by JE Gurley
“Is anyone there?” he called and waited, shifting nervously from foot to foot. No one answered.
He approached cautiously, watching the shutterless window for any sign of movement within. He held his M14 in one hand, trying not to look dangerous, but keeping it handy in case of an emergency. A chain barred the front door, but there was always the possibility of a rear door. He stomped his boots on the front porch as a second warning. Satisfied no one was home, he jimmied the padlock on the chain that was securing the door with a piece of two-by-four that had been lying on the porch, possibly used as a door prop. The chain broke easily and seemed more for keeping the door shut than for keeping an intruder out. He stood to one side and peeked in. Light from the window revealed a sparsely furnished living room. He could see bunk beds through an open door to a second room. He stepped inside, hugging the wall for protection.
The two-room cabin was empty with no signs of its former occupants. A worn out couch, a broken down armchair, and four wooden chairs around a table comprised the room’s only furniture. A quick search of a closet in the bedroom produced blankets, extra coats, and ammunition. Of greater interest to him was the full larder, enough food for several weeks. There was no electricity or television, but a rough plank shelf well stocked with books sat atop wooden pegs in the wall by the fireplace. Jeb noted several paperback thrillers, two cookbooks, and a dozen classics by Mark Twain, Edgar Allen Poe, H.G. Wells, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He picked up War of the Worlds by Wells, and brushed its cover lovingly with the tips of his fingers, then shuddered at the similarities between Wells’ fictional world and the real world. He had not read a book since before the plague began a year earlier. Soon, existing books would rot away. He reverently replaced the book in its spot and walked back outside to inform the others.
They chanced building a small fire in the fireplace. It was risky, but they had been cold for so long and they needed relief. The wood in the woodpile beside the shed was damp with snow, but a smaller stack inside beside the fireplace was dry. Jeb ripped pages from one of the cookbooks and shred it as tender, adding shards of wood shaved with his machete from the firewood for kindling. When the fire was roaring, he checked outside. The wood was well seasoned and only a small tendril of smoke rose from the damaged chimney, quickly dispersed by the wind.
Thick slices of Spam fried in a cast iron skillet, along with canned potatoes, made their first truly hot meal in days. They all ate until they were full, and then passed around cans of peaches and pears for dessert. It had been so long since Jeb had tasted anything sweet, he had forgotten how delicious canned fruit could be.
Another find that excited him were two pair of Sherpa snowshoes. The Sherpas didn’t resemble the typical white ash framed snowshoe. They were hi-tech, made of strong aluminum tubing and used a durable synthetic material for the decking. Their shorter, twenty-one-inch length facilitated a more normal stride for the wearer. Whoever owned the cabin had not been stingy on their toys.
Jeb decided that as long as the group was determined to rest up for a few days, he might as well hunt one of the elk he had spotted earlier, using the compound bow they had brought to use when stealth was required. He would never qualify as an expert archer, but at close range, he was confident that he could bring down something as large as an elk. He approached Craig Tyndale to accompany him. Tyndale was the second best archer and an avid hunter, more at home in the woods than in the city. He had financed his frequent hunting trips by working as a bouncer and a semi-pro wrestler in Vegas.
“Are you up for a little elk hunt?” Jeb asked.
Tyndale smiled. “Always.”
Jeb decided to waste no time. If the weather turned bad, they might need the extra meat. Having never worn snowshoes, he was pleased at how easy the snowshoes were to use. He had expected an awkward stride like the one he had seen on television, but after a few minutes, he hardly noticed he had them on. Tyndale moved quietly through the trees and underbrush for his size. Jeb, four inches taller than Tyndale at a stocky six feet, was not as at home in the woods as the avid hunter, but mimicked Tyndale’s movements as best he could.
They travelled along the banks of a small stream until they found animal tracks, and then followed them for several miles. Jeb spotted movement in the distance at the edge of a small clearing, a grass-filled glade. It was not the elk he had hoped for, but a small herd of whitetail deer. He would take what he could get. Meat was meat. They carefully moved downwind and pushed through the underbrush until they were less than twenty yards from several of the deer. As Jeb lined up his shot with the bow, Tyndale grasped his shoulder. Jeb glanced at him angrily for spoiling his shot, but then noticed the perplexed expression on Tyndale’s face. He followed Tyndale’s gaze until he saw what had caught his attention – zombies.
The deer caught scent of the zombies and panicked just as Jeb saw them. The lead buck snorted an alarm and the herd raced the woods, right into a larger group of zombies waiting in ambush. It was a slaughter. The zombies leaped upon the deer’s backs and killed them either with a quick bite to the jugular, or by snapping their necks with powerful arms. It was all over in seconds, twelve deer slaughtered by as many zombies. Still upwind, the zombies had been so intent on their prey that they had not noted the presence of him and Tyndale. Facing zombies with only a bow would be suicide. He motioned for Tyndale to move back quietly the way they had come.
As Jeb crouched and began to leave, another figure emerged from the woods. At first, he paid it no attention. Then he noticed something atypical about this zombie. It was tall and thin and moved differently than most zombies. It wore a heavy coat and hat and carried a long wooden staff. When the creature removed its cap and faced Jeb, he almost cried out in astonishment. The creature was no zombie, but a human walking unmolested among zombies. He wanted to remain and see what was different about the man that zombies welcomed and didn’t treat as food, but one of the creatures began stalking along the edge of the clearing. He took one last lingering look at the man, who had the lean cheekbones and ruddy complexion of a Native American, and left.
2
“I tell you, he wasn’t a zombie.” Jeb had repeated his observations of the zombies in the glade half a dozen times, but no one believed him. He was tired and his anger was beginning to shorten his temper.
“Then just what was he,” Sylvia Nabors asked, arms folded across her chest, “some kind of zombie shepherd?” Her gray hair was now pinned atop her head in a bun, making her look even more like the schoolteacher she had once been.
He had told them all about the staff the person carried, but they didn’t believe that either. “He was a man,” he insisted.
“A man walking with zombies. That’s ridiculous,” she replied.
Nabors’s condescending attitude was getting to Jeb. She had been distant with him ever since he had refused to allow her to hold a memorial service for Meara, who was killed on the trail in a zombie attack. “What the hell do you know about anything,” Jeb shouted at her, “you’ve been wearing blinders since we found you.”
Her lips quivered and she blinked her eyes several times before replying. “What do you mean,” she demanded coldly.
“You still haven’t accepted what’s happened to the world. You’ve seen zombies, and you’ve seen all the destruction, but you keep telling yourself that it’s not real. You think that one day you’ll turn a corner and there’ll be a town just like there used to be, with cozy little houses with white picket fences, a church, and a preacher telling you that you’ve been a good Christian and passed God’s test. It’s not going to happen. The world’s dead. We’re in survival mode.”
She remained silent, but her eyes blazed with anger. She turned to Craig Tyndale. “Did you see this … person?”
He glanced at Jeb uncertainly; then shook his head. “No, I was leaving, but why would he lie?”
“Yes, why would he?” she repeated.
Mikal Antonov took on the role of diplomat, a function he was ass
uming more often as the months passed. “Let’s all calm down and discuss this,” he suggested. “Whatever any of you think, the fact remains that zombies are nearby. What are we going to do?”
Jeb smiled at Antonov. “You don’t believe me either. So be it.” He turned to the others. “Look, I told you before that this isn’t a democracy. I’m leaving tonight. If any of you want to remain here and take your chances, so be it, but one of the ATVs goes with me.”
Reece Halliwell offered his objection. “We’re tired,” he whined. “We need rest. We can’t just pick up and leave at a moment’s notice.” He looked at the others for support, getting some encouragement from Nabors and Tyndale. Emboldened, he added, “We need a chance to warm our bones and decide where we’re going next.”
Halliwell had been with them since Biosphere2. At twenty-nine, he was the youngest of their number and a chronic complainer. He voiced his resentment of Jeb’s authoritarian approach at leadership at every opportunity, but adroitly avoided making any decisions himself. Jeb had tolerated Halliwell because he was a good shot with a rifle and a good worker, but his tolerance was wearing thin. Jeb stared at Halliwell until he swallowed deeply under the scrutiny, his prominent Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat.
“You can stay if you want,” Jeb repeated. “Any of the others can stay with you, but I’m leaving. If more than four of you decide to go with me, both ATVs go as well.”
Halliwell flared his nostrils and gritted his teeth. His hands clenched and unclenched as if he was trying to decide to attack, but he knew Jeb could beat him. He turned away and strode angrily to the fireplace. Jeb eyed each of the others in turn.
“You wanted someone to take charge. I am. If you don’t like it, you’re free to choose another. We tried democracy at Biosphere2 and look what it cost us. We’re on the run for our lives. If we stay, zombies will smell our fire or cross our trail eventually. We can’t fire our rifles to hunt game or they’ll hear it. That leaves snares or the bow, neither of which are reliable enough to guarantee a steady supply of fresh meat. If a heavy snow falls, we’re stuck here until spring with zombies nearby. Without supplies, we will never survive.”
He began packing his gear and saw that Karen had already started. She had not taken part in the discussion. In fact, she remained as aloof and as distant as she had been since her rescue from the blood bank in San Diego. Her hatred of him had changed into tolerance of his presence, but no more. She seemed as dead inside as the zombies. She was barely recognizable as the twenty-nine-year-old former Miss Arizona. Her emerald green eyes were sallow and sunken. She looked like a forty-nine-year-old crack whore, but without the whore’s zest for crack. The only two things that drove her were her hatred of him and of zombies. He sometimes wondered if she was a changeling, a practical joke played on him by her captors in San Diego.
He did not turn but heard the others packing as well. He had almost hoped some would remain behind. He was tired of leading people. Halliwell was right about one thing – he had no idea where they were going. Even if they found an ideal spot to hide out from the zombies and the military, what would they do then? They were too few to start a colony and too many to wander aimlessly about the countryside. He was just winging it, hoping everything eventually worked out for the best.
A gut-wrenching howl outside the door turned his blood cold. They were too late. Zombies had found them. He whirled, grabbed his rifle, and raced to the window. Two dozen zombies faced the cabin in a semi-circle. More milled about in the woods beyond. A tall Alpha male wearing the remains of a filthy t-shirt and nothing more, stalked to the forefront of the massed zombies. He stood and stared at the cabin. One part of Jeb’s mind was wondering why they didn’t simply attack, while the other part frantically considered options for escape. There was none.
“We’ll have to make a stand here,” he yelled to the others.
As they prepared for the expected attack, the Alpha zombie grunted and the zombies in front split apart, forming a corridor down the center of their line. Jeb stared in amazement as an old man in a dirty white robe strode unmolested through their midst. Beside him, was the same man he had seen in the glade. The old man limped along, bent over using a large staff with a little assistance from the other man. As they drew nearer, Jeb saw that he was a very tall man, lanky and bearded like Abraham Lincoln. His eyes were dark and cold, and yet revealed a hint of inner joy as if he were at peace with the world. In his profession as a psychiatrist, Jeb had seldom witnessed such peace, since most people he treated bore the scars of their damage. The pair continued until they were within thirty paces of the cabin, and then stopped. When the old man spoke, his voice was strong and deep in spite of his apparent weakness and carried easily to those watching from the cabin.
“I am Brother Malachi.” He waved his arm taking in the zombies around him. “These are the Children of God. Do not fear us. These Children have accepted us. They no longer hunt humans for meat.”
Jeb saw no other option but to speak with the old man. He glanced at the others, leaned his rifle against the wall, and opened the door. He kept his pistol in its holster just in case. The musky, fetid smell of zombie greeted him as he stepped outside.
“What are you doing here?” he asked from the edge of the porch.
The man calling himself Brother Malachi, took a step forward and leaned on his staff. Jeb saw that the man was not as old as he had thought. He was closer to fifty years old rather than the seventy he had first appeared. “We fled our sanctuary in Phoenix when Major Corzine gassed the city. Ahiga,” he glanced at his silent companion, “was accepted first by the Children and sought us out.”
More Arizona ex-pats, he thought. “The Major’s dead. We killed him at Biosphere2.”
Brother Malachi nodded his head. “Good. He was an evil man. Ahiga was a Hunter with the Gray Man, but he changed when the Children accepted him.”
Jeb flinched at mention of the Gray Man. Vince had described his narrow escape from the Gray Man and Major Corzine. He nodded at the Hunter and scowled. “My first impulse is to kill him.”
Brother Malachi smiled. “Believe me, no one had a bigger hatred of Hunters than I did, but all people change. Besides, if you kill Ahiga, you will all die within minutes, perhaps me as well. The Children protect him.” He glanced at the sky. “Snow is coming soon. You will be trapped here for weeks. If you come with us, the Children will not harm you. My people will see to your needs.”
“Your people?”
“We are New Apostles.”
Jeb’s stomach tightened. “I’ve heard of you,” he snarled. “One of my friends was your prisoner for a while. I understand you wanted to feed him to the zombies.”
Brother Malachi’s lips quivered in agitation. “Thinking God had abandoned us; we wanted to become one with them to redeem ourselves in His eyes. Now, we realize our task is to elevate the new Children of God. They are changing. Many are no longer the animals they were.”
“One of our friends was killed by zombies two nights ago.”
“None from this group, I assure you. There are other smaller groups nearby, but even they are changing.”
“They’re still zombies,” Jeb reminded him.
“An unfortunate label. They are not the walking dead. They are something unique, a new link in the evolutionary chain. It is our belief that they will supplant man.”
“Not if I can help it,” Jeb snapped. The thought of zombies becoming the new dominant species sickened him.
“Nevertheless, they will. Man is too few and too scattered to matter. In spite of the apocalypse that has befallen us, we still kill each other. We have dedicated ourselves to enlightening the Children, setting them on the pathway of humanity. It is God’s will.”
Jeb barked out a quick laugh. “Huh! Some will argue that.”
“Be that as it may, your decision is simple – will you join us, or will you remain here and starve? The Children will not harm you if you remain, but the game is moving north.”
“We were preparing to leave.”
“By tomorrow or the day after, the snow will come. There is no adequate shelter within a week’s travel. You would die along the way.”
Jeb knew he was right, but replied, “We’ll risk it.”
Brother Malachi shook his head. “I understand your fear. You must release your fear and let God into your heart.”
“I haven’t seen much of God lately,” Jeb verbally shot at him.
Brother Malachi smiled at Jeb’s retort. “He is why we are still alive. You must decide as you will, but I implore you to come with us. In the spring, you and your people may do as you wish, but you will never survive the winter alone.”
“I have to talk to my people.”
Brother Malachi waved his hand. “Please do.”
As Jeb turned his back to walk back inside, he imagined the dozens of pairs of zombie eyes staring at him hungrily. Inside, the others looked at him expectantly. He glared at Nabors.
“Believe me now?”
She glanced at the floor.
“What do we do?” Halliwell asked trembling in fear.
Jeb shrugged. “What choice do we have? We can go with them, or we can try to hold out if they attack. Even if he’s wrong about the snow coming, we wouldn’t last long in the open with zombies around.”
“Will they attack?” Halliwell pressed.
Jeb shook his head. For some reason he felt no threat from the old man, but it was difficult to believe he could control zombies. “I don’t know. I’m surprised they haven’t already.”
“Maybe he’s speaking the truth,” Antonov suggested.
“Maybe,” Jeb answered, “but is it worth risking our lives to find out?”