by Lund, Dave
“Rain they probably won’t see much of, but I’m sure we could get some people together to make sure a sunset happens every evening,” Jake said laughingly.
The lights in the radio hut flickered then went dark, the constant swishing hum of the air system falling silent.
“Damnit, this is a problem. If we can’t get this figured out then we will have to live aboveground again and power may actually be the biggest problem.”
The lights snapped back on, the air system again moved air, and the computers in the room booted back up.
“This is wreaking havoc on my computer systems in here, not to mention the surges aren’t good for the radios.”
“Well Bill, as long as we’ve been here, and with the many changes we’ve made, we’ve never taken the time to systematically search each of the buildings in our secret world aboveground.”
“What will Wright say? Think he’ll be worried about classified information in those buildings?”
“Bill, I don’t think he knows what is in those buildings; I’m not sure even Cliff knew. At this point I really wouldn’t care if there are dead alien bodies and spacecraft, just as long as it isn’t zombies.”
“How are you going to do it?”
“We’ll need special people. People who have tactical training or a small group of people who can help train others.”
“That’s not these airmen. They’re exceptionally intelligent but they’re not really the type to go kicking in doors for fun, not like the PJs were. They loathe having to pull aboveground guard duty for arrivals and general security patrols.”
“I’ll get with Brit and come up with a list, and then we’ll simply have to ask those people.”
“What if you made an announcement over the system?”
“Sure, what would I say? ‘Uh, this is your mayor speaking, do any of you know how to shoot people, we could use some help up here … and thank you for flying Janet Airlines.’ No, we need to do this discreetly at first, figure out what we have to work with and how we’re going to do it. I need maybe a dozen people who can make it happen.”
“Well, good luck then, I’m going to stick here with my radios and see if I can get good skip on the HF bands and QTH some more folks.”
“Do what?”
“I’m hoping for good ionosphere conditions to bounce my radio signals over the horizon to find new people. QTH is a Q-code; it’s a question that means ‘what is your location?’”
“OK, well, whatever it is, Samuel Morse, good luck with what God has wrought. I’ll check back in with you tomorrow unless you come across something I need to know about.”
“Roger that. Good night, buddy.”
Cortez, CO
“What the fuck, man.” Bexar coughed while stirring to mix the dissolving Styrofoam into the gasoline, Chivo breaking up cup after cup into little pieces. “Why can’t you just dump them all in here? This is taking forever and it smells like ass!”
“It won’t dissolve as well, mano, and we want it to work. Besides, if you do anything you do it right and you do it all the way, there’s no half-assed effort on my watch. Did you find the janitor’s supply room?”
“Yeah, down the hall on the left.”
“Did you get what I asked for?”
“One mop, three rags, three spray bottles, which I emptied as instructed, and all the toilet cleaner in the closet. It’s all in the mop bucket over there.” Bexar pointed by way of tilting his head.
“Keep stirring, it’ll start to firm up like hair gel.” Chivo walked to the bucket and pulled out all the supplies; he set each bottle on the table next to the bucket, placed a rag in front of each, and left the gallon-sized jug of toilet cleaner sitting there, before walking into the kitchen area of the cafeteria only to return with an industrial-sized roll of aluminum foil.
“This is starting to get sort of, um, gooey, but there’s a bunch of shit on the surface.”
“Scoop the scum off the top, leave the rest in the pot, and start on the next one. I’ve got to run down the hall for a minute. I just thought of something.”
A few minutes later Chivo returned with three large, brightly painted, lumpy ball-shaped jugs. “Art class, I remembered seeing them. I guess they were making some fucked-up pottery or something.”
“Yeah, something to smoke their dope in.”
“Dude, no reason to be mean, some zombie kids worked really hard on these, probably got an A for it too. Tell you what, fuck the second batch; it’s time to fill these up. I can’t take much more of this smell.”
Carefully, ladle by ladle, each of the three ceramic art class creations was filled with the gasoline mixture. Chivo tore large pieces of aluminum foil off the big roll and stuffed them inside the plastic spray bottles, then taped the bottles to the sides of the clay art jugs. A rag went into the top of each clay jug.
“Grab all your shit, toss the workout bands into the mop bucket and bring it with you, and bring that jug of toilet cleaner. I’ll carry our babies.”
Bexar had no shit to grab, as his rifle was still slung across his chest and all he owned was either in his pockets or presumably in the bed of the abandoned truck near Main Street. Pushing the mop bucket by the mop handle, he hustled after Chivo, the wheels squeaked softly as they walked to the front of the school.
Once at the front of the school and standing in the shadows, they saw the schoolyard was overrun by the dead, which were ambling to and fro, bumping into each other, not chasing anything but not leaving either.
“Bexar, how far away do you think those singlewides are?”
“Eh, call it fifty yards?”
“I’d believe that.” Chivo carefully set the jugs down one by one, then picked each back up and examined it carefully. He then picked up the different-colored workout bands, stretching them between his hands.
“I’d say we use the orange and grey bands together.”
Bexar shrugged; he still didn’t really understand what Chivo’s plan was.
Chivo stuffed the rags deeper into the thick gas mixture in the jugs and unscrewed the caps of the spray bottles, setting the caps next to its companion.
“Bexar, I’m going to get this ready. I need you to go find something we can use to prop the doors open.”
Bexar nodded and walked towards what he assumed was the main office.
A few minutes later he returned, holding a gold-painted brick and a large dead potted plant. Chivo had each door ajar, the bands looped around the door hinges and tied to the sides of the mop bucket.
“The first one will be a bitch. If everything goes to plan then these fuckers should be distracted by the time the second and third volley are launched. “
“What are we doing exactly?”
“We light our homemade napalm via the rag, we then pour toilet cleaner into the bottle with the foil and screw on the caps. Then very quickly we use our industrial-sized water balloon launcher to hurl these damn things across the street. The spray bottles should explode, spreading the ignited gas mix across those trees and mobile homes, which should draw our town greeting party here towards the flames. We then run out the back, hop the fence, and figure out what to do after that when we get that far.”
“OK MacGyver, minus a fucking ball point pen to make your complicated plan work, what’s the deal with the mop?”
“Oh, I just wanted you to have it. We’re going to clean up this town and you’re leading the charge.” Chivo started laughing; Bexar swung the mop and hit Chivo in the shin.
“Aye chinga you punta!”
“Yeah fuck you too, you and your stupid mop … fast or slow with the doors?”
“I’d say fast. Once this shit is lit you’re going to want those doors open. I’ll pick off the leaders while you do your thing with your magical brick and plant.”
Chivo produced a cheap gas station lighter from his pocket, and after a few tries finally got it to hold a flame. One at a time he lit the rags; once the gas mix started to catch the hallway began to chok
e with thick black smoke as he unscrewed the lid to the toilet cleaner.
“Do it, mano!”
Bexar threw open the first door and dragged the plant into place; he could hear the crack of the rifle rounds snapping through the air as they passed by him.
“Moving!”
“Move!”
Chivo held fire for a breath as Bexar turned for the second door, throwing it open and kicking the brick into the door.
“Rifle up, Bexar!”
Bexar turned and began firing, dropping the closest undead to the door; a dozen already lay sprawled out on the concrete walkway, heads ruined by Chivo’s fast aim.
“Get back!”
Bexar ducked under the silicone bands, Chivo pulling the mop bucket back and down as far as the bands would stretch. Without pausing he let the bucket go. The clay jug rocketed out of the door and caught a walking corpse in the face about fifty feet from the door, knocking the undead woman off her feet in an exploding rainbow of flames, the ten or so other dead shambling near her covered in the burning homemade napalm.
“Holy shit, they’re on goddamned fire!”
“No time, mano, adjust up ten and fire for effect!” Chivo grunted as he pulled the bucket back, this time laying on his back and holding the bucket nearly to the floor. Once released some unknown kid’s art project sailed through the air, exploding in a slimy rain of fire above the trees and mobile homes across the street, the night sky glowing in orange flames.
“Wow,” was all Bexar could say as the third jug flew slightly right from the other, exploding over another group of trees and mobile homes. The undead still stumbled into each other on the large walkway in front of the school; the ones that were on fire, catching more walking corpses ablaze. Chivo kicked the brick and potted plant out of the way, pulling the doors closed, which wouldn’t latch because of the bands in the hinges.
“Bexar, grab the mop.”
“Sure, now you want my fucking mop.”
Bexar handed it to Chivo, who slid it through the crash bars on the back of the doors, barring them closed.
“Dude, out of everything that’s happened since Christmas, this has to be one of the more fucked-up things I’ve seen; she caught it right in the damn face!”
“You should have been in El Salvador when the shit hit the fan …” Chivo shook his head.
The dead slowly succumbed to the flames, flesh melting into the pavement as they fell and burned. The mobile homes across the street were fully engulfed, the fire continuing to spread. The rest of the undead within view were beginning to make their way towards the flames.
“Looks like your plan worked. Are you going to smoke a cigar now, Colonel Hannibal?”
Chivo only nodded, turned and walked towards the back of the school, waving at Bexar to follow through the dark school hallway.
Near Monticello, Utah
Cliff woke with the eastern horizon’s morning glow, the sun not quite up yet. The small home on US-491 had a wood-burning stove, which he’d decided to light after sunset with the impressive stack of firewood stacked neatly in the living room next to the stove. The smoke would be visible, but not as obvious during the night. Besides, mid-March in Utah was still cold. The previous occupants of the home had been happy to greet him the previous evening, but having learned his lesson from the apartment-turned-observation-post in Cortez, he let the undead man and woman shamble through the back door before center-punching their skulls with skillfully placed shots from his rifle.
The day was young and if he pushed hard he would make it to Granite Mountain by the afternoon, although the trip would have been much faster before the end of civilization. Using the growing daylight, Cliff searched the home for anything useful. The lawn equipment and ATVs in the metal out-building had enough gas to top off his fuel tank and fuel cans, but the home was devoid of any food. The most exciting find was a Utah road atlas in the glove box of a beat-up old VW Rabbit in the metal building. The map was at least ten years old, but it didn’t really matter; where he was going was older than that and the atlas would be accurate enough.
Vienna sausages weren’t the most gourmet breakfast Cliff had ever eaten, but they were far from the worst. Although the fire in the wood-burning stove was out, the residual heat was comforting and anyone less mission-driven would have had a hard time leaving the relative safety of a warm house. With two trips, Cliff loaded the firewood from the living room into the bed of the truck; he wasn’t sure if he would use it or how, but cut firewood was a nice commodity in the supply locker for any of the cold March Utah nights that probably lay ahead.
The truck took a little coaxing in the cold morning, but the engine finally stuttered to life; the heater worked, but Cliff turned it on low. He would be far more comfortable outside the truck by adjusting to a cooler temperature in the truck than stepping out of a blazing furnace into the freezing air. While waiting a few moments for the truck to warm up, Cliff looked at the road atlas. The fastest route would take him through some of the more populated areas in Utah, including Salt Lake. If at all possible Cliff wanted to avoid population centers. Avoiding large numbers of undead would increase his chances of survival.
Dead roamed the streets of the small town, some turning to follow from the old one-story motel as the truck rolled by. The green sign’s arrow pointed right with “MOAB” printed on it. Having referenced the atlas before leaving, Cliff followed the arrow and turned north on US-191.
Too bad I can’t take a couple of days to hike around Canyonlands National Park. For once I bet there wouldn’t be anyone on the trails … but I’d probably have to shoot the ones I found.
CHAPTER 7
Cortez, CO
March 14, Year 1
Bexar followed Chivo as they walked out of the back of the school. The urgency in their movements was temporarily missing, as behind them the sky was awash with the crackling orange glow of a mobile home park burning uncontrollably. Reaching the low chain-link fence, the pair took care to be quiet instead of quick as they climbed over and into the dead-end street between the back of a church and an empty lot. Walking slowly, Bexar followed Chivo, trailing by ten paces, every few steps turning to look behind them. Bexar worried about undead appearing from behind trees, abandoned cars and home, but he still had concerns that Cliff might not have left town.
Frowning at the thought, Bexar hoped to see Cliff again so he could kill him. I had a chance to kill him in the garage yesterday and I didn’t take it. If it wasn’t for that asshole I would be in Big Bend with Jessie, Sandra, Jack … Will would be alive and my precious little Keeley would still be chasing deer in The Basin. Fuck. We should have stayed off the radio and hunkered down. We were idiots. We gave away our position, we chased his dream. I have to make it to Groom Lake. I’m taking Jessie and we’re dropping off the grid. We’ll raise our new baby alone, somewhere we make safe, far away from dead civilization, far away from survivors …
His lack of attention caused Bexar to walk into Chivo, who had stopped abruptly. Chivo cast an angry look at him and pointed left. Parked on the street in front of the church was a small yellow school bus. Bexar shook his head in disbelief and with a hint of dread at what the church might hold.
Chivo darted silently into the yard of the church, careful not to be seen by anyone looking out of the windows. At the corner of the first building Chivo found a set of wooden doors. Gently he turned the door knob, which turned. Bexar resisted the urge to watch, instead facing outward from the building, flexing his fingers against the stock of his AR, trying to calm his breathing. The scene inside the previous church flashed through his mind: blood dripping from bare feet as the bodies squirmed, jaws snapping at them although death had found them. Bexar closed his eyes, shaking his head from side to side and trying to clear the image from his mind. Chivo nudged him.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw the wooden door stood open in front of Chivo. No flies rushed out, no death, no bodies, only the smell of stale air and a hint of mildew. Bexar tur
ned around and squeezed Chivo’s shoulder, who slid into the dark hall like a ghost, the light on his M4 snapping on once he was inside. Bexar followed and pulled the door closed behind him, twisting the latch for the deadbolt. No one would follow them inside.
One by one they slowly checked each small room. One appeared to have been a day-care-type room, the others probably where the church held Sunday School, all of them empty of anything but stacked chairs and folding tables. The hall opened into a small foyer ahead of them, glass doors separating the sanctuary from the entryway. Bexar steeled himself against the worst, but was surprised to see that the pews had been pushed to the walls, a large bed positioned where the pulpit would have been, and hundreds of burned candles surrounding the bed on the raised platform. No signs of death, no signs of life, just a bizarre scene out of a twisted fantasy.
“Well mano, looks like nothing but a place for an orgy.”
“I doubt it was a happy one.”
“Yeah, I doubt that too. Out we go, our big yellow chariot awaits.”
“I’m starting to hate school buses.”
“Yeah, well, Bexar, I hated them until they became all we had.”
Exiting through a side door behind the stage and baptismal, they saw the sky had turned grey with the approach of sunrise. They were happily surprised to see the rear of a two-toned brown pickup truck. The old square-bodied GMC sat on oversized off-road tires and had a chrome light bar, four large lights mounted on the bar.
“Wow, well that’s not a school bus, Bexar.”
Bexar smiled. The driver’s door was unlocked, keys in the ignition, door chime dinging in protest as the door opened.