by JE Gurley
“What’s that?” Nicole asked, pointing ahead to several zombies surrounding a van beside the road illuminated by the headlights.
Alex slowed down and stopped fifty meters from the van. Two zombies lay unmoving on the ground beside the van. The others pounded on the van’s door and window.
“There’s someone inside!” Nicole exclaimed loudly. One of the zombies turned to look in the direction of the jeep and moved toward them.
Alex picked up his rifle from between the seats and shot him before the zombie had covered half the distance to the jeep. The driver of the van heard the shot and began to wave frantically.
“We have to help them,” Nicole pleaded.
Alex had his own reasons for helping. He hated zombies and killing them would be a pleasure. Perhaps the people in the van could take Nicole off his hands before he grew too attached to her. “If you insist,” he said.
Both of them exited the jeep with their rifles and marched toward the zombies. The zombies seemed torn between either getting at the man in the van or attacking the meat walking toward them. Before the zombies could decide, Alex and Nicole began firing. In rapid succession, they downed four of the zombies. The remaining three abandoned their attack on the van and rushed toward them. Nicole cursed loudly, as she blew the leg off one zombie; then shot it in the head as it lay uselessly spinning on the road. Alex blew one’s head off but the last one was on him before he could reload. He slammed his rifle butt into its head. The zombie took two steps backwards, and stared at him, before lunging at him again.
Alex shoved the end of the rifle barrel in the remaining zombie’s chest and shoved it, trying frantically to load a round in the chamber as he kept the zombie at bay. They may be dead, but they were still powerful. In his haste, he dropped the bullet. He yelled at Nicole, “Shoot it!”
She tried to fire, but their dance of death left her no clear shot. Suddenly, the zombie’s head exploded, splattering Alex with thick black blood and nauseating gore. The zombie slumped to the ground, revealing the van’s driver standing beside the open door with a pistol in his hand. Alex looked at driver’s badly shaking hand and felt weak in the knees at the man’s lucky shot. He stumbled up to Alex.
“Thank God!” he gasped. “I was headed to Alice Springs, but got lost in the blow. I ran out of petrol and these damn bloody zombies came out of nowhere. I shot two.” He held out the .45. “That was my last round. I was saving it for myself.”
“Glad you used it when you did,” Alex said, “But it was God Almighty close.”
The man shrugged. “I figured if I didn’t hit the beggar you were dead anyway.” He saw Alex’s look of incredulity. “Sorry, but that’s the way I think nowadays.” He shoved the pistol, a Glock, into his waist of his jeans and held out his hand. “Name’s Rufus Gore from Melbourne.”
Nicole spoke up first. “How are things in Melbourne?”
Gore took a long appreciative look at her. Alex thought Nicole looked a little uncomfortable under his gaze. “Gone to shit,” he said. “City’s Zombieville, now. I got out before the fires. Whole damn city went up. Looked like a bloody forest fire from the distance. I think that maybe they bombed it. Heard lots of explosions in the distance.”
“Bombed it?” she exclaimed in horror. “Who?”
“Us, bloody Russians, Americans – who knows. What does it matter? City was done for anyway.”
Alex nodded. He had already written off Melbourne. He wanted some more practical information. “What was it like driving here?”
Gore shook his head slowly. “Bad, real bad. There was a navy ship off Adelaide, but I couldn’t get to it. Concrete K-rails and burned out buses blocked the roads. Didn’t want to chance walking in. Small towns along the way were the same – crawling with the dead. I saw a few live folks here and there, and steered clear of three or four armed vigilante gangs guarding roads, and shooting people to keep them away. God knows where they got the weapons – from dead coppers I guess. Trying to stop the spread of the Plague, I guess, bloody fools. The damn stuff’s airborne. They’re probably all dead by now. I saw some unlucky souls hanging from streetlights with signs around their necks that read ‘Looters’.”
Nicole broke in, “Any army or sign of authority?”
Gore smiled and tapped the butt of the Glock in his belt meaningfully. “Just this. Good thing you’re armed. Survivors have gone crazy. It’ll get worse when supplies run low.”
Nicole was crestfallen. Her shoulders slumped and tears formed in her eyes. She sniffed them away. Alex wanted to comfort her, but he knew it would be a useless gesture. She was crying for the idea of all those useless deaths, not her dad. Alex didn’t think like that. Their deaths were too far removed to affect him the way they did her. To him, it was like people starving in Africa or refugees from a war – He felt sorry, but couldn’t do anything about it. She had to toughen her skin against hope from outside and concentrate on staying alive.
Gore continued. “Speaking of supplies, I’ve got some fresh fruit and veggies in my van that I’d like to trade for some petrol and ammo.”
“I can spare a little .9 mm. I’ll fill your tank with petrol and toss in a couple of five-gallon containers for some fruit though,” Alex told him.
“Great! Uh, can I spend the night? I don’t want to hang around here in the dark until I can get some ammo.”
Alex hesitated. He didn’t know Gore, but the man had saved his life. “Sure. Jump in.”
Gore rushed back to his van and removed two cloth bags. When he returned to the jeep, Alex caught a whiff of bananas. He hadn’t tasted fresh fruit in weeks, especially bananas which turned quickly. Gore handed him the bags.
“Here are a dozen bananas, ten apples, some oranges, lemons, limes and a couple of melons. The other bag is about five kilos of potatoes.” Gore smiled at Alex’s look of awe. “Found them in a refrigerated container car near a siding. The train had derailed, so I helped myself. I wish I could’ve salvaged it all.”
“How did they stay fresh in this heat?” Nicole asked. “Don’t they need electricity?”
“They were frozen CO2 ‘reefer’ containers. They’re self-contained. I had to break the seal, though, so the food won’t last long.”
Alex was more concerned with logistics than a lesson in transportation. “How far back?”
Gore closed his eyes in concentration. “It couldn’t have been more than fifty-sixty kilometers, just off the main highway.”
Alex filed the information for later. Having a stockpile of fruit would come in handy. He had read where British sailors carried limes aboard ships to prevent scurvy, hence the nickname ‘Limeys’. He wasn’t sure if the tinned food and vegetables, he had been eating had enough ascorbic acid, although he thought potatoes and carrots contained Vitamin C to fight scurvy. Even if the fruit started going bad, he could always juice it for the vitamins.
Gore sat in the back of the Jeep, but he leaned over the passenger seat with his arms resting behind Nicole’s neck. He sniffed, “I haven’t smelled perfume in ages. You smell like ambrosia.”
Nicole laughed uncomfortably and edged closer to the door. “Thank you, but I probably reek. You must smell the oranges.”
Gore roared in laughter. “Sounds good to hear a woman’s voice again.”
Alex was beginning to have second thoughts about pawning Nicole off on Gore. He cranked the Jeep and headed for home.
“You two married?” Gore asked over the roar of the jeep.
“No. We just met,” Alex replied.
Gore looked at Nicole and smiled. “Oh? Three strangers in a strange new world, eh?”
Something in the tone of Gore’s voice bothered Alex, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe, he was just being overly cautious or overly protective of Nicole. He glanced at her. She was smiling as Gore said something to her he could not hear. After all, he had no hold on her. She could do as she pleased. Besides, Gore would be on his way soon. If she chose to leave with him, he had no say in t
he matter.
At the abandoned factory, Alex went in the door first and checked out the room. Satisfied no zombies had found their way in during their absence, he motioned the others inside and bolted the door behind them. Upstairs, he and Gore uncovered the window, taking down the canvas and plywood and letting a fresh breeze enter the room. The dust storm’s passing had left the night air cool and clear.
Alex turned to Gore. “Pick a spot and bed down. I have extra blankets and a sleeping pad in that pile there.” He pointed to a stack of bedding.
Gore looked around. “Nice place you got here, high and secure. Good view outside. You chose well.”
“Thanks.”
Gore pulled out a pipe. “Mind if I smoke?”
“No. I’ll join you.”
Alex lit up a cigarette. Nicole sat on the edge of the cot and sipped from a bottle of water. She looked back and forth between the two men. Alex stole a glance at Gore. Gore was slightly shorter and stockier with long brown hair and a thin mustache compared to Alex’s short sandy hair and clean-shaven face. Gore looked to be about 35, the same age as Alex. Alex had been called good looking a few times in his life, though living in the desert had toughened his skin and drew crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He imagined Gore could attract women easily enough with his bright green eyes and ready smile. He wondered if Nicole was comparing them for future choosing. He was surprised that he wanted to come out on top.
Gore leaned close to Alex and asked softly, “Are you two . . . you know?”
Alex choked on cigarette smoke. When he finished coughing, he answered, “No. I almost ran her down. She walked out of the desert after her dad died.”
Gore nodded. “Just wondering.”
Alex stubbed out the rest of his cigarette and tossed it out the window. “I think I’ll turn in.” He picked up his cot and moved it into the next room to allow Nicole to sleep alone. From his cot, Alex watched Gore smoking his pipe. After a while, he knocked out the ashes, picked up two blankets, and followed Alex. When Gore removed his shirt, Alex noticed two crudely inked tattoos on his arms, like the kind one gets in jail. Gore saw Alex staring at his tattoos.
“I spent some time in jail for a bar fight,” he said. “The other guy started it but he owned the bar.” He shrugged.
Alex didn’t reply. He turned over, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. Later that night he awoke badly needing a smoke. On the way to grab his cigarettes from the other room, he picked up Gore’s shirt where Gore had tossed it on the floor. It felt heavy. He checked the shirt pocket and found a clip of 9mm cartridges for the Glock. A chill caressed his spine. Gore had lied about being out of ammo. What else had he lied about?
9
Aug. 29, 2013 Casey Base, Antarctica
Roger Basky drifted in and out of consciousness while Elliot Anson made a dry run through the controls of the Hercules. Marino, occupying the co-pilot’s seat and feeling inadequate to the job, marveled at the number of gauges, dials and switches on the numerous control panels and wondered if Anson knew the function of them all. Finally, Anson nodded to himself as if deeming himself ready for the task.
“Ok,” he called out. “I’m going to try starting the engines now.”
“The sooner the better,” Marino replied. He was eager to be away from the desolation of Casey base, even if it meant flying with a novice pilot in a plane the size of a small ship. He worried that Basky might not make it. Basky’s feet and fingers had severe frostbite and his breathing sounded ragged, as if he might have pneumonia as well. He had spoken little since eating the hot stew Marino had prepared. After all he had endured, Marino was worried that Basky’s will to live was flagging. If so, even medical treatment might not be enough to save his life.
Anson began turning over the engines. The first one sputtered, then gasped and died. Anson tried it several times, as Marino crossed his finger and held his breath. Finally, it burst into life with a cloud of smoke. The second and third started easily. The last engine, however, refused to crank. It whined and wind milled slowly, but would not turn over. Anson began cursing it as he worked the throttles. At last, to his and Marino’s great satisfaction, the prop began to spin, slowly at first, but increasing in rpms as Anson throttled up. He tapped one of the gauges with his index finger.
“The rpms are low, but it’s spinning,” Anson reported. “I’ll have to nurse it along.” He began to flip switches, and panels burst into life around him in a wash of blue and white lights. A few remained an ominous red, but Anson seemed unperturbed by them. He revved the engines for several minutes until satisfied they were running smoothly.
Marino looked out the window. The zombies, drawn by the sound of the turboprops, were gathering at the front of the Hercules.
“We’ll have to move them out of the way,” Anson cautioned, following Marino’s gaze.
“Why?” Marino answered. “Chop them down.”
“The props might be all right, but I’m more worried about one jamming the landing gear.”
Marino sighed. It looked like he was elected. “I’ll use the tractor again. Get them to follow me. I’ll be in a hurry, so lower the ramp when you see me headed back.”
Marino opened the door and made the two meter leap to the top of the stairs. Only one zombie paid any attention to him and it disappeared around the far side of the tractor. The others, fascinated by the spinning props, ignored him. Marino started the Kharkovchanka and drove to the front of the Hercules. He rolled down the driver’s window and yelled, as he beat on the outside of the door with the palm of his hand.
“Hey, you bastards! Follow me!” He drove away slowly, allowing the zombies to pursue him. Slowly, they moved away from the Hercules and toward the tractor. The zombie that had followed Marino to the Kharkovchanka, suddenly appeared on top of the cab, beating at the windscreen with both fists. Marino slammed his fist into the unpadded roof of the tractor. Through his side mirror, Marino saw the zombie stand. Judging that he had just enough clearance, Marino drove the tractor beneath the spinning blades. The roar of the turboprop faltered momentarily, as pieces of severed zombie plastered his windscreen and the front of the Hercules. The spinning props sent a fountain of gore across the runway, showering the confused zombies, sending them into a killing frenzy, ripping and tearing at each other.
Satisfied with his triumph, Marino drove slowly away from the Hercules, allowing the zombies to follow close behind him. When he had driven a hundred meters down the runway, he saw the rear ramp of the Hercules begin to lower. He spun the tractor in a wide arc, coming back and ploughing through the throng of zombies, scattering them like bowling pins. He headed the Kharkovchanka for the ramp, and then saw that Anson had already started raising it. The tractor bounced wildly as the treads slammed into edge of the ramp, throwing Marino from his seat. He heard the screech of tearing metal. One tread of the tractor unwound, throwing the vehicle to one side. More metal sang as the tractor gouged a deep furrow along one bulkhead. Marino fought his way back into the driver’s seat and put all his weight on the brake pedal as the first row of seats drew dangerously close. The front of the tractor gently nudged the seats and stopped. Marino breathed a sigh of relief and leaped out of the tractor. He failed to notice a lone zombie clinging to the side of the tractor. As he passed, it fell upon him, knocking him to the ground, and clawing madly at his chest. Marino pushed it away and held it off with his boot. He could feel the zombie’s claws bruising flesh. He hoped it did not rip through the double layer of outerwear.
“Drop!” Anson yelled, raising his rifle. He fired as Marino dropped his leg. The zombie went limp and fell beside him, the back of its head missing. As Marino picked himself up, Anson rolled the dead zombie off the side of the still rising ramp. It landed in a puddle of water. He glanced at the Ural unharmed, and still miraculously attached to the tractor. “Let’s go,” he said.
Marino sat in the co-pilot’s seat as Anson managed the controls. Anson had strapped Basky, still unconscious, in the naviga
tor’s seat. Following Anson’s instructions as he called them out over the roar of the turboprops, Marino pressed the pedals to lower the flaps and helped advance the throttles. The big Hercules thundered down the runway, shuddering as the landing gear hit the deep gouges in the ice left by the Russian tractor. Slowly, it picked up speed. Just as Marino began to grow anxious at the rapidly approaching end of the icy runway, the C-130 slowly, ponderously lifted off the ground.
They were airborne.
“Raise the landing gear,” Anson called out. “That lever there.”
Marino raised the gear. The four sets of wheels and the nose gear slid into their fuselage blister fairings and sealed with a loud thud. The noise level somewhat abated with the landing gear up. He watched Anson busily fighting the controls, as he turned switches on panels above, beside and in front of him. He didn’t know how Anson could possibly read all the myriad of gauges whose needles vibrated behind the glass.
“Raise the flaps halfway,” Anson told him. Marino dutifully moved pedals until Anson told him to stop. The C-130 leveled off at five hundred feet. The ground below swept by in a dizzying view of blinding white snow, gray rocky crags, and black and white penguin rookeries. Then they were over the water.
“Are we going to fly this low all the way to Australia?” he asked Anson.
Anson glanced at him smiling. “Afraid of a little water?”
“No. I’m afraid of hitting it at 300 kilometers per hour,” Marino replied.
“I’ll gain some altitude, shortly.”
Marino looked at the compass. “We’re headed east. Aren’t we going to check out Mawson?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Anson jerked his head toward Basky. “He said the pilots landed there first. We can’t pick them up on radio, so I doubt they faired any better than Casey did. This storm front is rolling in from the northwest, plowing right into the katabatic winds from off the Ice Shield. It’s going to muck things up considerably. I don’t want to try to fly into heavy headwinds with this C-130. We’ll follow the coast off Oates Land, then head north to Australia.”