Zombies Ever After: Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse, Book 6

by E. E. Isherwood

  He calmed back down. After what he'd seen on his run, this was nothing to fret over.

  “I tried to come in last night, but you shot at me.”

  The man smiled. “Have you looked at yourself, kid? I don't even think your girlfriend would recognize you.”

  “She and I end up like this a lot.”

  The man re-appraised him. “Why do I feel you're not telling a fib?”

  He reached out a hand. “My name's Randolph. I'm one of the suckers in charge of this intersection.”

  “Liam. Why are you a sucker?”

  Randolph looked around, apparently to see if they were out of earshot of the others. “I'm guessing you came from downtown?”

  Liam nodded.

  “We see the planes overhead. Hear the battle. Now these drones show up shooting. I'm managing the gate on the edge of it all. What the hell is going on out there?”

  Wow, a question I can answer.

  Liam thought of a movie where they made fun of an obscure guard for having the answers to some of the most secretive mysteries of the organization he worked for. Now, the table was flipped. He knew some of the big secrets of the Zombie Apocalypse, and this guard knew nothing.

  “To the south there's a pit mine full of hundreds of tanks from World War II that some secretive group represented by a lizard have been stashing for fifty years. Don't bother trying to collect them, though, because a cemetery's worth of undead soldiers are guarding them. But if you do get a tank or two, don't drive them downtown. We tried that. Warthogs dropped from the sky to kill our Tigers, but we survived long enough to reach the Polar Bears. Let me tell you, if you want some tough fighters on your side, da 'Bears are the people you want. They're part of a hundred-year struggle against government corruption, led by families like mine, so it would seem.”

  He took a deep breath. “And finally, the United States government has been infiltrated by a secretive bureaucratic organization called the National Internal Security. They're trying to hunt down elderly people like my great-grandma, but they're also leading a massive convoy from the East Coast to their new home here in St. Louis. The Polar Bears, led by a school teacher holed up in a building downtown,” he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, “is waiting for them. Oh yeah, and my mom used my video game to lead a national march across the country before the zombies came.”

  Randolph watched him the whole time and nodded where appropriate. Liam waited for the laughter, but it never came.

  “Your mom was a leader in the Patriot Snowball?”

  “You've heard of it?”

  At that, Randolph finally did laugh.

  4

  They chatted about his statement for a few minutes. Randolph turned out to be an active listener who asked a lot of pointed questions about many aspects of his previous outline of events. He took Liam's story at face value, which pleased him greatly, but they couldn't make any sense of the tail end of his tale. Neither had any clue about the drones. Liam explained the relationship between the floating ones and the tank model on the ground, but it was a mystery who controlled them.

  “We know the Army's nearby. They shoot those machine guns up and down the roads in the night. They spray rounds down their firing lanes, knocking down lots of infected. Only zombies would be dumb enough to get into those kill zones.”

  Ummmmm.

  “We have to hide when they shoot because those things travel up the road to our blockade. Had one woman get clipped when they first did it. She'll live...”

  They both stood looking back toward downtown as the conversation lulled. It gave him the chance to look at the reverse side of the blockade, where the shooters were on watch.

  “Why don't the zombies come over the top of your roadblock?” He'd seen them stack up and get over larger obstacles.

  “We've had some close calls, but those days seem to be gone. Now...they wander in alone for the most part.”

  “You think they're thinning out? There were still a lot of them downtown yesterday morning.”

  “I don't know about downtown, but out here in the Central West End, we haven't seen groups of them for days.”

  “But there are still piles of them in the street.” He had wondered about the bodies even before this street. Back when he went into the pit mine, he'd noted many of the same zombies he'd faced on day three were still lying along the railroad tracks on the property. It was like they didn't decompose.

  “Yeah, we have nowhere to bury the dead, so we haven't been exposing ourselves out in the street to collect them. We take fire from resident human stragglers over there, just to keep us from trying.”

  “I was shot at, too,” he reminded Randolph. “It's the Wild West.”

  “You're safe here. We got somethin' good back in the park. If you've been there, you know.”

  The park!

  “Thank you, Randolph, for getting me through your line. I'll never forget it. But I have to keep moving.”

  “I understand. My wife is holding together a little lean-to in the camp. It's what passes for a life, until we get back on our feet.”

  “You think this is going to end?”

  “Kid, I did a tour in Afghanistan, right at the beginning. I saw town after town of people living in rock huts. No clean water. Little food. No concept of hygiene. Weather and landscape that would make most men want to lay down and die. Yet they did just dandy,” he said wistfully. “And so can we. Every structure you see is a rock hut. Basic shelter. Hygiene is going to get dicey. Food...iffy. We have good climate, lots of vegetation, good crop potential. We have it way better than those savages, don't ya think?”

  “But we have zombies. Are we going to fight them forever?” He wasn't sure why the guy would know...

  Randolph thought about it, then answered in a way that reminded him of any number of school lectures. “Are you willing to fight them forever?”

  Liam thought about a scene in the far future. He and Victoria are sitting on the front porch of a large farmhouse, watching their kids play nearby. A zombie comes stumbling out of a row of corn...he has his rifle at the ready in a flash. But Victoria, the better shot, puts it down first.

  Then he imagines himself on his deathbed. A very old man. And a zombie comes crashing down the hallway of a hospital. Too weak to use a rifle, he lifts his lightweight 22 caliber pistol and puts a round into the brain pan of the undead.

  Vigilance would be the price of life, going forward. Unless a cure could be found. Something to either reverse the process or...eliminate all of them at once. Right there, at the intersection, only vigilance looked like a realistic possibility.

  “Sir, I just walked out of a building of heavily-armed resistance fighters and cleared six miles of Zombie Hell to be with a girl I just met. There is nothing I wouldn't do to protect her.” He felt himself grip the empty shotgun.

  Randolph held out his hand to shake goodbye. “Liam, my young friend, it's going to take an attitude like that to get through this. What humanity needs now is fighters. People to hold back the savages. You've seen what it's like out there, and things haven't even gotten bad yet.”

  They shook briefly. Liam had a look on his face that was easy to read.

  “I know. You think the worst is over. Most people do.” He swept his hands around in all directions. “See all this? All those people back in the park. It's too much. The Afghans got by because they're spread out and have minimal needs. Our people have lots of needs.”

  Randolph laughed sarcastically. “Drugs. Have you seen people in withdrawal from drugs? You seen anybody with the DT's because they got no more alcohol?”

  Liam didn't know what to make of the lost souls back in the park. They might fit the description, though as far as he knew they were still on drugs.

  “Some people will do anything. Absolutely anything. To get more drugs. And that doesn't include most of the people who died outright when they ran out of lifesaving medicines. Some of those people will still be out there, too. They need medicine ev
ery day, just to stay alive. What do you think they'd be willing to do to secure a few extra days of existence?”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything,” he said with sureness. “And until we all have our own stone huts, and our own source of reliable food to go with them, shooting the odd zombie is going to be the easy part. Knowing who to trust from your fellow man. That's going to be the part that requires real vigilance.”

  Again, the concept of building a good group of people around him seemed to come to the fore. He and Victoria were the core; he was sure of that. He wished he could get his mom back, without her baggage of being important. Everyone else he'd hoped would join his team had either died or gone missing. He was a survival molecule consisting of exactly one atom. “Team Liam,” as he'd once described his survival group, needed to be rebuilt from the ground up.

  Time to go find my other half.

  "I've got to go."

  Randolph shook his hand.

  "Go get her, kid. Live a long life. Do it for old Randolph," he said with a cheeky smile.

  "I will."

  5

  Liam continued his journey for another couple of blocks, but being inside the cordon around the park made the jog pleasant. After a few minutes, he reached the last street between concrete and grass. He'd almost gone full circle. He studied where he was. He entered the park midway between Victoria's dorm and Hans' house. He desperately wanted to run directly to Victoria's dorm room—where he hoped she'd be—but he had a couple of stops he needed to make. With people ahead, he tucked the shotgun into his suit jacket sleeve.

  First, he ran to a nearby creek in the park. The water wasn't deep, nor particularly clear, but he wanted the blood off. He stripped down to his black boxers and walked in with his sneakers on. If the people nearby cared, they didn't voice any objections. For all he knew, the creek was for clean drinking water. He hoped not, since he was turning it practically red in his little pool.

  He got out and air dried for a few minutes, content to rest on the grass. The creek was in an area of the park with relatively few people compared to elsewhere. Several black families had congregated together on a nearby hillside, while many more white families huddled downstream, on the other side of the creek.

  Is this how it's always going to be?

  To be fair, it could have been coincidence. He'd heard of racism, and had interacted with several different races of people on his journeys, but had never seen it in real life. His dad gave a passing mention to race when he was teaching him how to drive to Grandma's house in the city, but he couldn't recall the specifics of it.

  When he thought he was dry enough, he pulled on his jeans. He ended up walking those back into the creek, since they were covered in gore, too. When he was done, only his empty shotgun and the jacket were dry.

  Good enough. I'm outta here.

  “Hey, guy. Don't go that way.”

  The voice came from behind him. A greasy-looking young man, not much older than him, strode up. His red hair perched on top of his high forehead. His clothes were torn and dirty like he'd started the Apocalypse by visiting the charity bins for his attire.

  “You want to stay away from them,” he nodded menacingly to the black families on the low hill. They were between him and his destination.

  “Um, why is that?”

  He cackled. “You nuts? They caused this disease. You touch them. You die.”

  He was positively sure that was false, but not surprised rumors like that existed. The man didn't look like he was in the mood for debate.

  “Oh, thanks.” He started to walk off.

  “Hey now. Just a minute. There's a fee for good advice.”

  Liam knew how this was going to go down. In one explosive action, he launched into a sprint. He aimed for a nearby group of people—color was unimportant—and had to excuse himself as he deflected off the arm of a standing woman. There was another creek behind them, so he had to readjust to his right, toward another group of campers a couple of dozen yards away.

  The young guy was in pursuit, and though Liam seemed to have surprised him initially, he was taller, and by appearances, faster, than him. He was also cutting off some of the gap by angling toward where Liam was running.

  To compensate, Liam turned and jumped into the creek. It was actually hip-deep there, so it took him many seconds to get across. He heard a splash behind as he got up to speed on the far side. Frantic for somewhere to go, he searched for a police car or other sign of authority.

  I could use the scissors on him.

  He laughed inwardly. Scissors would be more effective on a living person than a zombie, but it would be a weapon of very last resort. He'd long since lost the ability to get the drop on the guy.

  There were a lot of people now, sitting and standing in small groups within the park, and many were angry at him for running through their space. The only consolation was complaints from those same people when the greasy guy went through.

  Inspiration struck. He turned right, heading north.

  His only real scare came when a burly guy tried to grab him. He figured a casual observer might think he was running from the law—or what passed for it in the park—and had tried to make a citizen's arrest. The guy managed to get a hand on his jacket, but he spun and let it slide off. It took real skill to keep the shotgun in his hands while he pulled that maneuver, but he managed. When the man saw the gun, he put up his own hands in a “Sorry, bro” gesture. Liam let the jacket drop.

  Finally, he ran up the small hill he'd seen while taking his bath. As expected, the young fellow refused to pursue him, and instead stayed well behind while flinging insulting names and dire warnings about their next meeting.

  He felt bad for using the black people as his shield, and he hoped his actions wouldn't get them in trouble in some way, so he kept running through their area, though with more care so as not to stir any resentments. If he managed to piss them off, he'd be out of places to run for help.

  All I want is to find Victoria. Is that too much to ask?

  6

  Next, he stopped at Hans Grubmeyer's mansion to get ammo for his street sweeper. By an agreement between the old man and the Patriot Snowball movement, he'd consented to let them—

  Am I “them”?

  —use the supplies in his home in exchange for allowing him to call his people to deliver the Tiger tanks to him. Something they never did...

  He decided to go in through the back door. Unsure if it would attract attention to himself, it seemed the stealthiest way to enter. The threat of the greasy runner kept him in the proverbial shadows.

  Plus, he realized all the ammo was stacked on the back porch. He searched the pallets of boxes until he found a huge tower of shotgun shells. With much effort, he tore the wrapping and a paper box so he could grab a few shells. The first two went in his gun; the rest he stuffed in his jeans pockets until they bulged like chipmunk cheeks.

  He walked in through the back door, expecting to find one of the Polar Bears. They were supposed to be guarding the place.

  “Hello?” he called. Then, thinking he was being funny, he continued, “Honey, I'm back from the Zombie Apocalypse.” If Victoria was here, he wanted her to hear the funny Liam she'd been missing.

  He wanted to hear her laughter.

  The hallways were exactly as he remembered them. Despite the size of the mansion, the walking paths were narrow crevices because boxes of supplies were stacked to the ceiling everywhere there was floor space. All paths led to the front room.

  He saw the foot on the ground and cradled his shotgun. A quick look behind him—for an ambush—showed nothing. The foot faced down, like someone was dead on the floor. Already committed, and having announced himself loudly, he continued to look around the corner so he could see into the main room.

  Bodies were everywhere.

  Oh God.

  The two Polar Bears he'd met before he'd left were dead. They'd been pushed to one side of the room, but the nasty black poo
l of blood beneath them suggested they'd been dead for a while.

  There were several of the infantry-ninja characters he associated with the NIS. He was surprised to realize he recognized them. One was the bodybuilder woman he'd seen the previous morning when they first got to the tanks. The other was Cliff Hammerich. He appeared to be dead as he sat up against a bunch of wooden crates, but he held a large wooden box over his outstretched legs.

  Liam was going to investigate when he saw a light-colored long-sleeved shirt hanging on the back of a folding chair. In a room full of military equipment and dead soldiers, it stood out like a flare in the darkness.

  Cautiously, he crossed the living room until he could reach for the shirt. He held it to his face and took a deep breath. In that instant, he knew who's it was. Was she dead in this house, or had she gotten out?

  The shotgun felt great in his hands. It was a pretty good weapon for sneaking around the tight spaces of the mansion. He eyed the various hallways out of the room, wondering if there was an intelligent way to conduct a search. While looking down the left hallway, his eyes fell once more to the box on Cliff's lap. It seemed to call out to be opened.

  “What were you trying to protect?” he quietly asked.

  It was about the size of a breadbox. He gently lifted the lid. A white piece of paper sat on a bunch of rags.

  “Dear Elsa. You lose.”

  It meant nothing to him, so he gingerly pulled the towels and cloth rags out of the box. He didn't know what to expect, but the digital readout of numbers counting down was among the last.

  “15...14...”

  He sprang up, suddenly doubting which way he should run.

  Go back where I know it's safe, or go out the front?

  He decided to try the front door. It was locked. It wasn't just locked, he realized, it had been boarded shut.

  Use the window!

  Hans had shot through the open window when they first met. He knew it was big enough to escape through. But someone had placed a wire mesh over the windows and screwed the wire to the wall.

  “Oh, shit!” he blurted.

  The whole place had been made into a fortress.