  This one had what sure looked like a .50 caliber machine gun on top. It matched the description of one from the other day all the way down to the man who stepped outside of the vehicle and brought a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He scanned them as intently as Ken and the others in the tower returned the scrutiny.

  When the man climbed back inside the bus, Ken wanted to relax, but that would not happen until that bus backed away again. If half of what he’d heard from some of the patrols regarding the activities of this bus in particular and its occupants was true, then vigilance would be key.

  When the door opened again and the man emerged, making a big show of unslinging the harness that held perhaps the largest sword Ken had ever seen and setting it on the road, the concern rose. He wasn’t afraid of this man specifically, but if this stranger was brazen enough to approach them like this, then he was obviously unafraid of the half a dozen weapons that were visibly trained on him. Not to mention the ones that he surely had to expect to be concealed.

  Getting to his feet, Ken looked at the rest of the people on his sentry watch team. It was clear that none of them were interested in coming off the tower to meet this stranger.

  “You all know what to do.” Ken eyed them and waited until he saw them each nod in the affirmative. “Do not hesitate. And you can’t worry if I am in the crossfire. Just do what needs to be done.”

  Climbing down, Ken exited the training area’s fenced perimeter and gave a nod to the people in the collection of RVs and heavy construction vehicles set up across the highway just before the road that turned into town in front of city hall. That was the only clear entrance to town now that they’d put a triple row of concrete barriers in place at the other few streets that gave access to the town from the highway.

  Currently, the watch team that stayed on duty in this location was sporadic at best. It was strictly volunteer, but hopefully people would start to figure out that this was not just a part time need. This was vital to their survival as far as he was concerned.

  The man saw him approaching and began to amble his way like he was on an afternoon stroll. As they drew nearer with every step, Ken felt a peculiar unease. The man wasn’t even glancing at the numerous dark stains that marred the highway from the countless undead that had come this way and been shot down.

  He passed a sandbag set-up with a pair of gunners hunkered down behind it, the barrels of their rifles tracking him as he walked. The man didn’t even glance in that direction. He was either very brave or very stupid; too often, those two items walked hand-in-hand.

  “So, looks like you are doing pretty well for yourself,” the man said by way of introduction. “Took an entire town, did ya?”

  “Actually, I’ve lived here most of my life.” Ken eyed the man, appraising him.

  The man standing in front of him was a giant. He was actually looking down at Ken which was something that Ken was not used to. His brown hair was shaved on the sides, but the strip he kept on top was long and pulled back into a ponytail. His skin had a coarse ruddiness like he spent too much time in the sun without sunscreen. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes, but it did not seem to be that of happiness or merriment. It had a predatory gleam to it that made Ken even more cautious.

  “Hell, then we’re damn near neighbors,” the man laughed in a deep, smooth tone. “I live right over in Happy Valley. Born and raised actually.”

  “So what brings you over here?”

  “Sure as hell wasn’t gonna head towards Portland.” The man shot a look over his shoulder for a moment and Ken felt his hand edge toward the handgun on his hip. When the man turned back to him, if he noticed Ken’s wariness, he made no indication. “That place is burning. Damn zombies are thicker than day old oatmeal…and about as pleasant.” The man chuckled at his own joke. “Figured it would be smarter to seek out supplies a little closer to home.”

  “Yes, well, you won’t be finding anything out this way.” Ken kept his voice as flat and free of emotion as he could. “I think…or at least I hope you can appreciate that we are taking care of our own first and foremost.”

  The man peered past Ken, looking over his shoulder with just a hint of eagerness. As he looked, he leaned forward just a bit, causing Ken to take a step back in order to maintain the distance between them.

  “Easy there, friend,” the man said.

  “I don’t know you well enough to call you friend,” Ken replied, an icy edge to his voice that hinted at anger. “And I think it would be best if you and your folks looked elsewhere for…supplies.” He put just a slight edge to that last word. That was as close to a warning as he was willing to offer. The man could take the hint or suffer the consequences.

  “Hey…relax, old timer,” the big man said, putting his hands up and making a gesture for Ken to calm down. “We’re just looking. Not trying to get you all worked up. Hell, I bet we could offer up something worth you maybe thinking of taking us in.”

  “I don’t see that as likely, we are doing all we can to keep the folks already here fed and safe.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he groaned inwardly at having revealed what he figured to be actionable data.

  “And wouldn’t it be nice if you had a little extra firepower?” The stranger gestured over his shoulder, obviously indicating the .50 caliber machine gun on top of the school bus. “Imagine having that bad mamma-jamma parked here at your roadblock.” The man smiled broad with a grin that made Ken think of what the victim of a serial killer must see in their last seconds. There was not a hint of warmth.

  “I think we’re doing pretty well.” It was hard not to let his gaze drift over to that bus and its mounted machine gun.

  “Maybe…but there ain’t much can stand up to the kind of firepower that baby packs when we let ‘er rip.”

  Ken had to wonder if that was a veiled threat. Or even an unveiled one. Whatever it was, he’d had about enough.

  “I don’t think you’d like it here,” Ken finally said as he took a step back to put just a bit more distance between him and the imposing man.

  “We might have more in common than you think,” the man said.

  The smile on his face vanished, and for just a split second, Ken believed he could see what a true face of evil looked like.

  “What makes you think that?” He hadn’t meant to ask the question. He wanted this encounter to end, but there was just something about the man that made Ken want to know more…for precautionary reasons.

  “C’mon…this is Estacada, Oregon…right?”

  “And?”

  The man glanced past Ken again. Obviously scanning the people manning the tower at his back. “I don’t see any of them in your little crew.”

  “Them?”

  “You know.” The man actually winked and leered at Ken.

  “I really don’t.” Ken had no idea what this guy was talking about, but something was telling him that he really did not want to.

  “Tree-hockey jockeys…”

  Ken stared blankly.

  “Jungle bunnies…”

  The light dawned and Ken felt his stomach turn.

  “Nig—” the man began, but Ken cut him off.

  “I think we’re done, Mister…” He realized he’d never gotten the man’s name, but he also just as quickly realized that he didn’t care.

  “Evans…Don Evans. Diamond Donnie to my friends.”

  “Yes, well, Mr. Evans, I think you and your people need to go.” Ken stepped back a few more steps, his hand now resting on the grip of his pistol.

  “You might want to take a moment, old timer,” Don Evans said through clenched teeth. “Maybe you didn’t notice the firepower we got sitting on top of that old bus. Maybe you think your little band of backwoods Incestacadians can stand against us. But from what I see in the hands of your little group of backwoods hillbillies, you’re basically bringing a knife to a gunfight.”

  Ken felt his face warm as anger turned to hot acid in his gut. He’d lived for years listening to people
in the Portland area dismissing his town and the people in it as little more than uneducated inbreds. Most times, he could care less what city types thought, but now, he was more than ready to show this guy just what could go wrong if a bunch of city folks chose to mess with so-called rednecks.

  “I don’t guess we’d come away unscathed with that big .50 cal you got over there.” Ken leaned forward slightly, locking his gaze on this Don Evans with just the hint of a smile lifting the edges of his mouth. “But I’d be willing to put your spray-and-pray up against the experienced hunters sitting up on that tower, as well as the ones you ain’t seen, any day you like. So here is what I’m gonna do…I’m gonna give you exactly sixty seconds to be out of my sight.”

  “You seriously threatening me, old man?” Don barked a laugh, but Ken could see in the man’s eyes that he was not nearly as confident as he’d been just a few seconds ago.

  “I’m just telling you how it is…and that you now have fifty-five seconds.” Ken glanced at his watch for emphasis.

  The man took a few steps back. When he turned his back and strode to his waiting bus, making a circling gesture with one hand that had his people all returning inside the long, yellow vehicle, Ken allowed himself a little sigh of relief. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how an actual confrontation would have played out. His people might be good with their rifles when it came to hunting deer or even shooting a zombie; but shooting a living person was another story entirely.

  When the bus backed up and vanished around the bend in the highway, he allowed himself to take an even deeper breath of relief. Still, he did not relax until the sound of the rumbling engine faded away to nothing, leaving only the sounds of birds and the rustle of the breeze through the trees that were filling out with their spring foliage.

  He turned and walked back to his people. He saw a lot of eyes lifted in question, but nobody spoke. Not a soul asked what had happened. He imagined that most of them had probably been able to figure it out.

  Sure, there had been rumors of buses in Sandy harassing people who were searching for supplies. There had also been a story about one in the Happy Valley area. What most people had not heard from Colton’s group in regard to the Happy Valley incident were the lynchings.

  Ken had not ruled out that the events were related, and now he was willing to believe that he had confirmation. Sure, he doubted that this Don Evans person was the only one spreading chaos and acting on base impulses that a law enforcement system had kept at least somewhat at bay, but he just had a feeling.

  That very afternoon, he gathered a few men and made the trip to Happy Valley again. This time, supplies were not the top of the agenda, although they would certainly make it a point to try not to come home empty handed.

  As they drove along the empty highway, Ken was not ignorant of the silence among his team. He’d hand-picked this team based on having known these men the longest and believing that they were of the same frame of mind. Of all the men along for this trip, Sean Drinkwine was the most somber. He was also the man Ken had turned to first.

  He’d shared what Evans had said as well as what he hadn’t. He then revealed what his intentions were in regard to the victims that were—to the best of his knowledge—still hanging from a series of street lights. When he asked if Sean wanted to accompany him, he’d barely gotten the words out of his mouth before the man agreed to join.

  As they drove, they passed a pair of homes that were burning. Ken slowed just enough to appraise whether they were a danger. Both looked like they were burning out and would not continue to spread. He couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been accidents, or purposely set by somebody like Don Evans…if not the man himself.

  One thing about living away from the city was the lack of light pollution. It made the few residences that dotted the area stand out. Most were dark, and he figured the former residents had run for one of the area FEMA shelters. A few showed signs of life, but he knew a couple of the people along this stretch of road…he wouldn’t want to be the one who tried to just barge into their property.

  Out on the fringes of the city, there were still those with a deep-rooted distrust of the government. They weren’t radical enough to blow up federal buildings, but they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a trespasser before the apocalypse. Only God knew what these folks would do now. One such group were the people who ran the shooting range they passed along the way. There were rumors that this was heavily frequented by some serious militia types that had beliefs making his seem liberal by comparison.

  By the time they wound through the curving section of the highway known as the Carver Curves, Ken was on full alert. There was a large trailer park as well as a developing townhouse project ahead on the left. It was this stretch of road where somebody had taken it upon themselves to enact their horrific attacks on a handful of Hispanic and African-American men and women…and children. The bodies still swung on the ends of the ropes. Not one of them twitched or moved. No, these people had been strung up and murdered. He had little doubt as to the culprit.

  “We just going to leave them up there?” Sean asked in a hoarse voice that was barely a whisper.

  “I wish we had time to deal with them all properly,” Ken replied. “Maybe someday…but certainly not now.”

  And just that fast, the conversation was over. They drove on until they reached the T-intersection of the 212 and 224 highways. There were signs of a gun battle at what remained of an old produce stand to their left.

  He considered the intersection for a moment and then made his decision. When he turned left, a few rumbles and gasps sounded in the cab.

  At last, Colton broke the silence. “We just driving around, or are you going to eventually do what we came for?”

  “I just want to have a look around first,” Ken said absently as his eyes scanned both sides of the road.

  At last, he spotted what he’d come for. There was a giant distribution center for Fred Meyer stores in the Portland/Metro area. Parked amidst the countless trailers were a pair of school buses.

  Making a quick decision, he pulled over into the emergency lane. Shutting off the engine, he allowed the silence to wash over him.

  At last, he heard something. It sounded like distant cheering. It almost reminded him of what the football stadium sounded like from out in front of his brewery on game night. There were a few individual cheers that came out louder and then a few seconds of the oppressive silence.

  That moment was shattered by a scream that Ken had heard before. It was the scream of a person being eaten alive. His mind painted a hundred possibilities of what might be taking place, but he shoved them aside. He had no desire to let those thoughts find purchase.

  “This is it.” Ken’s comment wasn’t directed at anybody. It was generic enough that they all could draw whatever conclusion they cared to from it. He simply climbed out of the vehicle and ensured that the powerful hunting rifle he was carrying, along with his favorite handgun, were locked and loaded.

  The closer he got to the big gate that opened to the warehouse complex, the colder his chest felt. He knew it was not an actual cold that was encasing him, but rather his mind doing what it could to shield him from what waited just ahead.

  He could hear footsteps behind him as the men he’d chosen followed. When they reached the back end of one of the buses, Sean Drinkwine placed a hand on Ken’s arm.

  “I know what has to be done…and I support this.”

  “But?” Ken whispered, hearing the unspoken word at the end of the man’s statement.

  “I can’t.”

  Ken didn’t ask for an explanation. He held no ill will. That surprised him just a bit as the realization struck.

  “But I can do something.” The mayor nodded at the two buses. “I can promise that these things won’t be chasing us if we have to leave on the run.”

  Ken nodded and then slipped down the side of the long, yellow bus. He had noticed that neither one sported a .50 cal machine gun mounted on top. That could ce
rtainly mean that this was not in any way tied to Don Evans. But in the off chance that it was, he was going to inflict damage. And if these people weren’t part of that Evans person and his band of evil, then they were at least as bad. He knew this without having to see what was taking place inside the huge warehouse building just ahead.

  Once he scouted the approach and was certain the way was clear, he crouched low and hurried to the building where shouts and cheers could be heard, along with…crying? That last sound was muffled, but he was certain that he heard it.

  He reached over and gripped the handle of the door, giving it a slow turn. It was unlocked. Glancing at his team, he raised his eyebrows. If he saw any doubt, he would back away from this. Nobody looked to have even the most remote hint of trepidation. They could hear the screams along with the ominous and unsettling cheers.

  Had he possessed even the slightest doubt that, while risking so much, they were doing the right thing, it vanished in the trailing gurgles that came as the scream ended. The warehouse was a huge, open space. There were tall shelves that were easily thirty feet high that came nowhere close to the ceiling. The wide aisle that bisected the warehouse lengthwise was a good twenty feet wide. It was this aisle where all the “excitement” was taking place.

  Using a bunch of wooden crates containing who knows what, a makeshift ring had been made. In that ring, Ken spied a trio of undead and a single living person who was fighting them off with her bare hands.

  The thought that came to Ken was that this was the new world version of dog or cock fights. It was made worse by the fact that this group of men—all white—were obviously pitting men and women of Hispanic or African-American heritage against zombies. Taking a look, Ken saw that they could make it over to one of the rows, and that if they used it, they could actually come out behind the middle of the ring. The fifteen men who were shouting, cheering, and appearing to be placing bets would have their backs to him and his group.