by Dave Lund
Maybe Bob would know. Well, if I am going near Las Vegas, I could roughly follow I-40 west for navigation, stop where I can along the way for fuel, maybe meet more survivors...I need to get fueled up and flying. We’ve been here for too long, even if they are really nice.
“Hey, Oreo, we could visit the Grand Canyon along the way. That would be cool. See the Hoover Dam. Maybe there are people living near that who have working electricity from the dam. That would be incredible.”
Oreo’s head snapped up just before Andrew heard the doorknob of the front door rattle. Andrew looked at Oreo, who climbed down and waited with his tail wagging. He figured if Oreo was happy, then he didn’t have to worry. Andrew was correct, as Warren and Mary came through the door, Warren carrying his atlas.
Mary gave Oreo a hug and excitedly blurted out, “Bob made contact with Groom Lake and listened to the radio guy there talk to a guy in Montana and another in Minnesota.”
“Wow. What did they say?”
Warren had a piece of paper that he had scribbled the notes on. “The one in Minnesota has an odd name and has a small community of survivors right near Minneapolis. Some town called Winnebago or something. The one in Montana is named Dorsey and is near Great Falls. He’s saying that it’s been bad with the snow’n all. Most of them survivors have been starved. Some drank themselves to death, and others just killed themselves off. He also said they don’t be hav’n many of the dead either. Supposed the cold weather is makin’em stiff, and they can’t move. He done bugged out to one of them missile silos up there, could you believe it, living below ground like that.”
“Really! Hadn’t thought of that. Not much of a harsh winter in my part of Florida; the worst is when we have a late frost, and we lose a bunch of oranges.”
“This’n guy Dorsey was talking about getting close to six feet of snow this year, hoping to thaw out by July.”
“Damn, six feet? Six inches of snow would shut Deland down for a week!”
“No joke, we get snow here, but nuth’n like that, nuth’n even close.”
“Warren,” Andrew glanced at Mary and back, “do you think I’ve earned my keep well enough to get some fuel? Oreo and I want to attempt flying out to Groom Lake to that facility.”
“What’n for?”
“Well, I’ve got a bunch of information marked in my atlas, and I’m sure I’ll gather more while en route. I’m sure they could use that, and besides I’m curious. I want to see what is left of our government. I want to see if they have a plan, if we have a chance.”
“That’s fair, and I’m suppose’n we owe some gratitude for giving us the link to the outside world. It was like hell getting Bob to get off the radio and rest. Most of the town is down there; others are taking shifts on the radio, sending messages and listening to others. It’s slow’n work, little buzzes here and there that you’ve got to be writ’n down and such, but it be better than nuth’n. Well, come on down with us again. We can ask the town. Between everyone, we might scrape up enough fuel to get you headed out the right way.”
Andrew was grinning from ear to ear as they all headed back down to the community building. If yesterday was a fun get-together, what Andrew found today was an all-out party. It was like the town had won the lotto. An hour later, Andrew’s plane was topped off, and his little spare fuel can was full. Half the town watched as Andrew taxied into position and completed a preflight run-up on the ramp. Happy that the magnetos should work and the engine probably wouldn’t fail on takeoff, Andrew pushed the power button, and the little aircraft raced down the runway. The tail wheel popped off the ground first before the yellow aircraft floated lazily into the sky, banking right to fly westbound.
Once the sound of the engine was gone, Mary wiped her eyes, sad to see Oreo leave and sad that she didn’t get to go flying.
“Grandpa Warren, I want to learn how to fly.”
“I’m sorry, baby girl, maybe you’ll be hav’n a chance in the future when all this mess is behind us.”
Warren picked up Mary and carried her across the road to their house. The brave new world was a sad place, no place for his little princess, and it broke Warren’s heart to know that the future was more bleak than the past could have ever imagined.
Saint George, UT
Stan and Chivo rode in silence, the soft clops of the horses’ hooves along the desert the only noise besides the occasional snort or fart from the horses. Following the same path that he and Angel had used, the pair eventually arrived at the neighborhood near the truck wreck where Chivo had spied the VW previously. Chivo’s rifle sat across his legs so the muzzle wouldn’t poke the horse and possibly spur him, the sling across his body keeping it from falling to the ground. He held the reins loosely in his left hand, his right hand gripping the stock of the M4. The last go around he’d had in this area nearly turned south on him. The plan was to clear the house, get the horses and the car into the garage, shut the garage door, and work in relative safety. The houses had practically no backyards, so they couldn’t secure the horses in a backyard. The front yards had no fences, so the horses could be attacked by the dead if they were tied up in the front yard. Stan commented that they should bring the horses into the living room and let them rest there. Chivo wasn’t opposed to the idea; he just wasn’t sure that the horses would fit through the front door very well. Besides, all they needed was a horse to get injured tripping over a sofa or something. Chivo figured that in the worst case they could clear another house and secure them in its garage while they worked in the first. Since the homes were set a bit like duplexes with paired side-by-side driveways, it wouldn’t be that hard to do. It would only add a little bit of time. Time in the new world was a strange beast; they had both too much time and not enough time. It all depended on a slight change in circumstance.
The neighborhood was quiet; a few dead thumped against the front windows of homes. Only a couple reanimates were seen out roaming the streets. They weren’t worth killing and alerting the area that someone was scavenging from the sound of rifle fire. The second street on his right and five houses down was the Bug. Reaching the driveway, Stan remained in the saddle as mounted security. Chivo tied his reins to the tube bumper of the Baja-beetle and knocked on the front door. A few moments later a wet thump hit the back of the door. Chivo shook his head as the reanimated corpse on the other side of the door continued to step into the shut door with a loud thud each time. Checking the door, he found it locked. After retrieving a lava rock from the desert-style landscaping in the front yard, Chivo threw it through the large front window with a sharp crash. The thumping against the door ended, and a few moments later the reanimated corpse crashed through the broken front window and onto the lawn. As it struggled to get up, Chivo drove his knife through the back of the undead woman’s skull. After wiggling the knife to get it loose, Chivo looked at the rotted nude body, the sagging gray flesh, and stepped to the window to clean the blade on the curtains before replacing it in the sheath.
Chivo looked back at Stan, who sat on his horse looking a little wide-eyed. Chivo gave him a wink and stepped into the dark home. In only a few minutes, Stan heard the garage-door latch release before it rolled up to show a garage full of junk.
Stan guided his horse near the edge of the garage, and Chivo appeared behind a mountain of random boxes and a ping pong table holding a silver car key in his hand. “What do you say? Should we try a different garage or not use the garage? What do you think, Chivo?”
“Naw, mano, this is fine, just time for a fucking yard sale...maybe some napalm.”
“What?”
“I’m kidding. Give me a hand, and let’s push all this shit out into the fucking yard.”
Stan climbed off his horse, tied it next to the other one, and helped with the garage reorganization, unceremoniously tossing boxes of Halloween decorations, old clothes, dishes, and everything else imaginable onto the lawn and driveway next door
. Fifteen minutes later, a few dead had straggled near, and the garage was empty.
“Stan, there’s a little side yard that’s paved and there should be room for the horses. I’ll take care of these assholes if you move the horses. When you get back, we can push the Bug into the garage and get to fucking work.”
Nodding, Stan took the horses around the far side of the house; Chivo unsheathed his knife and jogged toward the closest walking corpse. Stopping in front of the reanimated dead, Chivo took a side step and tripped the old man lunging for him. Once on the ground, the knife plunge was repeated. Rocking the knife back and forth, Chivo couldn’t get it to come loose from the man’s skull. Frowning, he worked harder as the other two dead came closer and closer, but the knife wouldn’t budge.
“Pendejo!” Chivo spun in his crouched position while pulling his pistol clear of the holster and fired twice in rapid succession, each shot striking a zombie in the forehead. He kicked the handle of his knife, which caused the knife to pop loose from the skull. He jogged to where it had skidded to a stop on the asphalt, retrieved it, and headed back to Stan and the Bug. Stan was already trying to push it into the garage. Around them the sound of the dead slamming against doors and windows crescendoed. Once the Bug was in the garage, they shut the door behind them and latched it closed, just as dozens of approaching dead marched up the driveway. The sound of the dead banging against the thin sheet metal garage door rattled the frame.
“Well, mano, hopefully out of sight out of mind for a little while and they’ll give it up before they knock the door down.”
Stan lit a match, and the darkness of the closed garage pushed against the small flame until it slid behind the glass globe of a camp lantern. The gentle hiss of white gas followed by the poof of the flame catching preceded the warm glow of the dual mantel lamp that Stan hung from the garage door opener on the ceiling.
“At least we don’t have to take the deck lid off or worry about jamming our hands into tight places around that tiny motor.”
The rear bodywork of the Beetle had been cut away, replaced with a classic-style tube bumper and short-cut rear fenders, with the engine hanging from the transmission in the open air. Stan popped off the cap of the distributor, inspected the rotor, and used a shim to check the gap in the points.
Chivo opened the passenger door and replaced the old car battery under the back seat with the freshly charged battery that they’d brought. Assuming they could drain the tank if it didn’t work, Chivo raised the hood and poured about one of the two gallons of gas they’d brought with them into the metal tank, saving the rest in case they actually did need to drain the tank.
One by one, Stan removed each of the four spark plugs and inspected them in the light, checking the spark gap and verifying that they appeared to be in good working order. The oil was dark and used, but Stan didn’t see any evidence of water or contamination; if water was in the oil, this entire enterprise would have been for naught. After removing the valve covers, and while using a large crescent wrench, Stan turned the crank via the bolt on the crankshaft pulley, stopping at top dead center and bottom dead center with each turn to check the valve adjustment for each of the four cylinders. None of the valves needed adjustment. While Stan checked the engine and mechanicals, Chivo used two cans of Fix-A-Flat to fill the four small tires. The foaming can of glue wasn’t the best choice, but it was a field-expedient choice when you had no other way.
“It looks like ass, but, so far, whoever kept this old Bug kept it in apparent almost-good working order.”
Chivo nodded. Even if it wasn’t in good working order, the old Bugs were so robust that they would just run anyway. People always said that they were easy to work on. Growing up poor, he’d learned that they were just as hard to work on as anything else, but the design was so good that they would run while forgiving egregious mechanical mistakes on the part of the homegrown mechanic.
After checking that the bowl and float were clean, Stan reassembled the carburetor and pulled out a test light to static test the ignition timing. Once complete, the pair packed up the tools in preparation for starting the car and leaving once everything became really noisy. Both of them knew that the Baja-style stinger exhaust would be really loud since it was just a straight pipe with a flared trumpet end that made the exhaust even louder.
Chivo sat in the driver’s seat, a cheap fiberglass bucket seat, pushed in the clutch, turned the key, and gave the gas pedal a quick pump. All they heard was the click of the starter. Chivo tried again, and the motor didn’t turn over; again, all they heard was the click of the starter.
“Chivo, flip on the headlights for a sec.”
Chivo did as instructed and was surprised to see that even in the darkness of the garage, the headlights were very weak.
“Shit. Let me swap out with the old battery, maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Stan made quick work of swapping the battery connections. “Try the headlights again.”
This time nothing shone at all.
“OK, let me switch them back. I think it’ll run, but we might have to push start it.”
“It’s like I’m back in the old neighborhood, mano, except we never took this long to steal a fucking car.”
Stan grunted. He didn’t see it as stealing and missed that Chivo’s comment was a joke. In his mind, it was salvaging for the good of the group, and it was righteous, not dirty and uncomely like theft. The moral line that was a hard, sharp one in his mind was wide and light gray for Chivo, who was surprised by the sudden appearance of all the tools being tossed into the passenger seat.
“OK, Specialist Hood-rat, I’m going to open the garage door and push you out backwards, so put the tranny in reverse and pop the clutch when I say to.”
Chivo glared at Stan, mumbling, “Hood-rat? I’ll fucking put your tranny in reverse, fucking mang.”
“What?”
“I said it’s a great plan, Stan-the-man, fucking outstanding, quit dicking around and let’s get your wonderful plan in action.”
Stan took down the lantern, turned the gas off, and set the still glowing and hot light on the floorboard of the passenger’s side. After pulling the release, he lifted the garage door and let the latch hold it open; it had been some time since they’d heard any reanimated dead banging against the metal.
Some dead shambled down the darkening street. Chivo hadn’t realized how long they had been in the garage, but apparently it was more than the couple of hours that it felt like. The sun had already set, and they needed to haul ass back to the compound or setup for the night.
Chivo turned the key to the on position, pushed down on the gear shift, selected reverse, released the parking brake, and held the clutch pedal to the floor. Stan began pushing as hard as he could, the little car gaining speed as it reached the end of the driveway. Chivo didn’t wait, it was now or not, so he released the clutch and began pumping the gas pedal. The car lurched against the transmission before roaring to life. Chivo shifted to neutral and yelled at Stan, “We’ll come back for the horses tomorrow; there are too many dead fucking about! Get in and let’s get home!”
Stan climbed in on top of the tools piled in the passenger seat; Chivo shifted to first and drove away from the assembling welcome party of death, the obnoxiously loud exhaust echoing off the houses. As they passed the far side of the house, Chivo caught a glimpse of one of the horses on the ground, two dead feeding on it, and blood running into the street. The other horse was missing. Shaking his head, Chivo wasn’t sure what he would tell Angel. It wasn’t like they could replace the horses before they left for Groom Lake.
The Compound, Saint George, UT
Bexar put his beer in the cup holder of the camp chair and pulled himself onto his good foot. Gingerly, he began putting some weight on the cast, steadying himself by holding onto the chair. He wasn’t quite ready yet, but the leg would hold his weight, if unsteadily.
&
nbsp; In the morning, I’ve got to get Guillermo to cut this cast off. I’m sitting around getting drunk and fat when I should be training for survival, for my family’s survival.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bexar saw the ghost of a faint streak of light in the sky. Before he could turn his head, the concussion thumped into Bexar’s chest with the force of a sledge hammer. Ears ringing, the world came to focus slowly; in view were flames, movement, the moving shadows of people running as seen only by firelight.
The shop...oh God, the shop is on fire!
The Beetle
“What the fuck is that?”
Chivo looked up and right to where Stan was pointing. In the distance, flames licked the night sky. The slow roll of an explosion rumbled through the small car.
“Shit, mano, that’s the fucking compound!”
Chivo focused forward; the headlights’ faint glow on the roadway made it feel like he was driving by candlelight. Going as fast as he dared, Chivo carefully threaded through the thickening mass of the dead, dodging left and right. The nimble, loud, air-cooled car drove as commanded. All that Chivo and Stan saw of the dead were the backs of their heads, as each pair of dead eyes in the area were pointed toward the beacon calling them home to feed.
The Compound, Saint George, UT
Bexar stood, adrenaline coursing through his veins, ears ringing. He couldn’t hear the screaming. Two people lay motionless on the driveway. Angel ran to the first, heavy med bag over his shoulder, and pointed toward the shop. Bexar couldn’t hear him, but he saw the shop was well on its way to being fully engulfed.
The flames danced across the lunar landscape of the desert night. Movement caught his eye; spinning quickly toward the movement, Bexar raised his rifle. Three people outside the fence were running toward the gate. The tip of the red triangle in the optic tracked just ahead of the leader. Two smooth pulls on the trigger, and the first person fell; the second person tripped over the body. Bexar drove the rifle to the person at the rear, who stopped and turned to run away. Another two shots and the rounds pierced his back, blood erupting out of his chest where the rounds exited, the man crumpling to the ground in mid-stride. The remaining person of the assaulting force stood, arms raised. An odd-looking tube was slung across his body; it looked vaguely familiar to Bexar, but he wasn’t sure why. Anger pierced the air between them. A fraction of a second passed, but for Bexar it felt like ten minutes. Through the reticle all he saw were the eyes and the hatred they held. A single squeeze of the trigger and the back of the attacker’s skull exploded in a shower of bone and brain matter. Bexar scanned left and right. Nothing else moved; no other threats arrived.