The Book of a Few

by Rodgers, Austen

  Branden and I made our way through the rest of the Warehouse this morning and ended up finding something we weren’t expecting. Past the refrigerated area is the frozen section. Ice cream, skillet meals, pizza, and the like are stored behind insulated doors. Inside the freezer part of the building, while Branden and I were making a quick pass through, we heard some grunting noises from down below.

  There are three levels to the warehousing part of the building. The second and third floors are where the product is stored, and then later it is sorted onto a pallet that fulfills each retail store’s order. Now, it’s all quite automated, but workers are needed to manually move different products to these order pallets. Both the refrigerated and frozen section of the Warehouse has seven aisles.

  When standing between these aisles on either the second or third floor, one could look down to the main floor. Also in between the aisles are large mechanical cranes that zip up and down, moving pallets of product to their designated places in the aisles after they have been received into the Warehouse. Metal railing is the only thing that could stop someone from potentially falling a story or two onto the concrete main floor.

  Anyways, we headed down a flight of stairs to the main level of the freezer to investigate the sound. Behind a metal fence that keeps unauthorized people from entering are the cranes that move along their single train-like track. Off to the side of one of the cranes that towered three stories above us, we saw a huddled blue mass. Once we got through the gate, which took us a few moments, we realized that this person must have worked here. How else would he have gotten a hold of the blue gear?

  I’d recognize that brown curly hair anywhere. We kept our distance from the old coworker we knew as Joey Dellit for a few moments. A trail of blood led to Joey huddled in a small ball on the floor. Even though I was unable to tell if he was still bleeding, or infected, I took a chance and stepped closer. I couldn’t tell if he was bitten as the gear he was wearing only revealed his face. He looked up at me for a brief second.

  I figured if he were infected, he would have at least tried to lurch toward me. Since he did not, I slung my rifle over my back and began pulling him by his arms. Branden asked me what I was doing.

  “Probably saving his life,” I answered shortly, grunting as I pulled.

  Branden didn’t bother to help me slog him out of the bitter cold. Well, I suppose he did open a few doors. I tugged Joey all the way back to the cage and began removing the heavy gear he was in. His hands, face, and feet were pale and seemingly frozen. I felt sorry for the guy, all curled up in the freezer. His body wasn’t even shivering, and I had heard before that if you stop shaking when you’re cold, your body is about to give out. So yeah, I saved a life today.

  Talking about it, Branden and I decided that we were underequipped to tend to Joey’s injuries. We tried speaking to him, but the only response we got from him was grunts and groans. We decided our best course of action would be to go out and search around the local stores for medical supplies. Honestly, neither of us knew what frostbite called for, but we figured any first aid kit would have what we needed. Without wasting too much time, we gathered our weapons and left the Warehouse.

  We walked to a nearby area where stores are all relatively close together, thinking our luck would be best there. Also worth noting is that the stores we visited are on Viking Road, therefore, we were decently far away from any housing. It’s just a small area with stores on both the north and south side of the road. If we were going to find a first aid kit somewhere, it would probably be in that area.

  On our way, we noticed the bodies of the infected we had hit with my car on our initial arrival to the Warehouse. The bodies lay there on the warming concrete with flies buzzing about them. Just like the woman we had seen the other day in Branden’s condo driveway, the bodies were bloated. All over the bodies, most commonly on the stomach, the skin was stretched outward from center mass. Every single one was like this.

  Upon reaching the shopping area and passing a gas station that we thought about poking in, we noticed that this area was desolate, too. There were no people anywhere to be seen, infected or not.

  “What is up with this? I’ve never seen this area so quiet,” I said.

  “Yeah. Same here,” Branden said.

  “Maybe the disease doesn’t have much of a foothold yet.”

  “People have probably left the area or are staying at home, so it’s not impossible.”

  “I’m thinking that it’s not as strong as it is feared.”

  Branden nodded.

  As we walked down the road, closer to the shopping district, something odd came into sight. In the middle of the road ahead, there appeared to be a barricade running across the street. We stopped for a moment and tried to determine why it was there and if the area could be dangerous. The barricade, made of shopping carts from the stores nearby, gave me the impression that it wasn’t set up by police or military. A good amount of time must have been spent working on it when you considered its size. Hours, at the least, seeing as how in some areas of the barricade, the carts were stacked three high.

  I suggested that we walk across the grass and behind the stores. Staying out of that specific area would probably be good for our own health. Branden objected by telling me to get a spine. He felt that the area was obviously abandoned and the shopping carts posed no threat. He decided to just keep walking up the road, and not wanting to be alone, I followed behind him. As we walked up to the poorly barricaded area, we noticed movement in a restaurant diagonally to our left.

  Branden and I sought cover under the carts and peeked out occasionally. For a long minute, neither of us could see anything inside, which is surprising since a majority of the shop was windows. We looked at one another, hoping that the other would have an answer or an idea as to what we saw. I felt that our eyes must have been playing tricks on us and stood up to get a better sight. A loud snap echoed in the shopping district.

  Pain ripped into my left arm, and I ducked down back under the carts. I ripped at my shirt to see what the matter was and found that blood was running down my arm and onto the concrete. I cursed after realizing that the wound was the product of a bullet but thanked God that whoever was shooting had horrible aim. The bullet had gone completely through my arm, so I knew I would not have to worry about digging in my own arm, or having Branden do so, and pull the lead out.

  I asked Branden to tie scraps from my own shirt around my arm as a makeshift compress, and he did. I badly wanted to get back at whoever had shot me. Guessing by the sound of the gunshot and the size of the bullet hole, I guessed the caliber of the gun was small. Boy, was he in for a surprise when I was going to pull the trigger on him. When Branden was done, both he and I peeked from our cover.

  Cracked glass in one of the windows of the restaurant gave away the aggressor’s position. Whoever made the shot didn’t think that by shooting through the glass it would hurt his own accuracy and the cracks would cut down his visibility. I kept my eyes on the other windows because I knew that the shooter would be forced to move if he wanted to take another shot. As expected, I saw movement behind a different window.

  “Cover me,” Branden ordered.

  Before my mind could comprehend his request, he bolted from behind the barricade and made his way behind a truck. It sat abandoned up on the grass that surrounded the parking lot to the restaurant. When it did click with my brain, I attempted to pull my gun up to rest on a cart, but found it extremely difficult with the damage to my left arm. Before I was able to successfully bring the muzzle of my rifle up, the shooter fired again. Branden, resting with his back against the black import, appeared fine. I had no new sensation of pain, so I assumed us both safe.

  In the building, the shooter was moving from one window to another. Taking my aim more seriously than I had ever before, I placed the figure in the sights of my rifle. Resting my gun on the cart must have helped my aim immensely; the sights lined up perfectly and did not shake, despite the pain
my arm caused me.

  The gun bucked into my shoulder when I pulled the trigger. I had a feeling of intuition that I had got him, and I yelled out to Branden to tell him so. While cycling the bolt to load another round into the chamber, I kept my eyes on the building. To my surprise, I saw more movement. I was confused. I knew that I had hit the shooter, who should have been writhing on the floor, but then I realized the shooter was not alone. Two people moved about the building, then rushed out the door and began charging in our direction.

  The first man, thin and lanky, had a metal baseball bat in his left hand. His forearms were like toothpicks, and his hair long and unkempt. His wingman, close behind him, was more average in build. What he held was even more frightening than the first man’s bat. The second man was charging us wielding a battle-axe with both hands. My eyes squinted and my jaw dropped when that man came outside. But after my moment of shock, I took aim at the second man.

  My aim was still accurate, fortunately. The battle-axe wielding man dropped to the ground clutching his chest. His partner just kept on running toward Branden. The assailant’s metal bat nicked the hood of the truck, sending his attempted swing at Branden’s head further from its intended target.

  By a kick to the man’s groin, Branden reduced him to hobbit size. On bent knees and gasping for air, the man suffered. Branden is quick and I will definitely give him credit for that. His retaliations are always swift and sharp. But it is a sad way to lose a fight, I imagine. One moment you have the advantage of a blood-pumping rush on your opponents, and then, with one swing of a foot, you are left lying on the ground. Normally I would say that it’s dirty fighting and I do not appreciate it, but I do like to win when my life is on the line.

  We left Bilbo unconscious on the ground and headed up into the small restaurant. A thought came to my mind and I couldn’t help but share my own peculiar notions.

  I turned to Branden and said, “Eat flesh?”

  He smiled and lightly laughed once he realized the reference I was making to the restaurant. If you are wondering, I’m not calling it by name in this journal because by the time you read this, I will more than likely be dead and gone, and all of these places I write of will have been reduced to rubble. If you’re an archeologist searching for clues of a gap in history, I have one thing to say: I don’t want to make this too easy for you.

  Continuing, we kept ourselves attentive as we walked in. We expected to be attacked again, but to our own surprise we ended up with a completely different situation. Behind the main counter where you would normally get your food was a very tall, lean man with nothing but brown stubble on his chin and head. He raised his arms above his head and asked us not to shoot.

  “Come out from the behind the counter,” I told the man, and with slow and careful steps he did. “What are you doing? Ambushing innocent people?”

  A torn look came across his face, and he stuttered when he first tried to reply. He took a deep breath and said, “My name is Will. I, uh… Um… It’s kind of a long story. It would be easier to show you. Do you mind if I reach into my pocket?”

  I shook my head. “My friend will do it for you.”

  Branden lowered his gun and took a step behind Will. Will’s face turned slightly red with embarrassment as Branden poked around inside his pocket. From Will’s pants, Branden retrieved a sheet of folded paper. He carefully unfolded it, and held it up so that I, too, could see its contents. It was a handwritten poster in a style considerably similar to an old ‘wanted’ sign. Along the top of the paper in large, red letters it read: “Food & Ammo.” In smaller letters down below it stated: “Will trade for live zombies” with an address at the bottom.

  “What’s that address?” I asked Branden.

  “I’m not sure. It might be the hospital.” He pondered for a moment, and continued, “That’s around the Hill, yeah. It’s gotta be the hospital.”

  Will nodded somewhat ecstatically. “Yes! That is it! I know one of the doctors there. They just started putting units of people together to gather infected and bring them in for examination. Well, there’s more to it than that but…” His eyes studied our faces, and I could tell he was worried about how we might deal with him. He continued, “Needless to say, I was one of the first people who signed up.” Will laughed awkwardly.

  Branden and I looked to one another.

  “We’ll have to look into that,” I said.

  Then, from out of the kitchen, muffled grunting reached our ears. I immediately asked Will what it was. The only response Will had was stepping to the side and dropping his head. I walked past him with a heavy sigh, wondering what I was getting into.

  Locating the sound didn’t take long. Behind metal shelving stocked with cans and other cooking necessities, a man was in the corner. He appeared to be bound by his wrists and gagged with a grimy towel. He lay there with outstretched legs and a hanging head, and I wondered if he was conscious. Medical wrappings soaked with blood covered his forearms and neck from recent wounds. I was unable to see the man’s face, so I made my way closer. The stranger sluggishly awoke, but then began to panic and push himself further into the corner at the sound of my footsteps.

  I put my gun down and held my hands in front of me. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not going to hur—”

  I cussed under my breath and repeatedly took the Lord’s name in vain; I knew this man.

  “Taylor!” I said as my knees met the ground next to him.

  I tried to calm him down by getting him to look at me, but this friend of mine had seen better days. One of his eyes was swollen and a blood trail that came down from his hairline had dried to his skin. I pulled the blood and kitchen grease-tainted rag from his mouth and spoke his name repeatedly in an effort to get a reaction from him. All I got out of him was a mumble as he fell back under. I cut his bindings and started pulling him out of there with my arm wrapped firmly around his chest.

  “What the fuck is this, Will?” I snapped. “What did you do to him?”

  I was angry, yes, but I still don’t think that I was the one Will should have been afraid of. Branden’s mouth dropped for but a moment before his lips and brow tightened. Revenge was on the tips of our fingers; it wouldn’t be difficult to make quick work of Will for binding and torturing Taylor so near to death. But that’s not something I could indulge in guiltlessly.

  Will shook his head and waved his arms in the air. “I can explain! Please, just give me a chance to explain.”

  I demanded answers from him. Branden was impatient and took action before Will was able to remedy the situation. With the butt of his gun, Branden clubbed Will until he fell to the ground. Will held his nose trying to slow the blood that ran over his lips and cussed.

  “Muzzle your dog!” Will growled, surprisingly, to me.

  Before I even had to ask Will a second time what had happened to Taylor, I realized it on my own. I leaned Taylor’s back against the end of the food counter and decided on the bandage that looked the oldest. I pulled the medical wrap from the wound’s sticky surface as carefully as I could. A small amount of blood appeared as I removed the top layer of the scab along with the bandage, but Taylor didn’t show any signs that he felt it.

  The one thing that confirmed my suspicions was the fact that the area where flesh had been cut from his arm was curved nearly into a complete ‘O’ shape. This particular wound must have happened no sooner than two days ago as a majority of the damage had already scabbed over. I tied the bandage back around Taylor’s arm as best as I could and looked at Will. His eyes were locked onto me from his position on the ground.

  I pointed a finger down at the wound and said, “Smart. Probably the craftiest way you could capture someone who’s infected.”

  Branden then looked at me and said, “Taylor isn’t infected, though.”

  “Not yet, at least,” I said, and turned my attention back to Will. “You subdued him, and then threw him to a horde of zombies to get bit up. But then you probably killed the zombies and patched Ta
ylor up so he wouldn’t bleed out.” I looked back at Taylor. “Then you waited for him to change.”

  I half-smiled at my own intelligence and looked back at Taylor’s wounds and deducted something else.

  “I’m going to guess that the plan didn’t work. Taylor never did change for whatever unknown reason. I bet that the men in your group became confused, and suggested another go. That would explain why some of the wounds are dried up, and others are still moist. It would be much easier to capture a man, tie him up, and lure zombies to him to subject him to the disease and let him turn than trying to subdue the live zombie and risk yourself and your men to become bitten and turn.”

  Will’s expression gave clear proof that I was spot on. Without the need to say another word, I just nodded my head. Seconds passed in unanimous silence. Branden must have either grown bored with the situation or had finally reached the tipping point where he could no longer contain himself because he bashed Will on the back of the head, sending the man face-first into the white tile flooring, unconscious.