by JE Gurley
The sound of the artillery firing on day eleven, as the zombies advanced, frightened many of the workers. A few fled, but not many. He was proud of their almost superhuman effort. Zombies milled along the southern bank of the canal. Some attempted to climb the side of the mountains, but artillery, mortars, and machinegun fire kept them at bay. His now reduced force that had harried and delayed the zombie march continued to punish any zombies attempting to flank the Ditch from the west in quick-strike encounters.
On the twelfth day, the Ditch was completed. All that remained was to blow the two dikes separating the two legs of the canal. He gave this honor to Lieutenant Wavers as a reward for his action against the zombies. Thousands of bedraggled and weary people cheered wildly as the first blast threw tons of dirt and dust into the sky. The water rushed from the Great Salt Lake down the Ditch, sloshing over the banks in places and wetting spectators.
He reserved for himself the pleasure of setting off the final charge joining the two sections of the Ditch. Several hundred spectators and military personnel attended the event near the Mountain View Corridor, a short stretch of boulevard running north and south. The Ditch had sliced it in half, except for a twenty-feet-wide earthen dike where engineers had placed the explosives. The captain in charge of the engineers brought him the detonator. His hands shook with excitement as he handed it to Schumer.
“Here you are, sir,” he said with a broad grin. “Let her rip.”
Before he could press the button, someone in the crowd yelled, “Zombies!”
He paused and looked to where the crowd was pointing. About a hundred zombies appeared from the rubble of buildings demolished during construction. Several dozen more raced from atop mounds of dirt. When the zombies saw the humans, they let began to howl. The crowd panicked. Schumer tightened his jaw and growled. He waited until the leading edge of the pack was racing across the dike before pressing the button on the detonator.
Nothing happened.
He tossed the detonator to the captain. “Fix this,” he said as he pulled his pistol from his holster and ran toward the dike yelling, “Follow me!”
He didn’t wait to see how many obeyed his command. The zombies leaped one another in their eagerness to feed. People fell and were trampled in the surge to escape. He met the first zombies with single shots to their heads. Several fell, but more quickly replaced them. Shots rang out around him as soldiers began firing into the zombies tightly packed by the narrow dike. The ones that had already intermingled with the humans did not stop to eat their prey, intent instead upon killing. Schumer watched in horror as one zombie grabbed a woman by her long hair and bit into her exposed neck, almost severing it. He shot it in the back three times to get its attention and then placed a round in its forehead.
Bodies lay everywhere, the dead and the dying. Twenty soldiers knelt in a line pouring volleys into the zombies at the dike, slowing their progress. He and a few more chased down the zombies among the crowd and disposed of them. One zombie raced at him. He raised his pistol and heard it click.
Empty.
He tossed it into the zombie’s face and drew his knife. Its short blade was barely longer than the zombie’s claws, but the zombie, sensing danger, halted. They continued to stare at one another for several of Schumer’s rapid heartbeats. Then, it was on him. It felt as if a truck had hit him as it knocked him to the ground. He jabbed the knife in its right eye and jammed an elbow under its chin to prevent its mouth from connecting with his neck, but the zombie was too powerful. It ignored the knife protruding from its eye and clawed at his arm, raking strips of flesh. The scent of blood enraged the creature even further. Schumer felt his arm pressed closer to his body. The zombie’s hot, fetid breath washed over his face, a miasma of decayed flesh and rotten blood.
An explosion shook the ground and showered both him and the zombie with dirt. The zombie’s attention wavered for only an instant, but it provided the break Schumer needed. He yanked the knife from the zombie’s eye and jabbed it repeatedly into the back of its neck. Dark blood spilled over him and ran down his arm.
“Die, damn you! Die!”
The zombie went limp as the onslaught of blows severed the creature’s spine. Schumer lay there fighting for breath until two men pulled the dead zombie off him. His head and chest ached and his arm burned from the raking by the zombie’s claws, but he was alive.
He stood shakily and looked around. All the zombies on this side of the canal were dead. Thirty had died in the explosion, as well as ten of the men holding the zombies at bay. A great number of civilians were dead too. The sounds of anguish and moans from the dying rose from the carnage. Behind him, salt water from the Great Salt Lake surged through the open dike and joined the fresh waters of the Jordan River in the southern leg of the Ditch. The Ditch and the Wasatch Mountains now made Salt Lake City a zombie-free island.
Colonel Schumer silently accepted the accolades of his men. He did not feel like celebrating. A disaster had been averted, but the cost had been too high. He did not return to his headquarters, but remained in Bluffton. A medic tended to his wounds, which looked worse than they were. His arm burned and ached, but he would live. He removed the soiled uniform he had been living in and tossed it in the trash. He took a long, hot shower to wash away the accumulated stink of three weeks, letting the water soak into his parched skin. Then, he collapsed on a cot wet and naked, and he slept twenty-six hours.
He remained beside the Ditch for five days until the zombie migration gave up and followed the roads eastward into the mountains. He kept them under observation for two more days with the few drones he had available to ensure they no longer posed a threat to the city. The job was finished. He had saved Salt Lake City. No, he thought with unabashed pride. We saved Salt Lake City. Tears rolled down his dirty cheeks, unconcerned whether anyone saw them. A special service of thanks was arranged at the Temple, but he elected not to attend. Raised Southern Baptist, he didn’t think they would welcome his presence, even if they did tolerate it.
He radioed his superiors to apprise them of the situation. His reward was a promotion from colonel to brigadier general. Earning the single star did not please him as much as it might once have. His responsibilities did not change. His non-existent pay remained the same. His personal gratification was in completing the Ditch. It would remain long after he was dead and gone. Perhaps, in the future, he could supervise the construction of bridges across the Ditch – after the zombies were gone.
22
The New Apostles stood atop South Mountain, gathered in a semi-circle around their leader, Brother Malachi. Some were in tears. A few openly wept. All were dirty and exhausted from the long, difficult trek up the mountain in the middle of the night. They had abandoned their home at the Twin Buttes Resort and watched in horror as the invisible gas swept across the valley, killing everything in its path. The Children of God fell before man’s judgment, as man had fallen before God’s Judgment Day. The morning was only half finished, yet the heat of the day was already sapping Brother Malachi’s remaining strength. He felt as if the world had ended a second time. The burden of leadership weighed heavy on him. It was his task to rebuild, but where.
The military needed Phoenix. His people, who worshipped the Children of God, could not coexist with the very people who wished them eliminated from the earth. Their refuge was lost to them. They would need another place to live, and to worship.
He had heard of the great migration of zombies moving northwards along the Colorado River. By this time, they should be somewhere in northern Nevada or Utah. The valleys and mountains of Utah would make an excellent sanctuary, a place from which they could reach out to the Children of God to help them with their transformation from brutish animals and attain God’s grace, undisturbed by man. It would be a long and tortuous journey, but just as Moses had led his people across the deserts of Sinai to the Promised Land, he would lead his people to Paradise.
They must avoid the highways and the cities at all cost
s lest they become prisoners of the military. Trekking the wilderness would be a hardship, an extreme test of their faith, but God had spoken to him during the night, a revelation that many more believers would join him along the way. He looked into the faces of his followers and drew strength from their looks of trust, resolve from their determination.
He glanced once more at the smoke curling up from the Cathedral. He had heard the explosion and flames, but they had later died. Then, just before dawn, the fire broke out anew. Their sanctuary was gone. It was just as well. They had tried to revive the old world, rely on electricity and running water for their comforts. That had made them dependent on the military and the likes of the Major. He had also heard the shooting during the night and hoped all parties involved had killed each other off. One of the Hunters had followed them into the mountains and Brother Ezekiel had shot him.
A tear came to his eye at the loss of their home, but he quickly wiped it away. He turned to his followers and looked into their faces. They were tired but expectant. They had brought as much food and water as they could. They had also brought their weapons, not for protection from the Children of God, but for protection against their fellow man. They would scavenge the land through which they passed. God would provide for them as he had for Moses.
“My children,” he said. “Our home is gone, but do not worry. God has a new plan for us. We will march north and go among the Children.”
He noticed doubt in some eyes, fear in others.
“We cannot live in both worlds. We cling tenaciously to the dead bleached bones of the old while we work to bring about the new.” He raised one arm, pointed to the sprawl of towers and antennae on the top of the mountain and shouted, “The devil’s handiwork. We must accept God’s will and immerse ourselves in this new world. We must build a new Sanctuary, helping the Children of God reach their full potential.”
A few now nodded their heads.
“Our journey will be a test of our faith, but we must not falter.” He took one long step and then planted his feet firmly together facing north. “This first step will guide us. We will rest this day and spend it in prayer. Tonight, when the heat of the day has passed, we will begin.”
They had gathered near the Panoramio, a stone observation point overlooking the city. From it at night, the city of Phoenix had once spread out like a lighted patchwork quilt. He knew that tonight, it would reveal only darkness. For now, its shelter provided shade from the sun and respite from the intense heat. He spread a blanket on the floor, enjoying the coolness of the stone against his back. Their flight up the mountain, the loss of the Cathedral, and his dealings with the Major had exhausted him. He needed to rest and recharge for the long journey north. They would lose brethren to the Children, but that was to be expected. Some would choose to become Angels. New converts along the way would replace the lost and swell their ranks.
As he lay there, he heard arguing, but he decided to ignore it. Each would have to make his or her own decision. He would lead, but he would not compel. Faith was personal and each person had it in degrees. His was unbounded, his trust in God without doubt. God had called him to a task and would not end his days without seeing it well on its way. Like Moses, he might not reach their goal, but he would die knowing he had done all he could to fulfill it.
The sound of helicopters bringing troops into the now dead city in the late afternoon interrupted his sleep. He rose and watched the large twin-rotor helicopters discharge jeeps and men. He grimaced as they scattered though the center of town. More landed at Sky Harbor Airport. Smaller, armed helicopters patrolled the air above the city. Soon, large planes would land at the airport to bring in more men and more equipment to secure the city. Phoenix would once again become a city of men.
Brother Malachi cautioned his people to stay out of sight. They cowered inside the Panoramio and beneath covered grill ramadas used for picnics, beneath trees and rock overhangs. A few spoke quietly among themselves, but most cowered in fear of the black helicopters. Finally, night fell and they came out of hiding. Lights blazed downtown and at the airport. The sounds of construction broke the months-long silence of the city. They had to leave while the military focused its attention on the city.
“It is time to go,” he said.
They quietly gathered their meager belongings and followed the hiking paths down to the roads leading off the mountain. They encountered no Children along the way. The Children of God had fled in panic before the invisible choking death. They met no humans either. They did see bones of both scattered in the streets, on front lawns, in parking lots, and beside abandoned automobiles. They passed what had once been a hospital but had become a refugee center during the plague. Its barbed wire gate dangled from torn hinges, part of the fence trampled from within, as plague victims became Children of God.
They walked through ghost suburbs of a ghost city made even more ominous by the darkness. Already, wind-blown sand blocked doorways and gathered in miniature dunes on lawns. Mesquite, brittlebush, and acacia saplings grew through cracks in the pavement. In ten more years, the outskirts of Phoenix would return to the desert from which it was wrested by the hand of man. Nature once again ruled supreme.
Once, they sought shelter in a small grove of cottonwood trees as helicopters flew over, skimming the rooftops with their floodlights. They used the opportunity to rest and to eat. Brother Malachi’s back and knees ached, but he refrained from asking for an aspirin. Medicine was in short supply and they might need it before the journey was finished. His responsibility had aged him more than his years, weighing him down like the hand of God. They could not rest long. After twenty minutes, he forced himself to his feet. Pressing on, avoiding the highways, they followed the Salt River west until it met the Agua Fria and then followed it north out of the city. Using the dry riverbeds kept them away from the works of man and its temptations. Phoenix fell further and further behind them. It was already becoming a distant memory in Brother Malachi’s mind with every passing mile. He focused upon the present, the future and upon keeping his feet moving forward.
They had traveled less than two hours when Brother Ezekiel came up beside him and gently touched his shoulder.
“Your steps are faltering, Brother Malachi. You must stop and rest.”
Brother Malachi shook off his hand. “We must leave this place before daylight.”
“You should not let the others see you weak.”
Brother Malachi saw the concern in his second’s eyes and recognized the wisdom of his words. A weak leader does not inspire confidence.
He nodded. “We will stop.”
They stopped beneath an I-10 overpass, but they built no fires for fear of discovery. The people rolled out their blankets and ate their cold rations in silence, each enveloped in the cocoon of their private thoughts. What little he could see of their faces in the darkness showed concern and weariness but no regret. That would come later along the journey. The trauma of leaving their home would haunt them for many days to come.
They slept through the remainder of the night and the next day. Those who could not sleep, like Brother Malachi, rested. As the shadows lengthened into dusk, they resumed their journey. Their goal was to reach the Central Arizona Project canal to refill their canteens. If it were empty, they would continue to Lake Pleasant, a dam and reservoir north of the city. They remained with the Aqua Fria riverbed, passing between the communities of Sun City West and Arrowhead Shores. They heard the occasional call of the Children of God in the distance but did not encounter any. The ground rose steadily until they could look back over the city of Phoenix. Downtown glowed with lights and activity for the first time in over nine months. Beyond the city, lightning flashed. Throughout the night, the skies darkened and the humidity rose. Thunder echoed from the mountains. The monsoon rains had finally arrived.
Even in a desert, it rained. In Arizona, the rains came in the winter and in late summer during the monsoons. Places that received only ten or twelve inches of rain
annually were often deluged by two to three inches in hours, filling dry riverbeds, overrunning washes, and flooding low lying areas. They would have to abandon the Agua Fria and walk on high ground.
Strong winds heralded the arrival of the rain. Gusts reaching fifty miles per hour scoured the dry earth, deluging them with sand and dust until they choked. Then the rains began, gently at first, but quickly becoming a torrent, drenching them to the bone. Brother Malachi found a dead branch and used it as a staff to keep himself erect in the ankle-deep water that threatened to sweep him off his feet. He fought up the muddy side of one ridge only to see many more arrayed in front him.
During one flash of lightning, three figures appeared before him. At first, he mistook them for angels come to guide them, but then he recognized them as Children of God. No, he realized with a shock, two were Children, but one was a man wearing jeans and boots but no shirt, the same Indian who had accompanied the Gray Man. Brother Ezekiel ran forward with his rifle.
“No, wait,” he said to brother Ezekiel. This was something new and unexpected – a man standing unharmed with Children of God. He remembered the man’s name was Ahiga, also recalling that Ahiga meant ‘fighter’ in Dine`. He wasn’t sure where he had read that, but random bits of information often stuck in his mind. Ahiga strode forward.
“Don’t fear me,” he said.
Brother Malachi shook his head. “I don’t fear you.”
“Three times in two days the Great Spirit has saved my life. Now, I know the reason.” He glanced back at the Children and motioned with his hand. “They have accepted me as one of them. I do not think they will harm you.”
“Why are you here?” Brother Malachi asked.
“They brought me to you. They have followed you all night, watching. I’ve come to guide you.”
“Guide us where?” Brother Ezekiel asked. He kept his rifle in his hands, clearly not trusting the newcomer.