Picking it up he looked it over and asked, “Is this even on?” By this he wondered if it was ready to fire. He honestly couldn't tell—there was a button on the side just behind the trigger as well as a couple little switch like levers. Nowhere were the words Safe or Fire. Neil pressed the little button.
“Oops,” he said as something black fell out of the bottom of the handgrip. He picked it up and saw that it was a chamber, which held a reservoir of bullets. “A clip,” he said, snugging it back up where it belonged and feeling a slight taste of victory over his fear of the gun. Still he didn't like the thing and he glanced in the bed of the truck for a 'normal' gun.
He saw what his mind classified as a pistol and after a quick look around at the deserted streets, he jumped down out of the cab and then climbed up into the bed. He felt relatively safe up there. The zombies seemed to lack either the mental capacity or the coordination to climb more than the simplest steps, and he was high up in the air.
Neil inspected the weapons making sure they were pointed away from him, and not worrying over much about injuring another person. Every house on the block had windows that were smashed or doors that hung crazily, attesting to a home invasion by the beasts. Still he didn't purposely point the gun at the houses either, it seemed rude to him somehow.
He found a .357 magnum and decided that it would be his gun of choice. In the movies it always seemed a powerful weapon and what was more, its safety mechanism was obvious and its double action trigger was simple. Feeling slightly silly, he stuck the gun in the waist of his jeans and then went to the next firearm—a very large shotgun.
With a heavy breath, he decided now was as good a time as any to learn how these things worked, and so grabbing up a box of shotgun shells—ignoring the possibility that they could be the wrong gauge—he hopped out of the back of the truck.
“Darn it,” he exclaimed as the magnum fell from his pants to clatter on the street. He stuck the gun back where it had been and then brought the shotgun up to his face and looked at the various slides and buttons. One of the levers had a little tick mark pointing to a green circle.
“So does green mean go? Like it's ready to fire?”
Neil set the butt of the gun in the pocket where his shoulder and chest met, sited down its long length at a mailbox across the street, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger...or tried to, nothing happened which had him squinching up his face in confusion. What did green mean if not go? He moved the lever to the red circle, which he had assumed before meant stop.
Now it was that Neil's total ignorance of shotgun shell “loads” was even more impressive than that of his ignorance of guns in general—the shell chambered in the gun was not designed to shoot a little dove out of the sky. It was a three-inch magnum firing double-ought buck shot, and it turned the gun into a piece of field artillery. When he pulled the trigger it seemed to explode with an ear-splitting roar, while flame and smoke shot out the front, and the recoil, possessing all the grace and brutality of a mule's kick knocked him over. Neil found himself lying on his back, having tripped on the curb behind him.
“Holy cow,” he said in what might have been a whisper, though he didn’t know; he couldn't hear his own words. Thankful that there was no one around to see what had just happened, Neil got to his feet, groaning as he did, and then squared himself up and aimed again at the mailbox, which was disappointingly still intact.
He aimed, closed his eyes while making a face that suggested the onset of pain, and pulled the trigger...and nothing happened. “It's empty!” he exclaimed; a port on the side sat open and vacant. He loaded a shell into it and that was simple enough, but when he tried to load a second one the gun balked. After much fiddling around he discovered to his amazement that the gun was a single shot affair.
“Well that's stupid,” he said with some irony. “Who would design a gun that had to be reloaded after every time it's fired?” There had been a time not long before that he had argued that all weapons should be single shot, but that had been at a dinner party where his greatest worry was if the wine had been allowed to breathe long enough or not.
With the shotgun loaded and his body braced, Neil pulled the trigger, grimacing against the vicious impact of the gun. When he opened his eyes, he was at least still standing, however the mailbox remained untouched. On his third attempt, he forced himself to keep his eyes open and had the satisfaction of seeing the top of his target disintegrate.
“That's good enough for now,” he said, working his shoulder in circles and growing nervous as zombies began to flock to the sound of the gun. Forgetting to reload it, Neil brought the shotgun into the cab with him and set it on the backbench, and then decided to put some more miles behind him.
He drove with a caution that made little sense with such a rugged truck at his disposal; his reasoning was that he knew less about cars and their upkeep than he did about guns. As well there didn't seem to be a need to hurry. Where was he to go? Where was there safety?
The army hadn't provided safety. They couldn't even protect themselves. Among the many zombies that Neil had seen wandering around suburban New Jersey, were soldiers in uniform. This didn't seem right or even possible in his eyes, yet there they were shambling along with all the rest.
Another reason that Neil putted along at an average speed of six miles an hour was that Jersey roads were notoriously narrow and it didn't take more than a couple of stalled cars to block an intersection completely. By the time the sun dipped in the west, he had zigzagged his way barely seven miles west of his home.
That night he backed the truck into a cul-de-sac and slept fitfully when he slept at all. The dark was when the hordes tended to come out in force and between midnight and three there was a sea of stinking grey bodies all around his truck. He watched them, shaking in an all-consuming fright, until the windows fogged up. Then he slunk down, wishing that he was at home, warm in his bed.
The next morning the thousands had moved on, leaving just the usual stragglers. These seemed more anchored to their neighborhoods or homes and Neil had to wonder if they had more mental acuity than the average zombie. If so it was to a very slight degree.
Ignoring them, Neil drove to a nearby high school and parked in the center of the football field where he could see all around. There, he went through the tedious chore of feeding three of the five-gallon Jerry cans into the gas tank of the monster truck, and as he did he fretted about fuel. It was one thing to fill up at the neighborhood gas station, especially when state law mandated that an attendant do the actual pumping, it was another thing altogether to get at that same gas when it was trapped underground.
Of course there was always the option of just choosing a different vehicle, however Neil was loathe to give up the truck. It was like a traveling fortress.
When the re-fueling was complete, he sat in the bed of the truck wearing a jacket that was two sizes too big and ate cold raviolis, not realizing what the little grey cans that read Sterno were. There were a number of them laying about and he assumed that they were a kind of stew when in fact they were 'Fire in a can'.
Despite that, he ate and relaxed, and although it wasn't quite ten in the morning he wondered at the possibility of having a beer. Normally he only drank after five and when he did he was a Pinot Noir kind of guy. Perhaps it was the truck or the fact that he was now a gun owner, or that he was simply a survivor and that all the old rules seemed to have been jettisoned. Whatever the reason, just then he thought a beer sounded good. Neil was just in the process of reaching for one when a scream reached his ears. It had been a woman's cry.
Standing, he picked up his shotgun and cocked his head, trying to fathom where the scream had come from. Another one broke the still morning and he oriented on the cry. It was coming from the neighborhood that bordered the south end of the football field. Not in a flash did he leap from the truck and race to save the day.
Instead he held the gun to his chest and wondered what to do. Should he go to the woman's aid?
Or would it be better to see if someone else showed up to help?
A third cry decided it and Neil climbed down from the back of the truck. He didn't run across the field—that seemed like suicide to be so out in the open—he drove instead to a point where part of the fence had been torn down. Only then did he take his magnum and his shotgun to see what sort of rescue he could arrange.
Thankfully the street on the other side of the fence was barren of life…or death for that matter. He began to creep along when he heard a thump and a crash from a ranch style house to his right, and so with his cannon of a shotgun leading him in, he went through the open front door. The house was smallish and he stood in a dim living room. Off to the right was what looked like a dining room while to his front was the kitchen and it was from here that he heard the unmistakable sound of a zombie.
With a shaking breath Neil went as far as the edge of the kitchen linoleum and then peeked around the corner and saw the zombie. It had been a woman, probably a mother seeing as she still wore an apron. She had been clawing at a door, but turned when she heard his panicked breathing pick up.
Neil raised the shotgun, clicked off the safety and, once again demonstrating horrible form, closed his eyes before pulling the trigger...nothing happened. “What?”he asked. Before he could figure out what he had done wrong the zombie was upon him and all he could do was scream and try to fend the thing away with the tip of the gun.
And then next to his head a black pistol appeared and when it went off killing the zombie, the pain in his right ear was so intense that he actually cried out. “That hurt!”
“What a McGoo,” a light voice said. Neil turned and there was the goth-girl who had robbed him the day before. She pressed the muzzle of her pistol against his neck and it was hot.
“You!” Neil said, his face set in comic surprise.
She smiled easily and said, “Small world ain't it.”
The door that the zombie had been clawing at opened and from it the girl's partner emerged, hulking and smirking. “You were right, Sadie. He is a hero.” The man came forward and jerked the shotgun from Neil's hands and said, “I thought you'd be too much of a chicken shit to risk that soft skin of yours. Too bad you picked the wrong time to grow a pair. Sadie, go wait in the truck.”
The man turned the shotgun on his captive.
“Hey, no hey,” Neil blabbered. “I…I…you can have the truck, I barely touched anything. Just don't shoot.”
“You should leave him like he left us,” Sadie said, flashing her dark eyes toward Neil and then to her partner. “The guy's harmless, John.”
“He ain't all that harmless. Now go, unless you want to watch me splatter him all over this kitchen. I know you aren't into the blood.”
Sadie nodded slowly with a look of revulsion and then said in a low voice, “I'll just get the keys.”
They were still in the truck, but Neil wasn't in the mood to be helpful. The girl ran her hand over his pockets and when she felt the .357 Magnum tucked into his jeans under his jacket, her eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything, she only gave Neil a very long look as she left. What she meant by the look he didn't know. Certainly she didn't expect him to pull the gun and shoot his way to freedom, not with the shotgun aimed at his face. It would be impossible.
The young man, John, waited until Sadie had cleared the house and then he gave Neil a shove with the end of the shotgun. “You fucked up, Bro. You don't take a man's truck and think he'll just let it go. Saying sorry don't mean shit to me.” John took a step back and then pulled the trigger and Neil fell to the floor with a great rushing sound in his head as the world ended in black.
Chapter 20
Sarah
The Island
The Island as everyone referred to it, was little more that a series of rocky, tree covered humps rising out of the Illinois River. The main island was over a thousand feet long and a few hundred feet across at its widest. Every inch of its long shore was covered in rolled concertina wire—a much more effective cousin to barbed wire—and behind that armed men sat in bunkers, ready to repel any invasion.
They crossed onto the island by way of a pontoon bridge, which was nothing more than floating barges that were linked together by chains. That they shifted beneath the weight of the humvees had Sarah nervous. “Can't the zombies just cross over to the island the same as we are?”
She and her parents were riding in the lead humvee with Colonel Williams. He laughed at her question. “Didn't you see those tanks?”
“I guess I didn't,” she admitted. Her mind was in a free fall. They had left Danville, taking with them a score of women and every gun and bullet the town possessed…and the last of the food. There had been a number of deaths, but nothing compared to what was to come for those poor people. The convoy drove west to another town that was about to be devastated by the army and as they did they went by a horde of zombies that seemed uncountable; it went on for miles.
They were heading straight to Danville.
“You see?” Colonel Williams had said gesturing. “You should be thanking me. Danville won't last the night.”
No one had thanked him. Instead they were thinking about the friends they had left behind, and trying not to cry. Shows of emotion seemed to upset the colonel and since they were at his complete mercy they each tried their best to be good.
Now on the bridge, the colonel pointed at the chains on the far end. “And if the zombies get past the tanks, we can always disconnect the bridge from this side. Sure it will be a pain to put back together but the alternative is far worse.”
“That's smart,” Sarah said, eager to please.
When they had crossed to the other side, they saw that the island was a beehive of activity. Trees were being felled and walls were being created out of their trunks. Trenches and postholes were being dug and firewood was being chopped. There was no machinery for any of this. Fuel was simply too precious, and so it was men who swung the axes, worked the heavy bladed saws back and forth and hewed at the dirt with shovels and pick axes.
The humvees went to the center of the island and there the colonel began issuing orders while Sara and her parents stood with a gaggle of women and a few civilian men who appeared young and strong. They were separated into groups—the men were volunteers and were sent to be outfitted in uniforms—the women were volunteers in only the loosest sense of the word.
Gary and Denise Rivers were taken to the second island, which turned out to be far less secure than the first. It had only two banks of the coiled wiring and the few guards on it had to walk the perimeter instead of sitting safe in earthen bunkers.
“We're going to work on that island next,” the colonel assured Sarah. “But we have to make at least one as secure as possible. If there's any trouble your parents can always come over here. That's our plan. Now, this is where you are staying,” he said pointing at a rectangular white tent. It seemed very large for just one person. “You are going to be my new executive assistant if anyone asks.”
Sarah missed altogether the word new. She went to the tent with her one piece of luggage and eyed the six cots with unease. Two were clearly spoken for, with women's clothing draped here and there, and so she went to the furthest cot in the back. On it was an olive drab sleeping bag, a pillow, and a little kit with soap and shampoo and toothpaste. She was just finishing up arranging her things when another woman came. She was tall and blonde and she too had just a single bag.
“Hi,” Sarah said coming forward to introduce herself. “I'm Sarah Rivers. I'm from Danville.”
“Roberta Clement, but everyone calls me Bobbi. I'm from Laurette, or what's left of it,” her blue eyes started to fill up and then she blinked and tried to smile. “I'm hoping things will be changing for the better. That's what I keep telling myself, and at least this island seems safe.”
“That's true. It's safer than Danville ever was.” Sarah replied. “I should be like you and look on the bright side of things. Things could be worse and bes
ides, I'm going to be the colonel's new executive assistant.”
Bobbi's eyes turned sharp. “No, I think you're wrong there. I'm going to be the colonel's new executive assistant.”
“You both will be,” a woman at the front of the tent said. “Just as we are.” Another woman followed her in and they went to the two occupied cots. “I'm Cindy. I'm the colonel's favorite and this is Veronica.”
“Favorite what?” Bobbi asked, crossing her arms.
“His favorite executive assistant,” Cindy answered with a wink.
“What are you saying?” Bobbi asked. “Are you saying that you're…that we're…”
Veronica was the older of the two, being roughly the same age as Sarah. She was pretty and her brown eyes were kind, but also pitying. “We're executive assistants, dear.”
“No,” Sarah replied, dropping her chin to the canvas flooring of the tent. “We're whores. That's what we are.”
This caused the little group to grow silent and each was grim in the face until Veronica forced a smile on her lips. “Come here, honey.” She brought Sarah to the front flap of the tent and pointed out at all the men working, they seemed to be everywhere, each sweating from their labors. “There are two thousand men on this island. See all those big tents? Each holds twenty men and the colonel has authorized only one woman per tent.”
“Twenty?” Sarah asked, feeling sick. Bobbi looked as though she was about to throw up. “Twenty guys for every…”
“Yes, twenty,” Veronica said. “Those poor women are the whores. We are executive assistants.”
“Don't get her hopes up,” Cindy said. Sarah looked back to her and watched with her mouth hanging open as the younger woman undressed; she had the body of a stripper and the wicked gleam in her eye of a porn star. “Face it honey, unless you can suck dick with the best of them you'll be destined for platoon work, where you'll get all the practice you can stomach. You got a cute face, but your body is only ok.”
The Undead World (Book 1): The Apocalypse Page 12