by J. D. Demers
They had to do scavenging runs almost daily to keep up with the needs of the group, and had yet to make any big scores.
DJ told us about the one time they got into a shootout with some other survivors. They were both looting the same convenience store. Evidently there was a misunderstanding, and things went bad. That told me how desperate they really were for food. That worried Fish. During that conversation, I noticed Fish had eyed our supply room more than once.
Lt. Campbell and friends left a couple of hours before nightfall. We made an agreement to let each other know when we went on scavenging runs. They seemed pretty nervous about running into any more undesirables again.
We spent a couple of days upgrading our truck. It wasn’t easy. Any little bit of noise would draw the attention of a nearby zombie. We learned that the moan of a zombie could bring others, too, almost like a mating call. I wondered if they had different pitches that gave them some sort of weird communication system. Who knew, but I wasn’t about to ask one of them.
Days went by, and Fish said we had to start scouting for our new home. I agreed, even though I really didn’t have a say in the matter. We planned on leaving early in the morning to scout for a new home. We spent the previous night loading our gear in preparation of being out for more than a day. Boomer sensed we were planning a trip and seemed excited to be leaving the house. He hadn’t left since before I was forced to kill Judy.
Boomer held both positives and negatives when venturing out, I realized. When we took refuge in Wagon Wheel, Boomer would have been a hindrance. His tactful ability to help against a couple of zombies was great, but against a thousand, he would be useless. That’s not even counting the trouble we would have had getting him on the roof before the zombies broke through our defenses.
But he more than made up for those shortcomings when it came to alerting us of danger. I didn’t know if it was his hearing or sense of smell, and I really didn’t care, but it made him invaluable. In close quarters, one mistake or unread sign could mean death. That’s where Boomer upped our chances of survival.
The next morning, we loaded up the big truck. Unlike DJ’s vehicles, we spot welded our front to act more like a cattle catcher on an engine of a train. Fish said he thought it would allow us to run through the Zulus faster. Like I said before, combat driving wasn’t his strong suit.
Fish told me to radio DJ’s group and let them know we were heading out on a run. We had discussed before with them what radio call signs to use. They were “Stallion” and their base was “Stable”, we were “Dog” and, you guessed it, our base was “Dog House”. Believe it or not, this is how the military actually communicates. We each had our own numbers too. I was Dog Two. I’m sure you can guess the rest.
Over the last few days, it was hard to get used to, at least for their civilians. I was sure I heard Jared and Chad both chuckle when they would refer to themselves as Stallions Four and Six.
We secured the house just after sunrise. I checked and noted it was already April nineteenth. A month of living in this hell had passed. It felt like it had been at least a year.
“Stable,” I said as I keyed the radio, “this is Dog 2. All Dogs are leaving the House. Over”.
After a few seconds, I received a reply. I was sure it was one of Campbell’s troops. They were more professional on the radio.
“Roger that, Dog House. What’s your destination? Over,” they asked.
“I don’t like telling them when we’re leaving the house,” Fish murmured. He agreed to full disclosure with the Stallions, but he wasn’t all too happy about it.
“Heading north, just looking for supplies. Over,” I responded, ignoring him.
“Roger, Dog House.” I could tell Campbell was on the radio now. “Can you be a little more specific? Stallion Two and company are heading out in thirty mikes. Just want to know if we’re going to cross paths. Over.” For those of you who do not know military jargon, ‘mikes’ mean ‘minutes’.
I looked at Fish, and shrugged my shoulders. I knew he wanted to keep a low profile with these guys, but if they saw us somewhere we said we weren’t going to be, we could lose trust with them.
“Tell them we’re going to be around 192 and Wickham,” he told me. I gave him a curious look. We hadn’t headed that far north yet. Granted, it was only eight miles from where we were but that short of a distance could be a million miles, especially since we hadn’t explored it yet.
Both 192 and Wickham were major roads in Melbourne. State Road 192 was a few miles north of where our house was. It spanned from the beaches of Melbourne all the way to the greater Orlando area in the middle of the State of Florida. There was very little development between the two cities, leaving hundreds of square miles of swamp land. I guess it was just too expensive to try to conquer the marshes. Wickham was a major north and south route through both Melbourne and Palm Bay.
“We’re checking out 192. Over.”
“Roger that, Dog House. Good luck. Out,” the response seemed suddenly disinterested. My brow furrowed.
“They’re probably worried we might stumble across their camp. I figured they were south of us,” Fish noted.
We drove out of our neighborhood with little care about how much noise we made. The diesel truck was louder than my old car or Fish’s Ranger and since we were leaving, we really didn’t care if zombies came out of the shade. The sun was bright and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
We jumped onto Minton road that headed north to the bridge that I drove over the first day, towards the burned out middle school. If you continued north, it would cross 192 and turn into the aforementioned road, Wickham. But we didn’t keep going. Fish stopped the truck in the middle of the bridge that crossed Interstate 95.
“Why are we stopping?” I asked as he got out of the driver’s seat. Boomer was overcome with excitement, whining and begging to get out of the truck as well.
“Well,” he said as he grabbed his binoculars and 308 rifle, “chances are 192 is jammed packed. It’s the only way to 95 or Orlando for miles.” He shut the door while I scrambled to get my gear and let Boomer and myself out.
“And,” he continued, “there aren’t a whole lot of roads going to where I want to go.”
I rounded the truck to join him as he headed to the west side of the bridge. I scanned the area, but didn’t see any immediate threats. There were plenty of woodlands around at the bottom of the bridge, but if there were hundreds of zombies hiding from the sun in the trees, Boomer didn’t detect any.
Fish walked up to the edge of the bridge and stared with his ‘eyes’, as he liked to call them, down the highway. I joined him and stared in awe. Interstate 95 was backed up as far as the eye could see on both sides of the median. All the traffic, including the southbound lanes, was heading north. Most of the vehicles probably came from Miami and the surrounding cities. Something further up north had stopped the traffic.
It wouldn’t take much, I guess. One little accident would lead to another. With little emergency response available, it probably snowballed into a feast for whatever scabs or zombies were in the area. I could see some sitting or hunched between the cars, patiently waiting for someone to stir them up.
Fish turned and faced me. “Well, there goes that idea.”
“What idea?” I said while I kneeled down and gave Boomer a treat.
“Well, I wanted to check out this place just west of 95 off of 192. This camp my buddy bought a few years back. Kind of like a tourist attraction.”
“What kind of camp?” I asked, standing back up.
“Air boat camp,” he replied.
“Are you talking about Camp Holly?” I asked with a little amusement.
“Yeah,” he said, openly annoyed that I found his idea funny. “You have a problem with that?”
“Um, yeah” I responded mockingly. “Dave and I-” I cut myself off. I said ‘Dave’ like he was still alive. Guess it still bothered me.
“My friend and I went there last year,�
�� I continued. “The place is kind of a dump.”
I could see a scowl start to form on his stoic face. I guess he didn’t like me calling his friend’s place a dump.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said hastily. “We had fun. It was some big party for this girl’s father. Rednecks were everywhere.” I was trying to save face, but it wasn’t working.
“I know it’s old, but that place has been standing for years. It has a decent perimeter and we can add to it. Fresh water, lots of game to hunt… fishing. Hell, there’s even enough room for you to keep playing Green Acres.” I still don’t know what he meant by that. But knowing Fish, it was probably a stab at the garden I had been working on since Judy changed.
“It’s also a good seven or eight miles away from anything else,” he went on. “There’s only one way to get there by land. The surrounding swampland should protect us from any Zulus that wander that way and we still have your dog to alert us. Without the dead around, we can safely fortify it.”
I went along with it. Fish, Boomer and I jumped in the truck and headed north. We turned west early, deciding it was better to take back roads rather than take our chances on 192. When we were finally forced to jump onto the State Road that would take us to Camp Holly, we came to a dead stop.
The intersection with Interstate 95 was still a few miles to the west, but in front of us, the road was jam-packed. Hundreds of cars were in sight. Like the highway we saw over the bridge, all the cars were heading in one direction. In this case, it was west toward 95 and Orlando.
Luckily, most of the buildings that lined the roads were far off from the easement. We were able to maneuver, albeit slowly, around traffic toward the underpass.
The cars were still jammed up when we finally made it to 95. We saw plenty of zombies scurrying about the vehicles, and some even came after us. A few were able to touch the truck, but we were never in any danger. Thankfully, we didn’t see any scabs.
The Interstate 95 bridge over 192 was packed full of cars, but the underpass beneath had been partially cleared. Fish looked at me questioningly.
“This could be good or bad,” he stated.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “That means we don’t have to move the vehicles ourselves.”
“But who moved them?” he said, his tone like that of a high school teacher. Like he knew the answer and was goading me into figuring it out for myself.
“I doubt scabs are driving cars out of the way. Probably some people trying to get to Orlando,” I told him confidently.
“Or,” he added “some bastards trying to funnel us into a trap.”
I did think about that too, I just wasn’t too sure of it. I may not have been a seasoned combat veteran like Fish, but I am a pretty smart guy.
There was only room enough for one vehicle to fit under the bridge. The other sides were completely blocked off by abandoned cars and trucks. It was impossible to get on the Interstate. The passable grassy areas on either side of the on ramps were both covered with cars that had failed to make it to the highway. It was a perfect ambush, but with one exception.
If I wanted to try and ambush someone, I would have done it further back east. That way I could have a secondary trap further up. If anyone were to be able to make it past this ‘ambush’, they would be free and clear to keep heading west. There wasn’t anything on the other side of Highway 95 except 192 and the swampland it cut through. Hell, if they wanted to, they could drive a little ways down, turn around, and come back to strike back at whoever tried to ambush them.
Fish seemed to think too tactically sometimes. Sure, it could be a trap in front of us, but strategically, it didn’t make sense.
I tried to convey this to him without sounding superior.
“Well-” I started to say but was cut off by a crackle of our police radio.
“Hey Dogs,” a voice whispered through the radio. “Are you out there?” It wasn’t easy to make out who was on the other end because they were speaking so low, but I had a feeling from the mannerism that it was Chad.
“This is Dog Two, over,” I replied.
A few seconds passed, and then finally the radio chimed again. “We need help. DJ and Jared are pinned down. I don’t know where Jenna or the Preacher are.” There was a slight pause, and then he continued “We need help fast! These fucks are trying to kill us!”
I looked over at Fish who was scowling.
“Fish?” I asked. I didn’t have to say what I was thinking.
He shook his head and gave me a look like ‘Are you serious?’
“Come on, man!” I said to him, almost shouting.
“Fine, find out where they’re at,” he said, doing a U turn and heading back the way we came.
“Stallion Six, give us your location,” I said hurriedly into the radio, forgetting to say ‘over’.
“I’m trapped in Jenna’s truck. They haven’t seen me yet.”
“Your location, dumbass. Over,” I said sternly. I think Fish was rubbing off on me.
A few seconds passed by. I had this feeling like he was cursing at me with the transmitter off. “We’re at some miniature Walmart… off of some street called Babcock.”
“Neighborhood Market Store,” Fish murmured. “I know where that is.”
I did a quick peek outside and was happy to see it was still clear, without a cloud in sight.
“Get as much intel as you can, kid,” he told me as he maneuvered around the huge traffic jam, also avoiding a few zombies that we had stirred on our way to the interstate. “I don’t feel like going in there blind.”
“Are you guys coming or what?” the radio shrieked.
Fish smacked into a zombie in the middle of a parking lot. The cow catcher we installed on the front of the truck worked perfectly. The walking corpse was rolled off to the side, barely affecting our speed and causing no damage to the truck.
“Hold on, Chad,” I said back. “Calm down. Now, where is everyone? I need locations. We’ll be there in-” I looked over at Fish.
“Fifteen or twenty,” he said, “depending on traffic,” he added, grinning. He made a better asshole than a comedian.
“Fifteen minutes. Over,” I finally told Chad.
“Well, umm, I’m stuck in Jenna’s truck. We only have one radio with Campbell, and that’s in DJ’s ride. It’s parked near the back entrance. I don’t think they know I’m here.” He was sounding frantic. In the background, we could hear the discharge of high powered weapons.
“DJ and Jared are pinned down where the dumpsters are in the back,” Chad continued after a large exchange of gunfire. “They’re only thirty feet from me. DJ is holding his own, but I’m not sure how much ammo he has. Those fucks have M16’s and shit, shooting from the back of some redneck truck.” He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “Preacher and Jenna were in the store, clearing it out. Don’t know if those two are alive or not.”
The others put their asses on the line to save us once, and I knew we had to do the same for them. I wasn’t particularly happy about it, but I knew we had to go help. The only comfort I really had was the man sitting next to me.
I looked over at Fish and saw he was in another world. His jaw was tight and his head would slightly cock from one side to the other. He was formulating a plan out of what information Chad had relayed over the radio, I realized. This was his game. Zombies were one thing, fighting humans was a completely different entity.
I, on the other hand, was finally letting it sink in that we were heading toward a firefight. My stomach started to squirm, and I broke out in a cold sweat. I looked at my hand not clutching the radio and saw it was shaking.
“Ask them where the shooters are,” Fish calmly said.
“Six, where are the shooters located? Over,” I asked, trying to calm my shaky voice.
“They’re over near a pond, almost behind the building. You should be able to see them from the front. They’re gonna bring a shit load of dead-heads down on us. Man, you guys gotta hurry
!” Chad said desperately.
We finally made it to some back roads and were able to speed up. I knew where the small grocery store was located, and it seemed Fish was looping us just south of the store. From Chad’s description, we figured out that the assailants were on the north side, behind the building.
Chad kept asking how long we would be, but Fish told me not to answer. There was no need.
“We’re not far now, Christian.” It was always serious when Fish used my actual name. “Hand me the radio,” he ordered, holding his hand out.
“Stallion Six, this is Dog One. Stay down and shut the fuck up from now on,” he barked into the mic. “When Dog Two gives you the signal, you exit through whichever side of the truck is safe and open fire. Over.”
“But I only have my nine,” he croaked, referring to his handgun.
“I said shut the fuck up, Six,” Fish said, in a surprisingly even tone. “I don’t care if you shoot your gun at the ground. You just shoot. Over and out.” He tossed the radio back into my lap.
“Whatever you say, asshole,” the radio squawked. I won’t lie. It was nice to see Fish be a dick to someone else for once.
Our truck lurched to the side as we turned north onto Babcock. It was one of the busier roads in our city, but luckily, there were few abandoned vehicles. I guess most had headed toward the highway.
We saw zombies moving in the same direction of the store as we got closer. We also heard the occasional sonic boom of a bullet traveling past the speed of sound. Further away, the zombies seemed to be confused on where the sounds were coming from, but as we closed in and could hear the actual weapons fire, the dead-heads marched purposefully towards battle.
“Things are going to get ugly real quick,” Fish said, as we slowed down.
We could see the Neighborhood Market Store just up ahead. The parking lot only had a few cars in it, but there had to be at least a hundred zombies. They all shambled toward the back of the building. As I suspected, they were more sluggish when directly under the rays of the sun, but that didn’t make me feel any better.