by Lee Ragans
The scavengers dropped off two books. One on computers and one about online dating. Mark stared at them without saying a word. The scavengers were bigger idiots than he thought. These books only use would be in starting a fire. They were even written badly.
Mark told Ted and Allison that he was going to head out for some scavenging the next day, and they started to object but stopped. He said, “If I don’t make it back, read the book on sorghum I left on the counter. We are just a few weeks away from harvest. You will figure it out. I did, the first time.”
Ted was paying attention to their two small children, and Allison stepped outside with Mark. Taking him by the arm and walked away from the family, “Mark. I have been ignoring that staring that you do. Ted does not care, but I do. I am sorry that your situation sucks, but the leering is giving me the creeps, and there are dead people walking around.”
Mark looked at his feet, “I am sorry.”
“Stop. I know you are sorry. I am trying to tell you that you need to go.”
Mark looked up, “Holy shit. I am feeding your family, and you are mad because I looked at your ass.”
“No. I think you are going to lose your fucking mind and won’t stop.”
“Allison, I am sorry, but that… “
“No. I know what happens when you just look the other way. I can’t.”
“Okay. I am going to get some supplies and then I will move on.”
Mark walked away and did not look back. He was mad. Mostly at himself, but a little at Allison. More at Ted. He had to be mad at someone, and Allison was in the right. He was a creep, and he deserved it. But he never did anything.
Mark walked along cursing his stupidity. He dodged a small pack of the dead. They were slow, and he managed to get far enough away that the pack was distracted by another noise.
Going up the road in a direction he had never gone he found a small strip mall. It had the required dry cleaners and Chinese food place that seemed to come with the building. His interest was drawn to the small bookstore. It was perfect. A second-hand bookstore. He found a set of books that fit in his backpack. It was the fantasy series that was supposed to be a huge television series. They got 5 books of the 7 made. The world died, so there was no one left to make them. Mark figured he could at least see how it ended by reading it.
The army surplus store was next on the list. It had been well picked over, but there were still things he could use. He found a large green duffle bag and a pair of boots that fit. There were also plenty of socks and a tool he could use for planting.
He looked through the clothing and found 3 pairs of pants and a heavy winter jacket. It was far too warm for the jacket, but it would be needed later. He then topped off the duffle bag with flint and steel to make fire and a few sharpening stones for the shovels and knives.
The walk back was slower, and Mark discovered why the backpacks were gone, and the duffel bag was left. He ended up dragging it after a mile. He picked it up after fearing it would rip on the highway. The walk was slow. Mark pondered that it would be better to leave this to the scavengers. As he got close, he remembered that Allison wanted him to leave. He had no idea what he was going to do. He wanted to destroy the crops and leave them to their own devices.
As he got close enough to see the beak moving he could hear yelling. It sounded like fighting. He dropped the duffel bag but grabbed the folding shovel. Running through the small maze of the opening that slowed or stopped most zombies.
The scavenger couples were at the big chicken. Ted and Allison were yelling, and as he got closer, he noticed Allison had a pistol out.
“You are not going to shoot her!”
“She turned you, idiot!”
“She is going to be okay!”
The scavenger man dove for the gun. Allison shot him. And then shot the scavenger woman that turned.
Mark was getting close. The other scavenger couple rushed toward Allison and Ted. By now Ted had drawn his pistol. 3-gunshots later and all of the scavengers were dead or dying. Mark got made it to them.
Allison pointed her pistol at Mark.
Mark raised his hands with the shovel still in it Allison lowered her pistol.
Mark slammed the shovel into the heads of all 4 scavengers. He wanted to show that he was on their side.
Covered in blood Mark looked at Ted and Allison and asked, “What happened?”
Ted responded first, “Idiots went into the apartment complex up the road. She got bit and died on the way back. Then they decided to bring her back here, let her turn and then do nothing.”
Allison was taking deep breaths and looked both furious and sad at the same time.
“Look, they were idiots. They just proved it. You were right.” Mark said.
“You are just siding with me because I asked you to leave this morning.”
“Sure, a little. But seriously they were assholes and did little around here.”
It struck Mark right then to say then, “Look, I can move into their RV and keep to myself.”
Allison looked at the RV, “Okay. I don’t want you in some kind of isolation.” She thought for a moment and then let it out at once, “It is not fair to make you live in isolation. Just cut out the creepy, okay?”
“I will do my best. Just tell me if I cross the line.”
“I will.” She added in a mutter, “You know I will.”
Allison went to check on their children who were standing at their windows looking at the scene. Ted and Mark carried the scavengers to the pile of bodies outside the car wall. Before leaving them, Mark went through their pockets to get the keys to the RV. They were on the last body, which did not help the mood. Before they lit the fire, Ted said, “Allison was attacked before we met. I have always been careful with her feelings, and they are usually well controlled. She is right though, you are getting really fucking bad.”
“Sorry, man. Can you blame me?”
“Yeah, I can.”
“Fair enough. If things were different, we would not be friends. Now we have no choice.”
“Let’s hold off on the friend’s thing.”
Mark went back to get the duffel bag. He took off the bloody pants and left them outside. Thinking he would deal with them tomorrow. Opening the RV and looked around his new home. Moving into the home of the people you finished off with a shovel was far creepier than staring at a woman working crossed his mind. Then he looked through their belongings and moved things that were personal outside. The small stack of pictures and a diary. He looked around then realized he found it would take days to go through everything.
The thought that he was looting the dead echoed in his mind, but all the living were looting the dead now. Everything that was left was available for the taking. As he slipped off to sleep, he thought about how little seeing 3 living people killed bothered him. In the first days of the outbreak, panic ruled the day, and it was not uncommon to see looters being shot. Sometimes people with food and medicine were stabbed or shot and left for dead.
Three weeks after moving into the RV the first harvest started. Mark was now the most important person in their camp. Ted and Allison were keeping the dead clear and burning the bodies. Their children were still hiding in the pawn shop, but they were thriving in this world.
The cereal sorghum was not the most versatile kind Mark has used, but it was what they had. He prepped seeds and sorted the cereal. The large steel mixing bowls were being put to use. Ted offered to help, but Mark wanted to gather the first crop himself. He had provided nothing until now, and this was his chance.
The harvest was complete, and before he started processing the hundreds of pounds of cereal, he started the process of planting the next crop. Ted and Allison helped pull the stalks and set them aside. Fertilizing the soil and planting again the almost 1 acre was prepared, and a second crop would be in before winter.
They would have enough cereal to get fat and then have some left over. If there was anyone to trade with, they could even
trade, but so far there was no one to trade with.
They sealed the cereals into airtight containers and packed them the way Mark learned. They would last for months if the seals lasted.
The first grinding and first cereal cakes were good. He sprinkled in some salt, and the entire group ate fresh cakes until they were full. They had salt and pepper, and sugar to last them years. The looters took canned food from the grocery stores, no one took seasonings and spices.
The second crop came in just as it was getting cooler. That was all they could grow until spring. Mark was already looking at another area to plant. He did not want to wear out their only plot. If he had more experience, he would know what to plant, there to rejuvenate the soil. He wanted to find a farm store. But there were none close that he had seen in his limited travels.
By their second winter, a small group of survivors from an Apartment complex 3 miles away traded supplies with them for food. Word got around and in just 2 years a small farming community formed.
Instead of buildings, they used tents and some popup RVs to make a living space.
Mark was still alone, but there was hope. One day a woman would be available. He had the experience as a provider, and in this world, that was second only to safety. His farming was providing food that was now feeding almost 100 people. He had a village of his own here in his hometown.
A New Hope
Dr. Kelly Morris stared at the dead soldiers. It was as bad as it looked. No doubt about it. They were in rural New Mexico headed to a hospital that held more equipment than it should. It was a CIA lab hidden in a community hospital. It was the best hope they had to replicate the vaccine. But now it looked to be a moot point.
Every soldier had been given the vaccine that saved Private Carlson was now dead from infection. Private Carlson sat on top of the destroyed Duce and a Half truck looking at Dr. Morris walk among the dead soldiers as they started to twitch, the first sign of their reanimation.
Slamming the hammer in her left hand repeatedly into each skull she did not even look back at Private Carlson. When she was done, she walked away from the truck, over the pile of dead corpses and into the hospital.
It was just her and the private who apparently had a natural immunity. The vaccine was worthless. He had been bitten again during the fight to clear the parking deck. Dr. Morris talked to herself as she walked, “All this time. Wasted…”
She thought aloud, “Maybe Carlson’s DNA has a clue, but I don’t have the lab or the knowledge to do the work. I am well and truly fucked.”
Dr. Morris slammed the door to the office she had taken over. She stared out the window trying to think of what to do next. The plan was done. There was no cure. The only good that came from the entire effort was the knowledge that the disease was a modified variant of the flu. To her mind, that meant that some asshole had made the disease.
She thought of a handful of people she knew that could have done it and cross-matched it with the labs capable of doing the work. It was obvious. It was that lunatic, Dr. Han Smith. He worked for the South Korean government and secretly for the Chinese and the North Koreans.
The company had him under a close watch and knew he was up to something, but he disappeared six months before the outbreak. Well, that is the last report. She was grabbing intel and planning the moment the outbreak started. He was probably dead. If not it did not matter, he was on the other side of the world, and she would have no chance to kill him.
The Hospital was cool even with the temperature approaching 100 degrees outside. She pondered that some brilliant person designed a natural cooling system and thought it might be interesting to see how they did it. Then she thought that it did not matter.
She napped for a moment. It was a habit from the days doing analyst work. A quick nap often cleared her head and gave her new perspective on a problem. Unfortunately, this nap did nothing to help with the situation. There was nothing to do.
Walking around the large office, the map caught her attention. It was that Moment that Dr. Morris decided to make her way back to Atlanta. If her ex and his whatevers were there, it was going to be safer than anywhere else. David may have been a disconnected asshole, but he was a damn good operative. For a fleeting moment, she thought maybe they could make it a Foursome, and then shook her head. No, she was a woman in her early 40s. She did not have to use her ass for security. She would if needed, but it did not have to be plan one.
Just as she was thinking of what to take a knock on her door broke her out of her comfortable space in her own head. Knocking was ridiculous. There were only two people alive here.
“Come in Private.”
The door opened, and Private Carlson walked in. He said, “I think I am infected.” He held up his left hand. The bite as showing it was bright red. Nothing like the first time he had been bitten.
“Let’s go to the ER and see if we can get it cleaned up.”
“Do you think I will be alright like last time.”
Dr. Morris raised her Beretta Model 92 9MM and fired a single shot into the back of his head as soon as he cleared her door. “No.” She pushed the door closed and sat back down.
Her food stores just doubled, but she had no working car. The choices were not good. But the air was cool, and she had food. Now she had a dead body outside of her office. She thought and shook her head, she should have walked him to the ER before shooting him.
She looked at her bag. The leather backpack was always ready to go. She had 3 MREs contents in the bag and the satellite phone. The phone was worse than useless. It was hope on a string that was always being pulled just out of reach.
She turned it on again the texted the operator. She got the same response as always, “14 agents in the field. No location.”
She texted again for a pickup.
The response arrived almost before she sent the request, “No evac available. AMFYOYO.”
The operator was an ass. It was all automated response, but someone had to be there. The system was not completely automated. Someone had to set it up. The messages changed 3 months back. They were not even subtle changes. They added the “AMFYOYO” to the end of the no evacuation message. It stood for, “Adios Mother Fucker, You're On Your Own.” It was the letters no one wanted to read in a support request. It had it started in the early days of special forces and was later adopted by all branches of the military.
That change told her that just a few months ago a special forces operator was at the command bunker, or at least a command bunker if not the primary.
Going to Atlanta and being a 4th wheel with her ex-husband did not sound like the best choice. She wanted to find the bunker. She pondered where to start. Up until this morning, she had been singularly focused on a cure or at least a vaccine. That was not obviously a failure.
Staring at the phone, she thought. Was there a way to get the automated system to tell her where it was located? She considered the standard text messages they had available. Grabbing a notepad on the desk, she wrote down every command she remembered.
Looking at the list of 20 commands it was apparently something was missing. The system was not stupid and would not just tell you where it was transmitting from. It would tell you the location.
Sending the authentication request, she received the message, “CENTCOM14321.”
It was from central command. There were lots of central commands, but in this case, it was for the special operators. The “14” was the hour it was sent. The “32” was the minute it was sent. The “1” was the giveaway. It was from the primary location. Langley, VA. Kelly had a location to go to.
The reports were that D.C. had been nuked, but someone was alive 3 months ago to change the message. The bunker would not be at the CIA office in Langley. It would be under the TV station or radio station a few miles away. Why build your own transmitter tower when there is one available to borrow?
Dr. Morris got up, put her bag over her shoulder and walked out into the heat of the day. She looked th
rough the parking deck and found a diesel pickup. She went through 40 dead zombies pockets outside the building before she found the dodge keys. The truck started and luckily had an almost full tank. Parking next to the Duce and a half, she worked the fuel cans from the back of the large truck and put it on the bed of the pickup.
As the sweat poured from her, she regretted shooting the private. She could have used him to load the truck first, then shoot him.
Loading the cases of MREs and ammo boxes inside the cab, she set out for D.C. at nightfall. With the windows open and no air conditioner, she was able to get better fuel mileage.