After we crossed a babbling brook, Becky heard voices on the other side of a simple, wood fence. We both crouched down by a log and listened:
“That God-damned mother fucker had it coming.”
I looked over at Becky, “Marcus,” we both whispered to each other.
I stood up but signaled for her to stay in place as a precaution. Ever so slowly and carefully, I walked toward the sound of Marcus’ continued profanity and arguing. He was clearly talking to someone, though I couldn’t discern who.
“Do you ever think before you open your fat mouth, you shit,” I called out as I hopped over a broken section of fence.
Marcus froze as he saw me. “Nick?”
“Yeah. Everything okay?”
There was a split-second hesitation. His reply was, “Nothing’s okay, you should know that. Sure good to hear your voice again, though; even if you are a fucking dick sucker.”
I surveyed the crew who accompanied Marcus. The Preacher was seated on a stump nearby. His giant, wooden cross rested across his lap. The golden crucifix that he always wore was missing; perhaps it was torn off by a branch as he’d fled through the woods last night. Two other men from our camp (who I didn’t know) were seated next to The Preacher. On the ground at their feet was a dead body.
“What happened?” I asked as I pointed to the body.
“He tried to steal our food.” Marcus said. He then leaned over and spat on the body. “We only had one knapsack full of food that we took out of the camp and he tried to run off with all of it.”
“Was it his knapsack?” I inquired.
Marcus hesitated.
“And his food?” I pressed the matter.
“Yes, it was, may God have mercy on his soul,” The Preacher spoke up. “He took it out of camp with him, but we all agreed to share the food and ration it until we could find more. This misguided fellow agreed to the terms last night, when we all met up after we got separated.” The Preacher made the sign of the cross and continued, “He should not have tried to go back on his word. We killed him not only for theft, but also because we could no longer trust him.”
I shrugged. “I guess he learned the hard way then, huh?”
“You’re fucking right he did, that ass-raper,” Marcus agreed.
“So Nick, is it just you?” The Preacher asked.
“No,” I answered and waved for Becky to come out. I knew that she could still see me through the fence opening.
She noticed my signal and trotted over to us. As she approached our group, she exchanged pleasant waves and greetings with everyone. Well, until she got to Marcus.
“What’s up baby?” Marcus said as he ogled her. “Damn you look fine for just coming out of the woods!”
Becky snorted in disdain. “It’s almost nice to see you,” she remarked.
“You can’t get enough of old Marcus,” he laughed and looked her up and down.
I was starting to get pissed at him. I nearly told him to cut the shit when Becky got right to the point instead, “Do you guys know anything about the others?” She didn’t even look at Marcus as she asked, but rather beyond him, in the direction of the two men I didn’t know.
Marcus took the liberty to answer anyway, “A few of us were killed by shamblers as we moved through the woods last night. Olivia was among them. I saw that myself. As for the rest, who knows? Maybe they’re still out there somewhere.”
“Aww, not Olivia,” Becky cried out. She looked really choked up. The two women had bonded pretty close over the last few weeks. They had developed a rare trust. She turned away so no one could see the tears rolling down her face. Well, no one but me. I put my arm around her to comfort her.
Marcus eyed us with a mix of confusion and puzzlement. Fuck him, I thought. The next time he hits on her I’m going to lay him out. He’ll learn.
As Becky grieved her dead friend, I asked, “Has anyone gone into town yet?”
“We haven’t had a chance to, but God willing we’ll find supplies and shelter when we do,” The Preacher replied.
“Well, there’s no time like the present, is there?” I suggested while Becky composed herself.
He hefted his large cross up over one shoulder and replied, “I agree with you on that motion, Nick.”
Our group, now numbering six, gathered what little supplies we had and proceeded into town. We had very few weapons between u. For all I knew, the town could be full of zombies. Desperation forced us onward.
We searched the old cabin, found nothing of use, and moved up the main road. I soon noticed a rustic, square sign that hung from a horizontal, wooden post by chains. In white letters that looked hand-painted, it read, “Payne’s Creek.” So that’s where we were. Hopefully we could procure a map. I was surprised but also relieved to see that main street was empty. I had never heard of the town before, and I had lived in Cali all my life. I suppose I’d never had a reason to come here, though, at least until now.
This region of Cali was mostly just woods and tiny, sheltered communities. It had held no real appeal for most people unless they were looking to get away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. This region had been great for vacationing, but I wouldn’t have wanted to live here prior to the apocalypse. Ever since the outbreak, anyone who had lived in a small, rural community like Payne’s Creek considered it a blessing: these were the most likely places to survive.
As we cautiously passed a few trailers, RV’s and homes, I began to get the uneasy feeling that we were being watched. I paused near an old, burnt-out station wagon and motioned for the rest of our group to do the same.
“What’s wrong?” Marcus asked.
“I feel like someone’s watching us.”
“Man, you’re fucking losing it,” he said. He punched my arm for good measure. “This place is a ghost town.”
“I’d listen to your friend, and also drop your weapons,” a new voice spoke up.
It came from the window of a store that said “Payne’s Creek Store” in white, fat letters on the roof. I glanced over at the window and saw a man who looked like a younger, blonde version of Clint Eastwood. He lacked a cowboy hat, though, and one side of his face had been clearly burned pretty badly. He wore a black, leather jacket, and most importantly, he was pointing a pistol with a built-in laser sight at me. I looked down and noticed a flickering red spot on my chest, right above my heart.
A split-second later, a number of other men and women popped up from within the store door and windows like some old, western shooting gallery scene. Each one held a rifle, pistol, or shotgun. All of them were pointed at us.
Chapter Seven
“Are you going to kill us?” I asked the Clint Eastwood-looking guy as he pointed his pistol at me from a window of the Payne’s Creek Store. It wasn’t the most intelligent question, and I didn’t expect an honest answer, but it was the only thing that came to mind. It was hard to think with a red laser-dot blinking on your chest. I simultaneously dropped my hatchet a he had instructed.
“That’s yet to be determined,” he answered in a gruff voice. Oddly enough, I found his cryptic answer reassuring: I’d dealt with a number of bad characters in the course of my travels. In my book, the fact that these people hadn’t shot us outright was a good thing so far.
With his pistol still pointed at my heart, the Eastwood impersonator bellowed out, “Search them, boys.” One of his cronies, a six foot tall Spaniard wearing a sombrero and blue overalls and carrying a pump-action shotgun, stepped out of the front entrance to the store and walked around behind us. Two more men, one fat and one thin, holstered revolvers and met us in the middle of the street. They signaled for me to come forward.
“We’re unarmed,” I stated as I held my hands up and submitted myself to their search. As they patted me with their hands and reached into my pockets to steal my lighter and comb, now my only possessions, I commented, “feel free to cup the balls too while you’re down there.”
The fat guy laughed. The thin one didn’t
have the same sense of humor: he elbowed me square across my cheek so fast that I didn’t see it coming. I fell to one knee and shook the cobwebs out. The guy absolutely rocked me.
“Larry doesn’t look like much,” the Clint Eastwood guy remarked, “but he’s a third degree black belt. He is also a homophobe.”
“Ughh,” I groaned, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I suggest you do,” Mr. Eastwood told me. “We’re not looking for trouble here. We’re just being thorough. We gotta protect our own, you know what I mean?”
“I certainly understand,” I added.
“Good, then keep your mouth shut. Let these nice men do their jobs. I tend to get itchy on the trigger when I get nervous. I’m sure you understand.”
I swallowed. “Yes sir.”
“He’s not carryin’ a nothin,” the fat guy informed his boss. He rudely pushed me to the side and called out, “Next!”
I was instructed not to move as everyone else was searched. When it came Becky’s turn, the fat guy commented, “wow, yous’ a pretty looking thang.” Becky’s only response was to sneer and turn her head away from him. As he frisked her, he groped at her rather unnecessarily.
At this point in my life, it was easily to tell the difference between a reasonable search and seizure and a fat pervert squeezing a pretty’s girl’s pussy and rubbing her tits for the fun of it. Becky suffered the indignity as best as could be expected. I could tell she was uncomfortable and utterly embarrassed. I resisted the urge to attack the fat fucker. I made a silent vow that I would punish him as soon as the opportunity arose.
One by one, we were searched. The few possessions we had were stolen. When it was done, Mr. Eastwood came out of the store and down to the street. He was accompanied by the rest of his crew.
At the far left, I saw a black version of Rambo. He was complete with a bandana and carried, of all things, a sledgehammer. A LMG (light machine gun) with a telescopic sight and a shoulder strap hung down by his waist. I wasn’t certain who manufactured it, but I suspected it was a British or Belgian SAW. Whatever the case, it was certainly an intimidating weapon. Furthermore, the black John Rambo didn’t look the least bit encumbered by it.
To his right, in stark contrast to him in every way, was a thin white, redheaded girl. She didn’t look much older than fifteen and reminded me of the girl from the Wendy’s commercials they showed back when we had TV. The main differences were that she wore an eye patch over her left eye and she wasn’t eating a double-cheeseburger. Oh, and she carried a sawed-off shotgun. It looked much too heavy for her to handle effectively, but she kept it trained on Marcus the whole time.
Mr. Eastwood walked toward us in between her and a short blonde. Her eyes were like blue ice. Her ponytail went about halfway down her back from what I could see. She was wearing tight, black yoga pants, a maroon and white windbreaker, and a large knife in a wide belt at her hip. Her hips looked great. She swayed them as she moved. Even pointing a 9mm Glock at us, she still managed to inspire feelings of lust. If no one killed me here and now, I would enjoy checking out her ass in the future.
The last member of their group was at the far right. He was a towering giant. His tight, white t-shirt hardly contained his iron biceps. He looked like one big muscle in a shirt, really. His hair was blonde. I imagined that he was Swedish or possibly from whatever region Arnold Schwarzenegger had hailed from before he’d been turned into a zombie. Whatever the case, this guy looked like he dieted on pieces of rebar. He was so badass that he didn’t even have a weapon.
They were a surly lot, for sure. And they were very well-armed. We were pretty surly, too, for what it counted for considering we had no weapons.
“We can do this a few ways,” Mr. Eastwood instructed. “Here are your options. Option one: we can send you on your way, and you keep going and don’t look back. Option two: we can kill your whole group right now. Last of all, option three: you can stay here and work with us to defend our town. If you stay, you’ll need to gain our trust, and believe me that won’t be easy. We’ve been betrayed before, so we’re not about to let it happen again.”
“That’s how I lost this eye,” the redhead motioned to her patch with the barrel of her shotgun.
“I’m fucking talking, Wendy, God damnit!” Mr. Eastwood said with agitation. “Don’t fucking interrupt.”
“Yes sir,” Wendy replied and bowed her head.
I wondered if that was really her name or if they just called her it as a joke.
“So,” Mr. Eastwood continued, “What would you prefer to do?”
“We’re fucking dead if we leave as sure as if you cut us down now,” Marcus added. “We’ll stay here and help.”
The rest of us nodded in agreement.
“That means you’ll need to work alongside us, under our supervision, for as long as we see fit. You will each pull your fair share. I’ll have no slackers. You break the rules and we either throw you out or we kill you, depending on the severity.” Mr. Eastwood allowed that to sink in for a moment and then asked, “Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir, we’re clear on that,” I assured him.
“Alright then,” he smiled. He clicked the laser-sight of his pistol off and tucked the pistol into a pocket inside of his leather jacket. “We’ll get you your possessions back in a few days. Until then, I assume you’re all hungry?”
“Fuck yeah we are,” Marcus added.
“We’ll get you something to eat and go over the rules in more detail afterwards,” Mr. Eastwood said. He paused for a moment, smiled again and added, “Welcome to Payne’s Creek. I’m sure you’ll like it here.”
Chapter Eight
I spent the next two weeks learning the rules of our new establishment. I learned that Mr. Eastwood’s real name, or at least the name he went by, was Karl Yates. He ran a tight ship. At any given time, five guards were on duty. This included a sniper in the town clock-tower where the old town hall was located (which was also used as our barracks). It had been the unidentified sniper who’d first seen us approaching. He had used a mirror to alert the other townsfolk so they could ambush us. The people we had met in the store with Mr. Yates were considered his elite killers -according to the regular townsfolk.
In hindsight, I was very glad that we hadn’t been armed or attempted a firefight in front of the store: that sniper would have cut us down easily. Several of us could have been dead before anyone even realized where the shots were coming from.
In addition to the guards, Mr. Yates also sent out regular scavengers. His people had long since pillaged the resources of Payne’s Creek. They now ventured into neighboring towns. Instead of sending out one person (as we had done,) they had enough survivors to send groups of three. This helped people to stay alive longer, and it also allowed the groups to travel further. The rule for scavenging was simple: never come back empty handed. Mr. Yates didn’t care if it took scavenging parties a week to complete their mission, so long as the team returned with useful items. If they never returned, well, we all accepted that as a possible outcome.
The rest of the townsfolk, including myself and my friends, mostly farmed or found useful ways to help out. We pretty much worked in the fields all day. It was difficult, tough work, but it provided food. The crops were our most valuable commodity, more precious even than ammo. If anyone was caught stealing food, the penalty was death. On day three, one of the guys who’d come in with our original group was caught putting some pea-pods in his pocket.
The Spaniard with the sombrero noticed and announced the theft. After a brief argument and scuffle, my associate was subdued. He was hauled into the middle of the street by the Spaniard and the fat ass (I learned his name was Clod). Mr. Yates then unceremoniously shot him in the back of his head, and he made sure to double-tap the body.
The Preacher and I were forced to bury him at the edge of town because he had arrived with us. It was meant to be a moral lesson.
Unlike my original camp, Mr. Yates didn’t believe in rota
ting duties. He was in charge, and that was all there was to it. Everyone else was assigned a duty as he saw fit. He alone chose what each person’s task was each day. He claimed that everyone’s job was based on their abilities.
Oddly enough, I noticed that he played favorites with his “elite” group. As an example, the large, black Rambo-looking guy (whose name I learned was Sha’Quizz) almost always served as a guard. He had prior military experience and, more importantly, he was a great shot. Furthermore, he had grown up in Oakland. I figured both qualifications made him suitable for surviving the apocalypse: if he could make it in Oakland, he could make it anywhere.
I was usually just a farmhand alongside Marcus, The Preacher, and a few others. Mr. Yates never changed our duties because he said we were performing them sufficiently. This was fine by me. We talked and joked as we worked. Life developed the feeling of normalcy again.
Eventually, we earned a measure of trust from Mr. Yates. As a reward, we received all of our confiscated items back (except for my hatchet because I learned that someone else had broke it while splitting wood).
I could have been annoyed by this because I was always used to having a weapon. However, Payne’s Creek was relatively safe, all things considered. The guards were rotated in shifts so they never got too tired, and there were a good number of guns and munitions to go around in the event of a severe threat. Our sleeping conditions were also among the best I had seen since the start of the infection.
At night, we all went up a ladder to the second floor of the old town hall. We pulled the ladder up behind us once the last person was accounted for. Everyone was then forced to strip naked so we could be inspected for bites (in case there was an effort to hide an incident). No one objected to this safety measure.
Shamblers: the zombie apocalypse Page 5