by JE Gurley
“Our yard’s in Phoenix, but we’ll crank this one up soon enough.”
“Once you gas the city, you mean. You know a lot of people will die.”
Jake frowned. “Not me. It’s them army jerks. If you ask me, they’re too scared to face them zombies man-to-man. Besides, they’ll probably warn everyone to clear out.”
“They didn’t warn Phoenix.”
Jake stared at him with suspicion. “How do you know about Phoenix?”
Mace realized he had let too much slip. He tried to cover his mistake by shrugging his shoulders. “A friend told me. He got out just in time.”
“You’ve got a lot of friends.”
“Like you said, a man can’t have too many friends.”
Jake continued to stare at him for a moment, and then broke into a wide grin. “Yeah, right.”
The silent buildings of downtown Tucson presented a haunting sight. The shattered glass and blackened facade of the sixteen-story Bank of America building reminded him that he still had a few hundred dollars inside somewhere rotting away, not that it would do him any good now. The twin towers of the Diamond Rock Plaza had suffered severe damage from fire. The smaller West Tower was now eight stories shorter after the top floors collapsed. Window curtains moved behind broken windows like wandering ghosts of the people who once worked there. The sprawling Tucson Convention Center, where he had once watched a Ringling Brothers Circus, had collapsed in the center. Mace noticed everyone had fallen silent as the small procession passed the downtown area, either out of respect for the dead or in contemplation of what they had lost.
As the crane reached Speedway Boulevard and began to parallel the Interstate, they came under another zombie attack. Mace joined the work gang as they fended off zombies. He noted that for railroad men, the workers were handy with their weapons. He killed two zombies that rushed the crane. After their initial charge in which six died, the zombies retreated out of rifle range and howled their anger and frustration. Soweta favored him with a toothy grin.
“Ugly brutes,” Jake said, shaking in disgust. He carefully reloaded his rifle before setting it aside.
Mace nodded in agreement, but his mind was elsewhere. The zombies’ casual attitude both puzzled and disturbed him. This group seemed more intent on showing their displeasure than in killing intruders. By contrast, the zombies surrounding the warehouse had seemed more interested in killing than in consuming. Zombies were no longer a homogenous group of flesh-craving creatures. Different bands had staked out individual territories, which they vigorously defended. Their use of utility poles to breach the fence spoke of a remarkable degree of organizational skills earlier zombies hadn’t shown. They were becoming smarter, better organized, and more dangerous. If they had declared war on the human survivors of the plague that had spawned them, he wanted to win.
“You had many dealings with them?”
He knew Jake was referring to zombies. “Enough,” he answered carefully. “Too much.”
“Yeah, you handle your rifle like you’ve used it a bit.”
Jake settled back and watched the countryside. Mace knew his best bet was to slip away from his rescuers before they reached their camp. He had no desire to fall into the hands of the military. He waited for an opportunity but the area was too open. If they wanted to kill him, they would have ample opportunity before he reached the safety of cover. He didn’t think they would shoot, but he wasn’t ready to take that chance. All it took was one overeager shooter. The spot he had chosen for a rendezvous with the bus was just south of the junction of I-8 and I-10. He would need a vehicle to reach it in any reasonable amount of time, and running vehicles were hard to find after a year of idleness. His only choice was to remain with the train and hope for the best. He trusted Vince to make sure the bus reached Agua Caliente. He expected that someone would come searching for him. He had to be well away from his present rescuers before then.
The little train pulled into a sidetrack in the middle of nowhere. He spotted movement at a farmhouse in the distance. He noted its strategic location in an open field. The group trudged across the field talking and joking. He moved next to their leader, Dingane Soweta.
“Thanks for the lift.”
In spite of his own height, he had to crane his neck to look up at the giant South African.
“We could not let you become zom food,” Soweta replied.
“I wouldn’t like that myself.”
“Do you have friends who will miss you?”
“They won’t come around the military, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Soweta broke into a deep basso profundo laugh. “We do not like them so much either, but they are necessary. Without them, there would be no railroad.”
“Am I your prisoner?”
“If you were, you would not have your rifle.”
“What about your military buddies?”
“I do not know.” A big grin spread across Soweta’s face. “Perhaps if you tell them you are a railroad worker, they will let me keep you, like a lost puppy.”
“All I know about trains is that they run on tracks.”
Soweta thought for a moment. “Tell them you were a grease monkey for the Union Pacific, an oiler. If you can use a grease gun, they will believe you.” He looked pointedly at Mace’s rough hands. “You have the look of a man who is good with his hands.”
“Why do you want to help me?”
Soweta stopped abruptly. “I saw you shoot. I need men who can shoot well. Besides, if it just happens that you’re a munie, they would send you to one of the hospitals. I would not want that.”
“So I take my Blue Juice and work for you.”
Soweta slapped Mace across the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Good man.”
After Soweta’s glowing recommendation, Hugh O’Malley, the work crew boss, was glad to add Mace to his crew. O’Malley kept his suspicions to himself and made a great show of welcoming him in front of the military leader, Captain Lacey.
“We can always use an experienced oiler,” Lacey said. “I guess you worked at the marshalling yard.”
“Yeah, not much there now but rusting hulks,” Mace replied quickly. “It’s a shame.”
Lacey was not easily fooled. “How have you managed to survive for so long on your own?”
Mace shrugged. “I was a hunter so I’m good with a rifle, and I wasn’t on my own. My friend died today in a wreck. Soweta saved my ass.”
Lacey rubbed his chin.“Very convenient for you.”
“I’ve always been lucky. Maybe that’s how I survived the plague.”
“Are you immune?”
“Immune? No. I bought two doses of Blue Juice from a group of Hunters about five months ago up around Phoenix. Cost me a case of scotch and a box of cigars.” He stared at Lacey meaningfully. “I’m probably due for a dose right about now.”
“A big yellow school bus passed this way a short while ago heading north. I don’t suppose you know anything about it.”
Mace’s heart lifted to hear the others had made it to safety. He managed a deadpan expression. “Bus? No, I don’t know anything about a bus. I was driving a Chevy Tahoe. Ask Soweta.”
Lacey returned his stare for a long minute before nodding to O’Malley. “Give him a dose of Juice if you need him, but I want him watched.”
When Lacey turned to walk away, Mace slowly released his pent up breath and relaxed. He was inside. Now, he had just to figure out a way to leave.
Vince was certain Mace could take care of himself under normal circumstances, but using himself as bait to draw away the zombies from the warehouse so that the others could escape was pushing luck and experience to its limits. Two men, even two men with military training, could do only so much against a horde of zombies. He recalled with bitterness Dan Mateo’s sacrifice. Trapped in a garage surrounded by zombies in Winkleman, Arizona, Mateo, bitten by a zombie and slowly changing, had deliberately offered himself to the zombies to allow Vince to escape. He c
ould not bear the thought of Mace ending up the same way.
Road conditions forced them to travel slowly. Numerous wrecks and drifts of sand from washes slowed their progress. Night fell before they were halfway to Tucson. Driving without lights to avoid attracting attention only made travel more challenging. A gibbous moon outlined the rusting hulks of wrecked autos and semis that littered the highway but did little to highlight numerous potholes, sand dunes, and plants making a toehold in the cracked asphalt. In a few more years, the road would be impassable, almost invisible from a distance.
Beside him, Amanda clung to her safety harness, as he dodged and swerved, occasionally casting encouraging smiles in his direction. That she had accompanied him seemed only natural. Since escaping the New Apostle compound in Phoenix, they had become inseparable. However, Cy’s insistence on coming along surprised him. He welcomed the young quiet man’s shooting ability but worried that he would have to watch after him. Cy dispelled that concern when he had shot a zombie crouching atop an automobile waiting for the open jeep to pass by. The deafening discharge of the Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun from so close behind him took Vince by surprise. The zombie, a young male, toppled from the auto and landed on the pavement, his chest a bloody mess. Vince swerved to avoid it, and then searched for more zombies. He was relieved to see none. The young male might have been scouting or simply a loner in search of females to start his own harem. Like other predatory animals, zombie males sometimes left their packs and struck out on their own.
“Thanks,” Vince said as he reamed his ear with his forefinger.
“It’s why I came,” Cy answered deadpanned.
“No offense, but you and Mace aren’t exactly bosom buddies. Why did you come?”
“For Renda. I could tell she was worried.”
“You like Renda?” Amanda asked.
“She’s my friend. I wanted to help her.” He frowned. “We’ll find him, right?”
Vince heard the concern in Cy’s voice. “I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe something happened to the truck. He might be waiting for us at the rendezvous point, drinking a beer.”
Cy was unconvinced. He grabbed the roll bar as the jeep swerved to avoid a fallen utility pole. “If anything happens to him, Renda’s going to be upset.”
“She’ll kill me,” Vince said only half-jesting. “If anyone can take care of themselves, it’s Mace. He lives for this shit.”
As they approached the intersection of I-8 and I-10, he slowed the jeep and flashed the headlights several times. There was no answering flash.
“He might not have his flashlight,” he said, but he had a strange feeling that wasn’t the answer.
He continued onto the bridge over I-10 and stopped on the other side. He had brought along his night vision goggles, or NVGs, a set of PN-15s he had found in a ransacked police station in Yuma, probably part of their S.W.A.T. gear. He smiled as he thought of the 10,000 dollar-price tag, almost three months pay as an Air Force Technical Sergeant. He swept the glasses across the horizon and along the highways. His heart raced when he spotted a small red blob in the green background of the Infrared spectrum, but slowly it resolved into a series of smaller targets. He dismissed them as a herd of javelinas, or native peccaries.
“Nothing,” he announced with disgust lowering the NVGs.
“What now?” Amanda asked. “Do we wait?”
“No, we continue on. I’ll leave the headlights on so Mace can see them.”
He knew that might invite trouble, but the thought of Mace on foot disturbed him.
“What if he’s injured and can’t get to us?” Cy asked.
“We’ll drive slowly and listen for his rifle. He’ll try to signal us if he can.” He dropped back down in the driver’s seat and started the jeep. “We’ll go back to the warehouse area and follow the route he was going to take. We should meet him along the way.”
However, things did not go as straightforward as Vince had hoped. Spotting a flashing light a few blocks from the Santa Cruz River somewhere near Starr Pass Boulevard, he left the Interstate to investigate. A tiny, nagging voice somewhere in the back of his mind questioned why Mace would venture so far off his path, but in his eagerness to be thorough, he ignored it. Furtive movement in the shadows surrounding houses in a neighborhood adjacent to the road made him question the rashness of his decision.
“Stay alert,” he warned the others. He drew his .45 automatic and kept it in one hand as he drove.
Bitter disappointment accompanied his heartbreaking discovery of the source of the flashing light, a solar powered road hazard sign warning of long abandoned road construction on Mission Road. He slammed on the brakes.
“Damn,” he muttered.
He spun the jeep in a U-turn and headed back to the Interstate. As they crossed the bridge over the Santa Cruz River, dry this time of year, shadows scampered up the riverbanks – zombies. As he sped up, the headlights caught the unmistakable shape of a tree across the road. It had not been there earlier.
“It’s a trap,” he yelled.
Amanda began firing at zombies, shattering the previously quiet night. The sound of Cy’s Remington 12-gauge almost, but not quite, drowned out the deafening howls of the zombies as they descended on the hapless jeep. Vince was torn between trying to plow through them with the jeep and grabbing his R-25 to join the others. He quickly decided going farther west toward Starr Pass Resort would be counterproductive. It would be too easy to become trapped. No matter where they went, he would eventually have to work his way back to I-10. He grabbed his rifle.
It was easy shooting zombies caught in the headlights, but most stayed low using the darkness as cover. To solve this problem, he pulled two road flares from beneath the driver’s seat and struck them against the door, igniting them. He tossed them to each side of the jeep toward the rear, illuminating a wide swath around the vehicle. Startled by the sudden light, a few zombies froze in their tracks, presenting easy targets. Others, driven by their rage, ignored the flares and continued attacking.
Cy’s 8-shot Remington filled with handmade shells containing more powder and four ball bearings each, mowed down multiple targets. His R-25, with its 4-round magazine, kept him busy slamming in fresh clips. Amanda’s AK47 barked in short controlled burst to conserve ammo. They made good use of their formidable firepower and marksmanship, alternating their reloading so that at least two were firing at all times, but there were too many zombies. When Vince’s last clip emptied after killing a zombie that had climbed up on the hood, he ignored his .45, grabbed the machete slung over the back of his seat and leaped from the jeep. He waded into the mass of zombies, hacking and slicing at heads and arms – whatever target presented itself. Zombie faces, some contorted into masks of rage, some seemingly frightened, fell before him. Zombie fists pummeled him, legs kicked him, but he avoided their teeth and concentrated on not falling. To fall would be to die.
Beside him, Amanda continued firing, amassing her own respectable tally of corpses. Cy’s shotgun fell strangely silent, but Vince didn’t have time to check on him as he advanced mindlessly into the zombie midst. He slashed and hacked until his arms ached, ripping into zombie flesh in a mad fury, a berserker’s rage, seeing nothing but splattering blood, hearing nothing but his own pulse as it pounded in his ears. He continued slinging his machete even after there were no more targets. Finally, exhausted, he fell to his knees. Amanda helped him to his feet. He studied her bloodied face as she stared at him in concern. Other arms steadied him, Cy.
“Breathe, Vince,” Amanda urged, “they’re gone.”
He gulped in lungfuls of fresh air, shuddering as his body heat evaporated, exposing him to the night’s chill. His pulse slowed and his rage subsided. Cy and Amanda helped him into the back of the jeep. Amanda drove. He looked at the pile of zombie corpses in the dying light of the road flares and felt nothing. They might be evolving into sentient creatures, but he wanted them all dead, gone from his life.
“Did we kill them all?” h
e asked.
She looked at him with a puzzled expression. “No. They just gave up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure. It was almost as if they attacked because we were in their way. They simply left, a whole line of them climbing out of the riverbed and heading north.”
With his head throbbing from the adrenalin rush and his arms weak from killing, he didn’t have time to ponder the reason they were still alive.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Amanda steered the jeep around the utility pole blocking the road and headed for the interstate.
“We’re low on ammo,” Amanda told him, searching Vince’s face for some sign of comprehension.
Vince nodded to show that he understood. “We have to go back. It’s too dangerous searching for Mace with no ammunition.” He had failed to keep his promise to Renda. He prayed that Mace could hold out for one more day.
Cy refused to leave. “We have to keep searching.”
Vince pulled out his pistol. “I have half a clip left. Nothing for the Remington. Amanda is out. What about you?”
“I have three or four shells left.”
Vince shook his head. “It’s not enough.”
“Would Mace leave you out here alone?”
Cy’s words wounded him because he knew Cy was right. Mace wouldn’t stop looking for a friend. He looked at Amanda. She nodded her head. “Okay,” he said, “we keep going, but if we run into more zombies, we’re outta here.”
Cy sat back, satisfied with Vince’s decision. Vince just wished he felt as good about it as Cy did.
18
Agua Caliente, Arizona
Nothing could console Renda. The full impact of Mace’s disappearance struck her hard. She knew Vince would do all he could do, but she needed to do something, anything rather than sitting and waiting. Luckily, there was plenty to do. Adding over twenty new people to their small community made their tight living conditions even more crowded. Each solution created a series of more problems. Renda didn’t know how many of the crises Erin brought to her were real and how many she contrived simply to occupy Renda’s mind, but she was grateful for the distraction. If Mace was alive, he could take care of himself. She was sure of that. If he was dead, they could do nothing for him. She preferred to think of him as alive. In her gut, she knew he was. His death would have left a hole too big to fill with make work and arranging sleeping schedules.