“How many of them are out there?”
“We don’t know,” he replied. “But, they’ve been keeping us off balance and on alert.”
“Do you think they’ll attack?”
“We’ve killed several of them over the past few days,” he sagely replied. “I think they will definitely attack us and soon.”
“Are we ready?”
“We’ve been building up our defenses and our guard stations. But, we are getting low on ammunition.”
“I might have a couple of sources for ammunition,” I replied. “The folks out in Kennesaw have re-opened an ammunition factory—well a small commercial reloading facility anyway. And, believe it or not, the Gun Mart warehouse store is open. But, we just have to have something to trade with them.”
“I don’t know what we can give them. Our crops haven’t been in the ground for long.”
“We’ll have to think of something. I’ll ask the pharmacist.”
I excused myself and continued my walk. I went around to the vegetable garden. It was still an inviting place surrounded by a low split rail fence and almost western ranch style sign that said “Community Garden.” Since we were gone, I thought that the plants had grown just a little. The garden itself had grown as the flowerbeds in front had been replaced with rows of some unknown crop. However, I didn’t see anything ripe and ready for harvest. One of the young Indians was sitting at the back of the garden with a bolt-action .22 rifle propped up by his side and a big kitchen knife hanging from his belt. Older children were weeding and watering and tending to the garden. The garden tables were covered with seedlings in paper cups. Off to the side of the table, an older lady was quartering potatoes from a dusty old bag. She made sure that each quarter had an eye and that she left plenty of potato to feed the growth. Everyone was focused and working diligently. We were seeing more and more clouds so it seemed like rain was right around the corner. I did not dare disturb anyone. Gardening was now considered a matter of life and death.
Instead I continued my walk back to the street and past our ill-fated car barrier. I went around the whole complex, talking to the people standing guard, checking out their positions, and their weapons. Everyone was nervous. Ammunition supplies were tight. But, everyone was ready. Just like the old Kennesaw Mountain battlefield, every square inch of our apartment complex seemed to be sacred ground now. Together we had fought for our community, snatched it back from the dead, and made it productive. The only question now was whether or not we could hold on to it.
Chapter 53
It was nearly midnight when we turned in for the night. The dog had his last walk although we didn’t go far. The clouds were low and gray above us. Dale hated thunder and the world was freaky for him now. He was glad to be home and in the bed. The guns were all cleaned and loaded. We just lay there sweating for awhile. It was horrible and muggy without electricity and air conditioning. We opened the windows to let in a little breeze. But, it also let in the ever present smell of the dead. They were still out on the nearby highway and they were putrid. It was fairly nauseating.
Around 1 a.m. we heard thumping sounds in the distance from out on the roads around the neighborhood. It was a low bass thump that carried in the stagnant night air. It slowly moved in parallel to the highway. Then it moved in the direction behind the nearby office buildings. A few minutes later, it moved onto the main road that paralleled the front of the complex. Then I heard the high pitched exhaust fart of a rice-burning hot rod. It was probably a Honda or an Acura with a big can muffler.
“Son of a bitch,” Karen muttered. “What the hell are they doing?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But, it can’t be good.”
Dale was growling from the middle of the bed. It was the low growl that he made when he knew were were upset. I got up, pulled on some pants, and got dressed. Karen did too. Something was up. We armed ourselves, told Dale to be good, and lowered the windows to a slight crack. We put down water and food and a blanket in the bathroom so that he had a place to hide when the shooting started. Then, we headed downstairs. As we got to the courtyard, we heard more thumper cars slowly driving and occasionally racing around the streets surrounding our apartment. Here and there we heard that high pitched full throttle sounds of a racing motorcycle.
On the way downstairs, we met Preston and Marcus and the Morehouse men filing out of their apartment. They were armed and ready for battle. On the ground floor we met Victoria with her revolver. She looked mad.
“I don’t know about y’all,” she said. “But, I just can’t take all this racket.”
Everyone just mumbled and nodded in agreement. We were all tired. But, we all had a little charge of adrenaline and excitement coursing through our veins. We assembled down in the courtyard of our building. After a few minutes, we still weren’t sure about what all the motorcycles and thumper cars were doing, but we were sure that we were starting to hear more moaning from outside the complex. It was becoming clear that Zombies were on the move.
“Marcus,” Preston ordered, “pop down and see if SWAT Cop is up.”
Marcus disappeared with one of the Morehouse Men. His fellow students quickly scrambled upstairs and went door to door. Some of the women were asked to shelter in place. While men were all rousted and asked to bring their weapons. The courtyard gathering grew with the addition of more men with all sorts of cricket bats, knives, and spears. In total, we had about two dozen in our courtyard. Everyone knew that the battle was about to begin.
Marcus reappeared to report that SWAT Cop was already gone. It was time for us to go too. Preston suggested that the dozen men of the Indian contingent down to the laundry room and set up a defense along the northern fence. The group had a couple of pistols and a .22 rifle backed up by bats, clubs, spears, and knives. Added to the residents who lived on that side of the complex, there would be about three dozen lightly armed fighters to mount a defense against zombies or gang members emerging from the woods. The Indians piled into Preston’s Minivan and got a quick lift up to the northern car wash and laundry room.
When Preston returned with minivan, he and the Morehouse Men took a ride down to the south car wash to set up a defensive line there and across the ravine to the office complex gate. They would be spread thinly. But, we thought the south would be a less likely line of attack due to the high fences of the office complex. Generally, we only kept a couple of guards down that way. Tonight, we had to cover the full perimeter.
“What can I do guys?” Victoria asked. “I’m up!”
“Why don’t you round up our doctor and get the hospital set up?”
“Good idea! Since my car is trashed, why don’t you give me a ride.”
Karen and I and Victoria jumped in the Camry. We roared over to the aid station first, parked, and dropped Victoria off. Her job was to help out in the clinic and to make sure that the pharmacist was ready and that his tools and drugs were laid out to receive casualties. If the zombies got that far into the complex, she had her revolver and a few dozen bullets. Plus, Charan, Saina, Mike and his assistant were all there.
After dropping, Victoria off we drove up the hill towards the entrance. When we got to the mailbox area, we very carefully parked the Camry to block the road. If someone came charging through our gate and the junk cars parked there, they would run into the Camry. It would be a waste of a perfectly good Camry, but it would stop or slow down a charging vehicle. We thought it would be far better to jam intruders up by the entrance than to give them an opportunity to charge right down into the heart of the complex.
The night air was still. But, the atmosphere was electric. We continued to hear the low bass of thumper cars and the high pitched wail of motorcycles. We knew that the surface streets were clogged with zombies. As we peeked around the back corner of the trash compactor wall and looked beyond the entrance gate, we couldn’t see any zombies. So, we ran one by one over into the recycling area. SWAT Cop was there with several of the Indians. Our defenders h
ad wisely parked a car up against each of the gates to prevent them from being easily pushed in. Now, everyone was looking anxiously over the brick wall for any signs of an attack. Our enemies were on the move. It was just a matter of time.
We didn’t have to wait long. A motorcycle shrieked down the main entrance drive. It was a plastic fantastic by Honda and it seemed to have a tail of flame behind it. The rider wore red and black leathers and had a more slightly built passenger in cut off jeans riding behind him. The passenger held his arm out from the back to display a flaming canvas tote bag. Our guards started to shoot. But, with a 0 to 60 miles per hour time of less than 5 seconds, the bike was upon us in a flash. The rear passenger flung his flaming payload at the front gate. It seemed to hang in the air forever before hitting the gate itself and falling to the pavement. As the bike accelerated away, we started shooting again. We heard a shriek and the passenger fell off. But, the bike and rider disappeared around the bend and back up onto the road.
We weren’t sure what to do about the flaming tote bag. Surely, we thought, they wouldn’t go through all this trouble just to fling a bag of burning poo. But, then the bag exploded with a series of bangs, shrieks, whistles, and pops. A rocket with a red tail of sparks zipped across the parking lot. The burning canvas tote bag had been filled with fireworks. Ordinarily, it would have merely been a delinquent prank. But, in the age of the zombie, the noise and light were bound to draw attention.
Lot’s of attention! Dozens and dozens of the dead started started rounding the corner and shuffling toward the exploding bag and--by extension--our front gate. We stood ready knowing that we were in for a fight. Then, from behind us, we heard more explosions. A half dozen roman candles were going off behind the mail box hut. The gang had snuck through the woods of the vacant land by that part of the complex. There dozens of smaller explosions from the woods as well. We heard one Pop-Pop-Pop after another. A small brush fire started burning behind the mail hut and the sky began to glow.
The new explosions brought more zombies around the corner. Looking up to the ridge line and to main road running just up the hill from us, we saw rustling in the trees. Drawn in by the sound and the light, more zombies were tumbling off the main road and down towards the fences for the complex. It wasn’t a matter of one or two zombies, it was dozens upon dozens of zombies. They pressed against the chain-link fence and we could see it rippling and swaying. We started to shoot some of the oncoming zombies. But, there were just too many.
“Pull back,” I yelled, “The fence is about to go!”
We formed a skirmish line and retreated backwards towards the mail box hut, passed the Camry, and down the hill. We could hear the moans of the dead, the crackle of the roaring brush fire, and the pop of our own gun shots. Zombies would drop here and there, but they were almost instantly replaced by the next zombie in the mob. Outside of the fence line, some of the dead were drawn by the brightness of the fire and wandered straight into the flames. But, instead of stopping, they continued to shuffle around in the woods starting even more fires in the woods. I wondered how long the roads in the complex would continue to serve as a firebreak.
If there was one saving grace, the zombies who broke through the front gates and upper fence were captivated by the flames. The sensory overload of the roaring fire, tumbling tree limbs, and the noise of the shots, seemed to disorient some of the incoming zombies. Some turned towards the fire while others milled about, but a few started down the hill towards us. As our line got to the bottom of the hill, SWAT cop yelled for us to switch to knives, hatchets, and clubs. It would conserve ammunition and be a bit quieter. We didn’t want to attract the entire mass down hill at once. Instead the dead initially shuffled down the hill in clusters of two to three and we were able to kill them as quickly as they reached our skirmish line.
But, the situation wasn’t stable for long. Whistle! Whistle! Whistle! Boom! Boom! Boom! We couldn’t help but duck. Fireworks rockets started bursting above our heads. They were roaring into the complex from the main road that ran along the ridge line above us. They also started streaking in over the wall from somewhere across the Perimeter highway. Sometimes they whooshed over our heads or let out whistles or shrieks. Some of them burst near us. They were deafening, blinding, and intimidating. The woods across the building were a wall of flame. We were stunned. On my right, a couple of our guys broke ran for the nearest building. Behind me Karen screamed in total panic. On my left, SWAT Cop dropped to the ground, face down. He hesitated for a moment, and then came up to a knee and started firing deliberate aimed shots.
With all the commotion, I was sure that there was absolutely no way that every zombie for miles around wouldn’t be coming our way. We wouldn’t have enough bullets and we wouldn’t have enough strength to fight them all. The number of zombies in the complex was rising like a tide. I grabbed Karen by the shoulder and shook her.
“Stay strong,” I yelled. “We will survive!”
Next I tapped one of the Indian guys on the shoulder. All he had was a cricket bat and a wild look in his eyes. I motioned with my thumb that we were going to pull back and he nodded thankfully.
Then I tapped SWAT Cop Larry on his helmeted head.
“Dude! Dude! Dude!” I yelled. “We have to make it to a building and regroup.”
I don’t know if any of them heard me. But, we formed a tight skirmish line and dropped back to Building C. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Preston and the Morehouse Men coming towards the entrance towards the South. But, seeing the mass of incoming dead, he and college kids ducked out of the street presumably towards one of the breezeways on the south side of the building or perhaps towards our little “hospital.” The building itself was a huge meandering construct with three stories and a terrace level. It offered us the chance to get up above ground level and some good balconies for keeping an eye on the growing brush fire and observing the hill leading down from the entrance. We raced up to the second story and pounded on the door facing the road. No one came to the door. We pounded some more. No one came. Looking down from the breezeway, we could see them coming.
A vast shuffling mob of dead people was pressing towards the building and towards us. There was no time to wait. Zombies were beginning to slowly make their way up the stairs. We raced to the next flight of stairs and climbed up to the third floor. Once again, we pounded on the door frantically. One again we waited. Our batsman showed his finest form as he smashed the heads of the first three zombies up the stairs. But, zombies aren’t deterred. SWAT Cop fired down from the breezeway on the top of their heads. Each bullet passed through a skull and splattered blood and tissue on the concrete steps. But, there is no intimidating Zombies. When the initial zombies dropped, others quickly filled their places on the stairs.
As the batsmen took their best shots at the dead that made it up the stairs, Karen pounded on the doors once more. An elderly Indian lady in a burgundy sari opened the door.
“Please let us in,” Karen demanded. “The monsters are almost here!”
With that, the old lady opened the door wide and we were able to burst into the apartment and slam the door behind us. We wedged a cricket bat under the door knob to provide extra reinforcement. While we could hear the zombies clawing ineffectually against the steel door, their dead minds didn’t retain enough knowledge of physics to kick down a door or throw a shoulder properly against it. At least, we had a little time to collect our thoughts and try to come up with a plan for retaking our homes.
We found ourselves in a spacious two bedroom apartment. The living room was sparse with an open floor, a large couch, a glider chair, and a couple of second hand sitting chairs. We heard babies crying from one bedroom. Our elderly host called out something to someone in the bedroom and a woman’s voice replied in an exotic language. Then, the old woman retreated to her kitchen and set out paper cups which she filled with water from a large jug. In a few minutes, she produced a small basket of various Indian sweet treats. Karen thanked her in E
nglish and one of the young Indian men thanked her in what I imagine was also Hindi. I nibbled on a couple of the sweet treats and found that they tasted almost like pure cane sugar. But, I was hungry and thirsty. The apartment was on the front corner of the building and had a balcony that faced the entrance road. We all peaked out through the blinds at flaming woods, the parking lots full of zombies, and the seemingly endless hordes shuffling down into the complex. It was a depressing and chaotic scene.
We were mesmerized by the spectacle. Then the spell was broken. A motorcycle roared down the hill and through the crowd of zombies. It was one of the gang. In leathers and a helmet, he thought he was a bad ass. But, the zombies just thought he was food. After hitting a couple of the dead, the bike slowed and wobbled and then the zombies grabbed the rider. He disappeared under a sea of putrid, rotting, but animated flesh. We heard muffled gunshots, but the swarm just got bigger around the fallen rider. It was a drama that played out in a matter of minutes.
After nearly half an hour in the apartment, an elderly man emerged from a bedroom wearing a long white ankle length dress. On top of this traditional garb, he wore a formal looking off-white shirt with a wide collar, and large front pockets. Our young Indian foot soldiers addressed him deferentially and he waved at them in the slow manner of an elderly man. He moved slowly and deliberately over to the glass door and surveyed the scene. Then, he pointed out over the sea of zombies and said something in Hindi to one of the young Indians.
“As they have come,” the Indian translated. “They shall go.”
“Noise and fire brought the monsters here,” the soldier continued. “And so noise and fire should be used to take them away.”
We all looked at each other and felt a little less anxiety. For the first time, we saw some way out of our predicament.
“That’s not a bad idea!” SWAT Cop exclaimed turning to the elder. “Thank you!”
In this moment of a defeat and confusion, we were all glad to have the beginnings of a plan. It was a vision to hold onto and think about. The old man smiled meekly at us and nodded to all. In a moment, I recognized him as the old man in a skirt who walked around the complex with his whole extended family. His eyes caught mine and I saw a bright twinkle of life and wisdom and hope.
Zombie Complex | Book 1 | The Battle For Chattahoochee Run Page 13