by J. L. Bourne
I left the cabin and went back to the Solitude to get my work light and a paper air filter mask. Using a cracking, old orange extension cord, I ran the light from my inverter over to Liquid Asset’s cabin. Now the interior was lit completely. The body was in late stages of decomposition. There was some line tied to his leg. I saw maggots, but not a lot. From the looks of it, the poor bastard got infected and someone locked him inside the head.
Checking the cabin, I noticed an ice pick jammed into the forward table, securing a piece of paper to the tabletop. It laconically read Sorry with an arrow pointing forward. I didn’t check the forward hold, as my gut told me to stay out. That might seem irrational to most on a salvage mission, but I’m alone. I can’t risk it.
As I suspected, there wasn’t much worth salvaging inside the rest of the boat. I found an old flare pistol with two rounds, some long-expired emergency rations, and some SCUBA gear. I grabbed my lamp and stowed it back on the Solitude before heading back with a socket set to take the solar panels. They would bring me at least four troy ounces of gold, two per panel if their output was still good. The panels didn’t take long to detach and snip. I glanced at the batteries—trash. The inverter might be good so I removed that with my multitool. I was back onboard Solitude and on heading three two five degrees inside of ten minutes.
***
I’ve been sailing for forty hours or so. I’ve seen no signs of anything but water since salvaging the Liquid Asset. I’ve temporarily integrated the salvaged solar panels into my system. I knew the batteries on the other boat were useless. I could see that they were bone dry, and I didn’t have any distilled water to try and revive them. Wouldn’t be worth it for ten percent efficiency anyway. I may have mentioned the batteries earlier, but I don’t tend to go back and read what I write. I used to do this a lot more often.
Funny how the new economy works. A G-10 pen in good condition with full ink goes for a tenth of an ounce of gold. That would have been well over a hundred U.S. dollars back when those were in circulation. A good notebook goes for about half that. The prices only go up every year as supply diminishes. Sure, every now and again you come across an eccentric gold miser who will happily pay you a hundred gold pieces to find him something absurd. Old game systems, flat-screen TVs, microwave ovens, toilet paper, etc. I once was paid eighty-five troy gold to head into the badlands to a specific address near the Alabama coast on the edge of the radiation zone. The target? A simple picture on the wall above the fireplace. I’m not saying this was an absurd request because I’d love to have a picture of my mother or anyone else from way back when. With all that being said, I am saying that I wouldn’t have paid eighty-five troy for it.
It’s been ten years, but I still remember that bounty. I went in on a moonless night incursion with NODs, suppressed carbine, folding bike, Geiger, etc.; just like the old days. I paddled my dinghy (an old ten-foot, one-person kayak) to the shore and made sure to tie her off this time; this was my second dinghy. Won’t go there, that’s another story, but it involved a cold, bloody, and terrifying swim back to the Solitude. After tying off my orange kayak, I looked back at my boat for a few moments to make sure she wasn’t drifting anchor. She seemed at stable anchorage, so I continued inland.
I quickly unfolded my bike. I remember oiling all the moving parts to avert noise. The bike was new then, before I added a few mods. Checking my street maps again, I went over the directions in my head. With my carbine slung across my back and my Geiger set to vibrate at two hundred mSv, I started pedaling the route inland. Time has faded some of what happened ten years ago, but I remember making it to the house, only leaving my bike twice: once to lift it over some wreckage and the second time to engage half a dozen radiated creatures that sat dormant inside a bus. I drove over a piece of metal making some noise, probably a street sign. I neared the bus at about the same time my Geiger started to vibrate my hip like an old pager. The bus must have come from near ground zero. It was hot and so were the creatures coming out the side door.
Thank goodness they were inside the bus, as I was able to shoot them quite easily as they came through the door. If they had already been on the streets when I passed by . . . best not to think about that. I wouldn’t be recalling this fond memory right now. Shaking off my nerves, I got back on my bike and got the hell out before more reacted to my suppressed shots. I think the street name was something like Byers. I can’t really recall. It could have been Myers. Anyway, I arrived at the house, but it was difficult to find with all the foliage. The door was locked so I climbed the fence into the backyard. I remembered that I didn’t want to stay near the street given the time it would take to bump key the front door. Don’t know why I remember that detail.
It was like a rain forest in the backyard; trees were sprouted everywhere. The sliding glass door was locked, but I brought a custom glass cutter along to keep things quiet. I cut the glass near the latch and used a small rubber hammer from my bump key B&E set to knock the glass in. I unlatched the door and remember being thankful that my client hadn’t wedged a piece of wood in the sliding door track. Years of neglect made the door difficult to move along the track, but I was inside. It smelled like old paper. I suppose that’s a bit cliché, because if you’ve ever been in an old house, they all smell like old paper—unless there are corpses inside.
When I got to the fireplace, I couldn’t help but laugh. Dogs Playing Poker. Why wouldn’t it be? I probably would have been a tad upset if I hadn’t been paid half bounty up front. I grabbed the painting, placing it carefully in my pack as if it were the Mona Lisa itself. The house was barricaded at the front door; glad I went to the back. I checked the rooms and found an old photo album full of pictures at the bottom of a drawer. I decided to bring that along as well.
I can see the Mississippi coastline now so I’ll make this quick.
The man paid the rest of my bounty for the Dogs Playing Poker, plus fifty troy to burn the album I found.
He killed himself a year later. I went to the funeral and afterward handed his younger sister a shoebox full of pictures. I left without giving my name.
Sunset / 200+ miles from inclusion zone border
The radiation risk area has shrunk somewhat since the nuke went off in New Orleans. Rain, time, and other factors have cleaned up some of the particles, or at least diluted them. Most people don’t bother taking the time to find this out for themselves, but most of them would call me a damn old fool trying. I’m not that old, but as they say it’s not really the age, it’s the mileage. Either way, I’ve taken great pains to document and monitor the radiation levels on all my exclusion zone incursions over the years. The deadly zone has shrunk about seventy miles since detonation. I’ve noticed the radiation abatement and use it to my advantage. I never would have set foot where I’m going thirty or even twenty years ago, and yet here I am now. I’m looking on the shore of what used to be a place that would kill you without a bite. As long as I avoid large metal objects, I should be fine. Metal near the blast soaked up massive amounts of deadly radiation particles, like a Soviet fire truck or Mi-8 helicopter fighting the Chernobyl blaze.
Because of historical wind patterns, I’m going to have to wear a gas mask to filter out any radioactive dust. It doesn’t take much to kill you once you breathe it in. I don’t like wearing a mask because it fucks with my field of view and NOD employment. A suit won’t be required, as I’m not spending the night outside. A close doctor friend of mine gave me some meds to take for thyroid protection before going in. Took those with my meal this morning.
I’m targeting a university hospital that did a lot of diabetes and heart work before the collapse. Water, dried deer meat, M4 carbine with one mag of subsonic and five mags of regular 5.56, Glock 19 with five G17 mags, a fixed-blade Fallen Oak Forge knife, a folding Spydie knife, NODs, and some B&E tools make up the backbone of my load out. I made sure my oil filter suppressor was screwed on tight, feeling the exit end to make sure it was fresh. New filters were a little quiete
r on the first shot. After that, I would need to slap a strip of tape over the tip of the can to help muffle any single follow-on shots. I normally coat the can with some mud or dark spray paint when I can find it, but something tells me that I won’t be encountering looters this deep in the badlands. The undead don’t care what color your suppressor might be. I prefer Caterpillar yellow and black tonight.
There are a few of them on the shore, but they don’t seem to notice me. They are in hibernation, but I’m not taking any chances. The creatures are close enough to shore that I’ll take my crossbow with me on the kayak and shoot them on the way to the beach. Saves ammo; much quieter too. If it weren’t large and awkward, I’d bring the crossbow inland with me. I just can’t afford to get snagged on a stairwell or other tight place. It would be too valuable a tool to discard in the badlands. Best to be light and always know where the water is.
My battery bank is sitting on a full charge. I’ve turned off my radar. The LORAN signal is coming in strong, making me wonder the limits of the system’s range. How far could I navigate from the inclusion zone before losing navigation? Sure, I could get around with binoculars, a compass, and some charts, but good technology makes things a lot easier when coupled with a reliable autopiloting system. I couldn’t sail single hand without the technology. I didn’t use a drop of diesel fuel on the way out—plenty of wind. My tank is full if I encounter a no-wind day, or if I just want to push it a knot faster than hull speed on the way back home.
I’m going to take a piss off the fantail and then go inland to shoot some zombies. How’s that for a Facebook update? Makes me happy that the kids born in the zone don’t have a damn clue what that means.
***
I’m inside the hospital now. Just like I planned, I took out the four creatures at the shoreline with the crossbow. I recovered the nasty bolts, swished them in the water, and placed them with the crossbow inside the kayak. After putting the canvass cover over the cockpit, I unbungied my trusty old folding bike, taking note of the modifications over the years. I have a small electric motor and clutch installed with two restored golf cart batteries. I brought along the bike’s trailer, an aluminum frame 3 x 5 footer with CO2-actuated flotation. The trailer is thirty pounds and attaches to the bike seat pedestal.
The suppressor thumped against my head as I pedaled to my destination to avoid using any of the bike’s juice. Through my NODs, moonlight was magnified across my face, but I’ve found over the years that I prefer wearing them anyway. Yes, the creatures can see you a bit better, but they can see you anytime they want, and usually when you don’t want. My old doctor friend says that they have some sort of rudimentary thermal vision adaptation. Visual spectrum is best for them, but up close they can see your heat and will attack. Don’t get close. Besides, I like one eye adjusted to the moonlight, the other adjusted to glorious NOD green tech.
I’ve taken some fire hose and, with a figure-eight knot, secured the three double doors leading to the second floor where I am now. I can hear them stumbling in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs. It’s pretty safe to assume the elevators will never be back in service, but one of the shaft doors is open and there is a creature on the bottom floor with broken legs looking up at me. Not a place I want to fall, so I placed a gurney in front as insurance in case I take up sleepwalking.
I had to clear out the floor in this wing before I could do any searching. I started in the sequencing lab because cardio was one floor up. I killed five former gang members judging by their tattered, rotting clothing and tattoos. The first one was easy, as they were all hibernating. After that it started to get tricky as they stumbled all over themselves in the darkness, reaching for the noise. I brought the boom down on the last four as fast as I could and sat still, listening in the darkness for a reaction. After a few moments passed, I tested the radiation levels. The creatures were hot, but not that bad. Only enough for preservation, not higher function—just a few mSv over nominal. One of them had a rusted pistol tucked into his belt. The gun was pushing a few more mSv so I left it there.
After scouting the lab, I’ve found the needed components of an amino sequencer in good condition under a heavy plastic cover. This is a high-priority item, but only to the peninsula. I’m here for something else. I scooted the sequencer away from the wall, noticing that it was on a wheeled cart. After pulling the plug, I lifted one end of it to see how much of a bitch this was going to be. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it never is. That’s why this thing will bring two hundred troy gold. I’ve staged the sequencer near a fire exit on the far end of the wing. I’ve also gathered up some other supplies that I’ll need to try to fit on the small trailer. It seems the clinics always need more vials, syringes, gauze wraps, etc., but never put them on the list. Like a child, they ask for a Ferrari for Christmas—like that sequencer. It’s my job to make sure they get a few pairs of socks thrown in too.
I’m going to spend the night in one of the offices tonight and go to the third floor in the morning. I’ve already fortified it. Nothing can get in without making noise. All I’d need to do is move to another exit, cut the hose from the door, and get the fuck out. You never really get used to sleeping in places like this, knowing that there are undead below and probably above you. I can hear the one moving around in the elevator shaft now. I keep imagining that it’s climbing up after me. Not much sleep will come to me tonight.
Sunset / 190 miles from inclusion zone border
This is it. I’m stable for the moment, but I don’t have long to live, I’m afraid. I knew that my luck couldn’t last forever. I don’t really care about myself in any of this. I care about my beautiful wife and my expecting daughter. I’ve started my diesel engine and dialed in autopilot for home. I’m moving at seven and a half knots, wind at my back. My sails are down but if I’m conscious enough, I can crank them up quickly if my motor dies. Twenty-five stabilized gallons, a half gallon per hour. Hull speed. Math. No.
The third floor was what did me in. I was so fixated on finding them . . . pacemakers, redundancy. I found the new pacemaker parts and pieces, gleefully stuffing them into my pack as my Geiger counter began to vibrate. A second later it was on top of me. My mask kept it from chewing off my face, but it still got a piece of my arm. Not much, just about the size of a quarter. The creature brought back those bad nightmare memories, its rotting, demon-like face staring down at me with recessed eye sockets, snapping its jaws together. It wore only a hospital robe, covered in radiation burns. I was bleeding badly and wasn’t able to reach my sidearm, so I pulled my folding knife, thumbing it open. I jammed the blade deep into its jowls up to the base of the brain. Not enough blade. I was miraculously able to get some leverage to push it off so that I could reach my gun. I put three rounds into its head and checked my wound.
I don’t really know how long I have. Some people turned in hours, some in a day. I grabbed everything related to pacemaker technology from the third floor and made for the second floor fire escape. As I ran, I pulled a long-expired package of QuikClot out of my medical pocket and slapped it on. Wrapped it in a small bandage and kept moving. Some of them were coming up the stairs as I was coming down so I shot them in the face, thump, thump. I was getting low on subsonic ammunition anyway so I tossed the suppressor and changed mags. It didn’t matter anymore. It wasn’t about me surviving now, it was about me getting back to Solitude. I slung my carbine and lifted the heavy sequencer down to the first floor and escaped out the side fire escape door after smashing the knee of another horribly disfigured creature.
My bike wasn’t far. I wheeled the haul to the cart, loaded it up, and engaged the motor on the bicycle. I didn’t lose that much blood (I thought), but I blacked out completely from the hospital to the kayak. All the pacemaker supplies were in dry bags stacked on top of the sequencer. My carbine sat empty with the bolt locked back, the barrel searing hot when I woke up on the shore. Looking behind me, I had a lot of company. Maybe a hundred. I actuated the trailer’s flotation and tied
it to the kayak. I could see my vision tunneling in and out but did my best to keep it together. I am dead, but I could still save her, and others.
I rigged the davit to lift the trailer full of medical supplies and brought them onboard as fast as I could. Although they couldn’t reach me, their howls from the shore nearly drove me insane. I brought the medical supplies belowdecks quickly and then started the engine.
The truth is, I never really cared about the gold. I have enough of it to make Scrooge McDuck envious. I donate most of it to charity anyway. The only thing that brought me out here was Tara. She developed a heart condition a few years back and had to have a pacemaker. Those supplies are running critical in the zone. At first I left it to the younger ones to find, offering ridiculous bounties. Most of them either never made it back or reported that any accessible hospital was picked clean. Tara’s pacemaker needed to be replaced, and there was only one way to do that; go into the badlands myself.
From San Antonio, to Hotel 23, to Hourglass, to Phoenix, to all the time raising our daughter on a sailboat cruising up and down the coast. End of an era.
I’m going to check the autopilot and fuel level, up the throttle, and lay down for a bit. Maybe use some of that rope I took from Liquid Asset to tie myself up in the head; I guess it makes a lot more sense now. My distress beacon is functioning, full power. Radar on power-save mode. Note to wife. Check autopilot. Note to wife. Tie self up.
***
For wife only:
Tara—
I wasn’t on a fishing trip in the Keys. I’m sorry for lying to you, and sorry for making John lie to you too. I wouldn’t let him come with me. Jan would never forgive. In the cabin of Solitude, hopefully is something that made this worth it. Please take care of Bug, tell her I love her, and know that I’ll be waiting for you on the other side, wherever that may be. Take your time (Haha).