Next stop, Tucson.
Nineteen
Cesar called the community together the next morning to announce the new rules. Everyone except those on fence patrol was required to attend. No exceptions.
Most took the news well. A few were upset, grumbling amongst themselves. Others seemed ambivalent, resigned to doing whatever was necessary to stay alive. It was about the mix of reactions Megan had expected.
Three brothers interrupted the speech halfway through, announcing they were moving on. They invited anyone who wanted to come to join them. They had no takers.
“We’re better off on our own,” the oldest brother insisted, the fear in his eyes betraying his bravado.
“Idiot,” Pringle muttered under his breath. Megan jabbed an elbow into his ribs and hissed at him to keep it to himself, earning an angry glare in return.
The brothers, the last vestiges of a large fundamentalist Mormon enclave from western Arizona, were intent upon forming their own community. Megan couldn’t fault them. The Scorpion Canyon community was composed of a ragtag mix of beliefs and backgrounds, and although Cesar was a devout Catholic, he took great pains to keep his religion out of daily life inside the fence. “It’s not that I don’t believe this is all part of God’s plan,” he had confessed to Megan one afternoon, “I just think he’s taking a break now, dealing with something else more important.”
His attitude had surprised Megan. It seemed somehow Buddhist, not at all what she expected. The statement had stuck with her, impressed her. It made her think about the future and what was in store for all of them, and for the people outside, survivors still living day-to-day on the margins of the ruined world. Megan had long ago abandoned the idea of a benevolent God. The zombie uprising had only served to solidify her conviction that humanity was on its own.
The first order of business after the announcement was a scavenging mission into town. They were running low on everything from food to ammunition. To Megan’s great satisfaction, Cesar had to turn people away when he asked for volunteers. People were frightened of the undead, but they were more scared of being turned out.
Pringle had been unusually quiet throughout the whole meeting, continuously scanning the audience and observing body language, making notes on people who seemed eager to help and those who kept quiet. The meeting ran for another fifteen minutes, and when it finally broke up, the participants scattered, imbued with a new sense of purpose.
“About tomorrow...” Pringle said as they left the ranger station. She kept walking, motioning for him to follow. He sped up to match her pace. “I want to find a two-way radio while we’re in town. A shortwave or something…”
Megan stopped and faced him. “That’s a great idea, Mike. I bet there’s one down there.”
He met her eyes and stuck his hands in his pockets. “There have to be other people out there. I think it’s time we start looking for them. Learn what’s going on in the rest of the world...”
Megan nodded enthusiastically. “I think so, too. I’m sure Cesar will agree.”
Pringle took his hands out and frowned. “I’m not asking for Cesar’s permission, Megan.”
That caught her off guard. “Oh. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. Not at all.”
“Are you sure?” Pringle asked. “Because if you are, then I may have been a little hasty in supporting him.”
Megan touched his forearm. “I think it’s a wonderful idea, Mike. Run with it. See what you can find.”
Pringle moved his arm away from her touch. “I intend to.”
Feeling like there was something else she should say, but unsure of how to vocalize it without sounding patronizing, Megan smiled and took off at a brisk pace for her quarters, leaving Pringle alone in the parking lot. She had a lot to do to get ready for the next day, and she was tired of dealing with his bullshit.
Twenty
The metal security door clanged shut behind Pollard as he stepped out of his trailer into the heat of midmorning. With a quick tug, he checked it to make sure it was securely latched. After sweeping most of the undead from the immediate vicinity, the last thing he wanted was for a straggler to wander into his house and surprise him. It still happened—had happened, in fact, only a week earlier.
Shielding his eyes, he set off at a brisk pace, heading southwest down the palm tree-lined street. The residential section quickly gave way to a commercial district, complete with the requisite cluster of big-box stores and row upon row of abandoned cars. Evidence of the undead rampage was everywhere. A ribcage, half-buried in a sand drift. Dark smears of gore baked into the pavement where people had been dragged from their vehicles and torn to shreds. Cars, filled with former undead, now sporting neat holes in their heads courtesy of his men.
His destination was the Home Depot the next block over. A hot wind pressed at his back. A tumbleweed rolled past, tiny branches scritch scritching the asphalt as it bounced over the curb and became momentarily stuck on a chain link fence. Pollard loved tumbleweeds.
He nodded at the two heavily armed men standing in front of the garden section as he approached. They straightened up and gave him their full attention. The older one saluted. The younger one stuffed a small black book with gold lettering on the cover—a bible, Pollard thought—into his back pocket.
Pollard waved him off. “At ease.”
“Morning, Mr. Pollard,” the younger man, really only a teen, said. The other man was much older, a former Army Ranger named Steve. Pollard didn’t know either of them well.
“How’s he doing?” he asked, looking past the men into the high fence of the garden section.
“Haven’t heard a peep out of him all morning,” the teen answered.
“Hmm. Let’s take a look.” He rubbed his hands together with anticipation. The subject of his curiosity was a man named Christian Fuller. Christian, a middle-aged, former auto mechanic from Bisbee, was quarantined in the garden section while they waited to see if, and when, he would turn. He had been bitten two days earlier when they were clearing the Sonic parking lot a few blocks over. Christian had been in the process of putting down a family of zombies in an old Chevy Suburban with Sonora plates when a zombie crawled out from underneath and took a bite out of his calf. Knowing it was an instant death sentence, he had hid his wound from the rest of his unit, returning to his trailer as if nothing had happened. It was only blind luck that his roommate had caught a glimpse of the bite as Christian was dressing the next morning. Twelve hours had passed by that point, and he still showed no signs of infection. That was highly unusual.
Once his roommate raised the alarm, it was up to Pollard to decide what to do with Christian. His first impulse was to take him out back and put a bullet in his head. Just because. But he was curious. Bites typically resulted in death within an hour or two, and reanimation shortly thereafter. He had decided to wait and see what happened.
Pollard gestured at the door. “Keys?”
“Yes, sir,” the teen responded. He pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them over.
Pollard approached the gate on full alert. There was no sound from within. Putting his face up to the thick wire mesh, he scanned the cavernous space, searching for Christian. Dead plants. Enormous ceramic pots. Piles of tools. There was no sign of his quarry.
He rattled the gate. There was a low growl from beyond, and he instinctively took a step back. “Fuck!” Christian had turned.
Pollard pointed at Woo. “We need to talk. But first, we’re going in there to check on him.”
Woo’s eyes grew wide. “In there?”
Pollard straightened and rested his hand on the butt of his pistol. He dropped his voice an octave. “Do you have a problem with that, son?”
Woo stole a glance at Steve, and then returned his attention to Pollard. “No, sir. Not at all, Mr. Pollard.”
All morning Pollard had been mulling ways to test the boy. Feeding him to Hollister was a no-win situation for both him and Woo. She would screw him senseless f
or a week, maybe two, and then tire of him, at which point she would have him shot.
They would toss his corpse into the desert and leave him for the coyotes. He couldn’t let that happen. This was a chance to get someone he trusted inside Hollister’s room to learn just what the hell she was doing, to get a shot at taking her place. But first he had to let the kid in on his plan.
He had long ago abandoned the idea of challenging Hollister directly. As a submarine commander, she had done an adequate job. She was a little harsh on the crew, Pollard thought, but that was to be expected since she was the only woman on an all-male boat.
Ever since reaching land, though, she had changed into something he didn’t recognize, as if her sense of right and wrong had been obliterated along with the cities destroyed by her missiles. Something inside had snapped, or maybe it had snapped earlier, and he had missed it. The more Pollard considered her behavior, the more he realized she may have been flawed from the very beginning. That, unfortunately, made him flawed by association. He couldn’t live with it.
He hoped God, if he still existed, could forgive him for what he had done so far, and especially for what he was about to do in the name of setting things right.
“Weapons ready,” he ordered, drawing his own pistol. Woo raised his rifle, a Browning .30-06, to his shoulder. Steve raised a wicked-looking double-barreled shotgun.
Pollard inserted the key into the lock and turned it slowly. It clunked as the bolt slid free. Through the mesh, he caught a flash of color and heard footsteps as Christian scampered through the space. Pollard held his breath for a second. The zombie, if that’s what Christian was now, wasn’t charging the door. Very strange.
“Cover me,” he said, pulling the gate open just enough to slip through. Woo and Steve followed close behind.
“Lock it,” Pollard said once they were all inside. Woo did. In front of them, a pair of check-out lanes flanked by more gates created a single point of entry into the dead store. Just beyond, brown, wilted plants cluttered the tables and benches to the far wall. A few cacti here and there had survived, splotches of dusky green in a vast sea of dingy brown. Pollard eyed the plants. At least they don’t come back. If they do, we may as well lie down and die.
He called out, “Christian?” Nothing. He did it again, with more conviction in his voice. “Christian? It’s Andrew Pollard. I’ve come to talk to you.” Silence.
“He’s in here somewhere,” Steve whispered. “I saw him.”
Pollard glared at him. “Quiet!” He took a few steps forward, past the end of the registers. Peered around the corner. All clear. Shit. Where the hell did he go?
He heard a crunching sound coming from behind a pallet of mulch. Woo’s eyes grew wide. Pollard pointed at him and motioned to the left. He sent Steve to the right. He put his finger to his lips. Held their eyes until he was sure they understood. He put his finger on the trigger and made for the pallet. Woo followed.
Pollard thought he was ready for what he would find on the other side, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. Christian, a thin and dirty man, was squatting behind the mulch, vigorously slurping the marrow from a splintered femur. He gagged, then choked it back. The femur was from a week-old undead he himself had executed. A morbid grin stretched across his face. I was right! They do eat each other.
He had suspected this for a while—that if the undead couldn’t find a live food source, they would turn on each other, but he hadn’t seen it in person. Not until today. His first hint had come when he and Hollister were in Northern Mexico. Somehow they had ended up at the tail-end of a long, snaking column of undead traveling in the same general direction. They hung back a safe distance, pacing the zombies, figuring that knowing where they were, and where they were headed, was far more valuable than hurrying to their destination.
Over the course of several days they had encountered numerous corpses that had been picked clean, bones cracked open like discarded sunflower shells, everything consumed but hair and teeth. None of it made sense. Zombies almost always left enough behind to reanimate. But that time, they hadn’t.
He was walking point a few nights later when Hollister had suddenly grabbed his arm and hissed at him to stop right now. She had saved his life. Less than a hundred meters ahead was a small cluster of ghouls. Through the gloom, he and Hollister watched in mute horror as the creatures feasted on someone, wolfing down bits of flesh, tearing at the unlucky soul like a pack of starving hyenas. He couldn’t make it out at the time, but Pollard swore the victim looked a little too ragged to be a living human. And besides, he had thought, how would an uninfected wind up in the middle of a swarm this large?
It hadn’t added up at the time, but now it made perfect sense. They were cannibals. On top of everything else.
Christian eyed them each in turn, a low growl building in his throat. The femur shard clattered to the ground as he rose. Pollard’s gut churned. He hated being this close to the undead. The stench made him ill. Worse than that was the knowledge that they were once people just like him. Sometimes he imagined they even looked like people he knew. Every time he killed one, he gave a silent apology.
“Ready?” he asked. Steve shifted to the right a foot, boxing Christian in. In a sudden moment of clarity, Pollard realized that if Steve shot from his current position, there was a good chance Christian’s blood would spray all over himself and Woo, possibly infecting them.
“Steve!” he yelled. “We’re in your line of fire! Move!” Anger surged through him. His pulse quickened. He should know better. Steve didn’t move. He watched Christian, his eyes like a deer in the headlights. His finger slipped around the trigger.
Pollard nudged Woo with his elbow and nodded at Steve. “Shoot him.”
“Huh?” Woo said, shifting his attention away from Christian.
“You heard me. Shoot him.”
Christian opened his mouth. A moan was percolating deep in the back of his throat.
Steve’s aim wavered. “What the fuck, Pollard?”
With a last uncertain glance, Woo swiveled his aim to Steve and pulled the trigger. Steve spun around as if grabbed from behind, crashed to the floor, and tumbled from view behind a stack of gravel.
Fresh meat. That was all the invitation Christian needed. He dove on Steve with a roar. Steve screamed and thrashed, his feet kicking wildly against the concrete floor. He’s still alive, Pollard realized, sickened. Pollard and Woo watched and waited as Steve struggled with Christian, a losing battle to fight off the creature as it tried to consume him. It didn’t take long. Soon the sounds of Steve’s protests were replaced by the obscene cacophony of teeth rending flesh. Bits of gristle and blood flew indiscriminately, splattering the concrete.
Woo was shaking, the barrel of his gun jittering in crazy figure eights.
Pollard sighed. “Ok. I think that’s enough.” Woo gave him a blank look.
“That was a good shot,” Pollard said, clapping him on the shoulder. He took a step forward and fired two shots into Christian’s head. The zombie crumpled onto Steve’s chest.
Sorry, Steve. He put three bullets into Steve’s face, enough to guarantee he wouldn’t get up again. “Don’t worry,” Pollard said as he turned back to Woo. “You passed the test.”
Woo finally lowered his gun. “The test?” he asked incredulously. “What are you talking about?”
Pollard grinned and motioned at the exit. “Walk with me. I’ll explain everything.”
Twenty-One
They set out in a small convoy the next morning with four diesel pickup trucks liberated from the National Park Service depot adjacent to the Scorpion Canyon Ranger Station. Megan rode in the lead vehicle with Cesar, while Pringle followed in the next truck with Alicia. Four other men occupied the other vehicles bringing up the rear. Fuel wasn’t a problem, at least for the foreseeable future. Diesel kept well, and the buried tank in the depot contained at least 5000 gallons. Beyond the ranger station, there were plenty of other sources of fuel if they ever ran o
ut—enough to last a lifetime. Or until the undead learned to drive.
Today’s raid was focused on food and medical supplies. The number of intact grocery stores had surprised them at first. Canned food was abundant, and it was only a matter of choosing what they wanted to haul back. Next week, Cesar planned to venture deeper into town to search for a rumored hydroponics supply store near the university, in hopes of setting up a sustainable indoor farming operation so they would have fresh produce during the long hot months.
So far, water wasn’t a problem, either. While the river in the canyon was low at the moment, it provided plenty for the meager needs of the community. Still, Megan had her eyes open for some sort of cistern they could use to store water in case of a drought. She figured they could find one at a farm supply store.
They passed dozens of desiccated corpses as they picked their way through the remains of the city. They were true dead, detritus of the initial swarm that had surged through the city consuming everything in their path.
So far, the undead were nowhere to be seen. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. It just meant they hadn’t detected the convoy’s presence yet. This worried Megan more than she let on.
Cesar slowed the truck and wove through the intersection of Speedway and Kolb, taking care not to get hung up on the wreckage of a black-and-white police cruiser and a crumpled BMW sport utility vehicle. As they cleared the wreck, Megan realized she was grinding her teeth. She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. Being outside the fence always did this to her. She glanced out at the side-view mirror, searching for the chase vehicles.
One.
Two.
Her heart skipped a beat. Where’s the third? A moment later the truck rumbled into view, swinging wide around the front bumper of the police cruiser. She let out a sigh of relief. The traffic, as packed as it was, offered far too many places for the undead to hide. They were like a live wire in the brush, lurking until someone disturbed them, instantly lethal.
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