by Dave Lund
Sandra flashed the headlights of the Wagoneer to signal Jack to pull over. Jack was now on station to find a safe place to let the kids out for a good half-hour, someplace they could run and play, someplace safe in a world overrun by the dead.
While in college, Jack had dabbled in skydiving, making a handful of training jumps at a little drop zone at the airport in Dublin. Ten years ago the airport had been small, with only a handful of hangars and buildings, and it had been wide open and surrounded by a fence. The idea of finding a schoolyard playground scared Jack, but he figured the group could circle the wagons to create a safety buffer out in the field next to the runway.
He led the convoy into the airport, past the old weathered hangars, and drove across the runway to the open area between the runway and the fence line. Once the kids were out and happy to be playing, Bexar and Jack began to come up with a plan for a side trip.
“Dublin, as in Dublin Dr. Pepper,” Bexar said, “made with the original cane sugar formula. Come on, everyone sells it here, how hard would it be to sneak into a gas station and take a case of it?”
“Bexar, do you know how crazy that sounds? What about the kids and our wives?”
“They’ll be fine, Jack, we’ll just be gone for ten minutes, besides we need some snack food for the kids and we really need a bunch more Gatorade if we’re going to the desert.”
“Okay, but we better move fast,” Jack said, “and we’re taking the FJ so we don’t have to dick with that trailer on the Scout.”
Bexar told the girls what they were doing and before much protest could be raised, he and Jack climbed into the FJ and took off across the airport as quickly as they could.
Leaving the airport, they turned towards town in search of a convenience store. They passed a nursing home and could see roughly three dozen elderly undead shuffling around the property.
“That’s so fucked up!” exclaimed Jack. “Those poor bastards were lying in wait for death, and when it finally came it was taken away from them!”
“Jack, let’s just hope that none of them head this way until we get back to the airport and get out of here.”
The first store they came to looked like it hadn’t been updated since the mid-sixties, and the fuel pumps were about as old but looked like they’d still been operating when the end came. A couple of oilfield trucks were parked in the parking lot, as well as a sheriff’s patrol car.
Bexar parked the FJ by the fuel pumps and left the motor running as they climbed out and walked to the front of the store. The windows were dark and they couldn’t see inside the store. Bexar pulled open the door and held it open with his foot while Jack made entry, switching on the light on his AR. Both were overwhelmed by the stench of death, and they hoped that whatever it was, it was really good and dead.
Sensing movement behind the counter, Bexar moved the muzzle of his rifle left to light up the possible threat with his weapon light. Behind the counter stood Flo the cashier, ready to help any new customers, white apron and name tag still on her body. The milky white orbs of her eyes flashed in the light as she raised her undead arms towards the fresh meal. Bexar thumbed the safety down and pressed the trigger to the rear, and Flo’s head exploded backwards, covering the lottery scratch-off display.
The single shot brought a handful of moans from the dark towards the back of the store. Sweeping left, Bexar found another zombie just as Jack’s AR barked through the dark store, engaging his own threats. They shot another four undead in the store before being able to call clear.
“Jesus, Jack,” said Bexar, “maybe we should throw something into the darkness next time to see if there’s a reaction. Flo scared the crap out of me!”
“Who the fuck is Flo?” asked Jack.
“The clerk. She was standing behind the counter, name tag and all.”
They searched through the store, finding the Dublin Dr. Pepper they had come for, as well as three cases of Gatorade, two cases of water, some lighters, and a few candy bars. Ten minutes later, they were back on the road and headed back towards the airport, Jack at the wheel. Bexar hunched over the dashboard in the passenger seat, scratching at a lottery ticket.
Jack looked at him incredulously. “Seriously, a scratch-off?”
“Bash all you want,” said Bexar, “but I just won twenty bucks! Let’s go back and get Flo to cash it for me.”
“Fuck you,” replied Jack, and Bexar started laughing.
Jack looked back at the road just in time to see one of the nursing home undead bounce under the bumper of the FJ before the truck lurched to the left.
“Shit, blew the front left tire, but I don’t think we should stop with those other old-guy undead headed this way.”
“I’m with you, Jack,” said Bexar. “Airport first, and the girls can give cover while we fix it.”
Now driving with a flat tire, it took them twenty more minutes to make it to the middle of the airport, where they found the Scout with the trailer abandoned, their wives and children nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 29
Glenwood Springs, Colorado
Cliff’s first thought was that someone was knocking on the door of his walkup outside of Alexandria, Virginia. Consciousness began to wash over him like waves, and he slowly began to remember where he was and how he got there. The van was lying on its side, and Cliff was crumpled against the driver’s door between the bench seat and the metal dashboard.
The smell of gasoline was overwhelming as he began wiggling his toes, working his way up his body to make sure he didn’t have any serious injuries. With more consciousness came more pain. He was sure he had a concussion, but at least nothing seemed to be broken.
The fuel he had stored in the distilled water jugs had spilled out, covering much of his gear, including his food. He still had three more MREs in his go-bag with the extra ammo and a few other items, but the newly acquired supplies were tossed about in the van. Pulling himself out from under the dash to look out the cracked windshield, he was greeted by a blackened face that had no lips and only one eye, and was clawing at the windshield. His immediate reaction was to draw his pistol, but checked himself—if he shot through the windshield he risked breaking open the only protection he had.
Cliff gathered his rifle and his go-bag and pushed open the side doors of the van, which were now at the top of the van, climbing out on top of his stolen wreck. Scanning the area, he saw about a dozen undead shambling towards the van from the rear, and another six from the left. And then there was the one-eyed, no-lipped one at the front, clawing at the top of the van to reach him.
Closest threat first. Cliff knelt on top of the van and put down “no-lips” with a single round from his FN rifle. Spinning on his knee, Cliff took another eight shots and put down the six coming from the left. Turning again, he was about the engage the dozen coming from the rear when he saw a trail of smoke coming from the engine bay in the back of the bus. He didn’t know if the glass EMPI fuel filter had broken in the wreck, spraying the hot motor with gas, or if oil had burped out onto the muffler, and frankly he didn’t care. All he knew was that with all the gas-covered cargo in the van, this was going to be bad.
Cliff shouldered his go-bag and leapt from the van, running across the highway and diving behind the large concrete K-barrier. Peeking over the top of the concrete barrier, he heard a deep foomp from the gas in the cabin catching and erupting into a fireball. The good news, Cliff thought, is that I still have my rifle and go-bag. The bad news is that if there’s any more undead in the area, the moths have their flame.
Trying to stand, his world began to spin and he had to sit down again. The concussion must be a bad one. Taking another peek over the concrete barrier, he saw what looked like at least fifty more undead stumbling out of the shadows of the burned town towards the burning van. Weighing his options, he glanced at the river behind him, but with temperatures in the high twenties, crossing the river would be a death sentence.
Cliff worked his way west, staying behind
the cover of the concrete divider, moving as quickly as he could without succumbing to the nausea and dizziness. He needed a vehicle, and although the highway was littered with vehicles, all of them were too new to have survived the EMP. If a car had been able to survive the event, it wouldn’t have been abandoned on the highway. Cliff didn’t know where he would find transportation, but he knew he couldn’t stay near the burning van and hope to live.
Dublin, Texas
Jack and Bexar found the Scout and trailer abandoned when they limped the FJ with its flat tire back onto the airport. Their wives and children, and the old Jeep, were nowhere to be found. They parked by the Scout, and found no note or indication of where their families had gone. Scanning the airport, Jack saw eight or nine undead who seemed very interested in the last hangar of the row.
“Check it out Bexar,” he said, “my guess is they’re in that hangar.”
“We can’t engage the Zeds,” said Bexar. “If they’re in the hangar, the rounds might punch through the walls.”
“What if I get in the Scout and drive by slowly, drawing them off the hangar, and you flank to get the right angle and put them down?”
“Sounds like a plan, Jack,” said Bexar, walking at a brisk pace with his rifle towards the undead.
Jack started the Scout and drove out across the runway past the undead, then turned and started driving back towards the FJ, away from the last hangar. Eight pairs of undead eyes snapped around towards the movement and locked onto the slowly driving Scout. He continued to drive slow enough to keep the walking dead interested in a hot meal, but just fast enough to be out of their reach, and out of range when Bexar started shooting them.
Bexar lay prone in the grass next to the runway and began lining up his first shot. Slowly letting out a deep breath, he squeezed the trigger of his AR. Twelve shots later all eight undead lay on the ground, released from their doomed fate.
Jack turned and drove quickly towards the hangar, and Bexar leapt to his feet and jogged towards the hangar as well. The side door to the hangar was unlocked, but Jack stopped short of opening the door, instead calling out, “Are you guys in there?”
“Yeah, is it clear?” was the reply.
“Yes, we’re here, and we put down the zombies.”
Jessie opened the door and came out carrying Keeley; Sandra followed, holding Will’s hand. Jessie began talking quickly. “While you guys were out, that group of undead surprised us. We started to drive towards the front but an old truck pulled up and some guys started taking shots at us with a rifle. We left the Scout and drove over here, found the hangar unlocked, and hid. Did you guys see the truck or those people?”
“No, we haven’t seen anyone alive in the whole damned town.”
Jessie was crying into Bexar’s chest now, the stress bleeding off quickly. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
CHAPTER 30
Dublin, Texas
The GPS routed the group back into Dublin proper, but with Jessie’s report of other survivors in the area with unknown, but seemingly ill intentions, the group left the airport and turned away from the town. They were going to have to find another tire for the FJ. They had prepared for flat tires of course; they had a spare, plugs, patches, and the ability to fill a tire on the trucks, but they hadn’t counted on completely destroying a tire by being forced to drive on the flat. Before leaving the airport, Jack and Bexar stripped the shredded tire from the wheel, but kept the wheel.
Reaching Highway 36, they turned right but detoured around the town. After the near miss in Dublin, they wouldn’t stop except to find shelter for the night and scavenge for fuel. They had enough food to make it to Big Bend, but fuel was still a problem. If this had been a vacation with a nice open Interstate route, they probably would have had to stop three times to refuel on their way to the park, but driving the meandering country highways, Jack figured they would need four or five fueling stops.
Bexar’s mind wandered, almost drifting into sleep as they drove down Highway 377 nearing Comanche, Texas. As the last vehicle in the caravan, it was easy to let your mind and body forget about driving, so he didn’t notice at first that the Jeep in front of him hadn’t just slowed down, but had slammed on the brakes. Swerving abruptly left, he slammed on his own brakes, just missing the Jeep, the heavy trailer bucking against the trailer hitch of the Scout. There was a roadblock about a mile up the road, and it didn’t look like an accident, it looked like an ambush.
Bexar left the Scout running, grabbed his rifle, and walked up to Jack’s truck. Jack was standing on the side of the FJ with his binoculars up to his eyes.
“Looks like someone set that up on purpose,” he said, “but it also looks like they placed the wrecked vehicles so other vehicles can snake through the middle to pass.”
“That’s if no one is there,” said Bexar. “If people are there that sounds like a kill zone. Doesn’t sound too friendly, and so far we haven’t exactly found too many friendly people who aren’t already dead.”
“Bexar, I don’t know, I wouldn’t count on it … WAIT!” Jack said suddenly. “I just saw a glint on top of the semi-trailer on the left. I think there’s someone up there looking at us through a scope! Any ideas?”
“Well, I don’t know,” replied Bexar. “I think going straight up there is a really bad idea. I don’t think we could really get around the town and back on the road too easily, and I have no idea where to drive to go around this town.”
“If we wait here too long do you think they’ll just come after us?” asked Jack.
“Definitely,” said Bexar. “Tell you what, let’s circle the vehicles, put the kids in the middle, hold perimeter, and let me sneak around the back of their ambush. Give me about an hour. I’ll go down to the railroad we crossed back there, get into town, and flank them. Then you can try walking up and talking to them from a couple hundred yards out.”
“That would probably work,” Jack said. “Let me have your Kevlar vest, too.”
“Okay, let’s circle the vehicles, let me get some gear together, and I’ll head out.” After discussing their plan with their wives, the group moved their vehicles into a circle and fanned out in a protective circle in case someone tried to attack their group.
Bexar topped off his AR mags, put his Camelbak Mule on, stuffed some beef jerky in the pockets, and set off. He wore his Eagle chest rig, and carried four AR magazines, four magazines for his 1911, his med kit, and his SOG multi-tool. He really hoped he wouldn’t need all that gear, but rarely has anyone ever complained they had too much ammo when in battle.
“Tell you what Jack, instead of an hour, how about you give me about ninety minutes? I don’t want to risk moving too fast and being detected, or getting injured.”
“Got it. God speed, my friend,” replied Jack.
Glenwood Springs, Colorado
Cliff made it about a mile to the west before having to stop and rest. It would be a couple of days before he felt close to normal after that crash. All he had was his bug-out bag, the suppressed FNP90, about two hundred rounds of ammo, his pistol, and an absolute need to make it to Groom Lake in Nevada.
As he was resting he noticed a work yard and an oddly built office building surrounded by a fence, inside which were some police vehicles. Those Crown Victorias would have been rendered useless by the EMP, but maybe there were still some cops alive, or if not, maybe one of them had a worthwhile personal vehicle Cliff could steal.
Walking cautiously down the embankment and towards the building, he scanned for threats. So far it appeared that the surrounding zombie population was only interested in his still-burning van, but he knew it paid to be cautious.
Nearing the building, Cliff found a patrol car with the driver’s door open. The state police officer’s duty belt was caught in the seatbelt, and that officer was very much undead. This was why so many police officers didn’t wear their seatbelts, for fear of being caught in the seatbelt and shot. In fact, many of them called the driver’s seat the “dea
th chair,” since that’s where angry gunfire was usually directed when shooting at a police car. The officer’s duty pistol was on the ground near his body, the slide locked back, and run empty of ammunition. Cliff stopped about ten yards from the undead cop trying to get at his fresh meal and fired a single round through his skull.
The pistol was a Glock 22, and on the now properly dead police officer’s duty belt were two full magazines of .40 caliber ammo for the Glock. The pistol and ammo went into Cliff’s bag, but he left the Taser, ASP, and OC pepper spray in place. He seriously doubted a zombie would react to OC spray, seeing as it barely worked on aggressive people. It might be funny to Taser the undead, but there wasn’t any room for funny right now.
The trunk of the patrol car turned up even more useful items. The cop had a “bail-out” bag with more pistol ammo and magazines. There was also an AR-15, with an ACOG, five Pmags full of .223, a medical kit with some QuikClot, a couple of Israeli bandages, a small package of BC Powder, and three tampons. The BC Powder was a godsend, and he quickly downed two doses in an attempt to quash some of the pain in his head. The tampons were also a good find, since they did a good job of plugging bullet wounds. “Good kit there, sheepdog,” Cliff said to the dead police officer. The AR and the ammo were left behind because of the added weight, but the pistol ammo and medical kit went into his bag.
Cliff left the patrol car and jumped over the fence into the secure parking area around the department. There were a few modern pickup trucks and a couple of other all-terrain vehicles, but the only vehicle that interested him was an old Chevy K1500. It appeared to have a suspension lift and oversized tires, which could be handy. He just hoped that it had an old ignition system, and that the former owner hadn’t done something like an LT engine swap.