by Chris Lowry
I realized that a lot of people did the same thing to me. My parents would make me angry to get a reaction.
My girlfriends would get fed up with how I bottled up emotions, and argue just to watch me feel something.
I went into professional environments to work where feelings were hidden, locked down and discouraged.
Because I didn't know how to have feelings.
I didn't know how to deal with them.
The zombie apocalypse may have been bad for the rest of the world, but at least it allowed me to get in touch with my gooey center.
Mine was made of rage.
Red hot molten lava of rage.
I'm not sure what caused it.
There was some abuse as a child, so maybe that messed me up. It certainly gave me a sense of justice and fairness about how the world should operate. Or maybe my depression era grandfather taught me to repress, to tough it up, to walk it off.
Showing emotion of any kind was weakness, and boys are not allowed to be weak.
Hell, maybe I did it.
I idolized strong men, the Rambo's, the Commando's and Die Hard heroes who were tough as nails and crapped bricks.
More likely it was a combination of things.
I bottled up the rage. I compacted it into a tiny little ball, a living swirling planet that orbited somewhere around my beltline.
Then I spent all of my adult life quashing it, keeping it quiet, holding it still.
Until one day, I didn't have to do that anymore.
Granted, the first time I let loose the rage, it was against the walking dead.
But since then I'd learned about a very valuable tool at my disposal.
Some people get crazy when they get angry.
I get cold. Calculated.
Some psyche major would have a field day with why.
Lucky for me, most of them were gone now, part of the Z herd I could decimate, and if any still survived, they were more concerned with eating than analyzing me.
Rage. Always simmering beneath the surface. Washing up like a tsunami and taking out
I turned it on for the four survivors and they talked.
They told me about the Council. About Mags. About the Colonels.
They told me about more Army bases and refugee camps, and if I would have asked for the Colonel’s secret recipe they would have told me that too.
And when were done I let them slip into oblivion with a quick twist of the knife.
I didn’t wash off in the creek again.
I wanted everyone in the compound to see the blood of their men on me. I even took trophies to show them what they were up against.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
They told me all I needed to know.
How to get in.
Passwords.
Layout.
I moved back through the woods toward the compound, paralleling the path and moving slow.
I wanted to run, sprint back to the gate, break in and rescue the kids, but I was trying to play the caution card.
The prisoners also told me what I was up against.
And why Mags wanted the Fort.
They were out of supplies and growing desperate. The Colonels were her answer to growing unrest in her group. They played by Mafia rules, which is the strong got to do whatever they wanted to the weak.
They were fighting with another group of survivors, but none of the prisoners I took knew why.
My feelings were a little hurt that she didn't send better men than those to kill me. It was like she didn't think I was a threat.
I daydreamed a little about how I would make her rethink the position, but quelled it. My goal was to get in, get my trio and get gone.
Hopefully that fast, and with as little violence as possible.
I approached the gate I exited through and watched.
There were two guards on the sides, which was smart. They looked bored and tired.
Good for me.
I had the weapons my execution squad brought out with them, and from the trees I could take two shots and remove the guards.
But that would let the ones inside know I was coming.
It's tough to have a sneak attack when you can't be sneaky.
I needed a distraction.
A fire would help. The smoke would draw their attention. I could toss a couple of bullets into the flames and then move to another part of the tree line.
The shots would draw more people.
I considered hunting up a Z and leading it toward the gate, but they would shoot it, which would draw more attention.
Besides, I spent most of my time trying to avoid zombies.
Why would I hunt one up on purpose even if it was to use as bait.
Sometimes luck favors the bold.
Or in this case, the dumb luck.
A group of moving trucks rumbled up the road and stopped at the gate. There were six of them, with a pick up truck in the lead.
"Open up!" screamed the driver of the pick up as he leaned out of the open window.
One of the guards worked the mechanism and pushed the gate back while the second went to the passenger window.
"Did you get a good haul?"
"Better than good," the driver crowed.
I didn't listen to the rest. I scooted through the trees to the point closest to the last truck in line.
It was eighteen inches off the ground, and I'd only seen it done in movies, but it was my way in.
The guards moved to one side and waved the truck through.
I ran across the narrow open space and waited by the back to listen for a sound of alarm.
But all I heard was grumbling engines and the whine of gear as the heavily laden trucks moved forward.
I slid under the back of the truck and searched the undercarriage for a place to grip.
Parts moved, and the metal was hot, but I wedged my toes into the rear axle, and used shirtsleeves to pad my hands.
I lifted up as the truck took off, moving forward on the pressed gravel road.
The heat leeched through the cloth and started to hurt.
I shifted, and the butt of the rifle strapped to by back scraped against the rocks.
It almost knocked me off, and combined with the heat, made me cling by the tips of my fingers.
By the time we rolled through the gate, it was too much.
I dropped and let the truck rumble over me.
Luck held.
The gate was halfway closed, the guard watching his partner hidden behind the other side.
I rolled toward the shadow of the wall and waited, letting my hands cool off, trying to decide what to do next.
I was in.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Obi Wan made it look a lot easier than it was.
That's all I thought about as I crept around inside the compound and searched for sign of Tyler, Bem and the Boy. I didn't have Force mind control to wave off guards, and while I wasn't sure if these sharp shooters were as accurate as Stormtroopers, I wasn't ready to test it out.
It involved a lot of standing still.
And double checking a way to make sure it was clear.
Since there was dissension in the ranks, Mags had declared martial law, which kept most of the people in the compound locked in safe places. There were large yards within the rooms, areas the size of city parks with hurricane wire fences thrown around them, and locked with padlocks.
"For their safety," the last guy told me before I let him journey into the great beyond.
A cell within a cell. Or cells.
Which was good for me in a way.
It kept most of the ways clear.
And bad in that I didn't know which cell the kids were in.
"You're pretty good," said Mags from over my shoulder. "Better than I imagined."
So much for being sneaky.
She waited around the corner from me. I leaned against the side of the wall and tried to think of a way around it.
Or thro
ugh it.
"We had a check in time for the boys I sent with you," she said.
I could hear her voice just on the other side. It sounded like she was leaning too, just a couple of people passing time.
"When they didn't come back, I sent trackers after."
"They found my handiwork?"
"Is that what you call it? No. They found your trail and followed you back here."
I nodded.
"Any of them going to come home?" she asked.
"Nope."
She sighed. It carried through the wall, a heavy sounding thing full of angst and a hint of frustration.
"It can be expected," she said after a moment. “You think you’ll find your kids in here? That is what you’re looking for, right?”
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t have to. She knew who I was searching for and the reason I came back.
Then I realized she was the distraction.
Mags pulled my own trick on me. Two of the Colonels stepped around the corner and into the hallway aiming their rifles at me.
I thought about fighting back for just a moment, taking one with me, maybe using the element of surprise to scare the other, make him jump and misfire.
But another stepped around from where Mags was talking and hiding, black barrel almost pressed into my face.
It was a classic move.
And when no one pulled the trigger, I figured they had something worse in mind.
Worse than taking me out to the woods and shooting me, which didn’t work out so well for them the first time.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Things break down faster in the South, I think. The heat and humidity, the relentless crawl of foliage, the frequent storms and perhaps there is something more.
An Irish disposition to half assed construction. A ride the clock and get it done frame of mind when it came to building things.
Those things didn't last long.
Maybe it was a modern take on construction, since some houses built in the Victorian age still stood.
Certainly not a Roman approach, since those bastards built viaducts and Parthenon's that stand still to this day.
I was looking at a building and wondering if it would still be here in a thousand years. I was leaning my bet on the southside of twenty, if that.
The windows were still intact, except for the top left corner on the front side.
That was the side that faced the wind, the brick structure a brunt offense to the fast flowing breeze that angled off the River.
That wind would drive in rain from the next storm, until a small puddle formed just on the edge of the building where the joints met at the floor.
That water would seep in, and through the floor, flowing across the wood that held the joint together and rotting it with the heat.
It would spread like a cancer across the interior of the building, made worse by snow, worse by freezing and thawing and more rain that followed, until a year from now, two years from now, part of the floor would collapse.
The first sign of decay would signal the rapid decline of the rest.
Twenty years from now, it might be a shell of a building. Maybe with a tree and wildflowers growing through the roof if they make it in through the first window, or the second when it breaks as it must.
No, things do not last for long in the South.
Except for hatred.
And anger.
As if the Irish and Indians and Africans there populated the area created sinkholes of despair and rage, pockets of bad energy that floated around like a fog among the trees.
I was staring into the face of that rage right now.
A red headed woman who towered over me by a foot glared down from a pedestal.
No, literally it was a pedestal. She had coerced or forced minions to place a giant chair up on a dais so that she towered over the rest of us from the lofty position.
Right now she was trying to decide if she should kill me.
I could tell by the look in her eyes.
I'd seen that look before, often after the Z plague hit, but a couple of times before from women who also wanted me dead.
It was an itchy skin kind of feeling, but like a good meek prey under the watchful gaze of a predator, I just sat there and didn't scratch the itch.
Trust me, scratching the itch would have made things worse.
I almost told her to kill me.
I almost wondered why she didn't just do it.
It would be the smart thing to do. How many men had I cost her? She had to know I was going to keep coming, keep trying to free the kids.
There were two moves here, kill me to eliminate the threat, or turn us loose and watch as we made tracks to points East.
So why didn't she?
I try to remind myself that people do not act according to logic most of the time. They act according to the logic they believe, which can make them an enigma to everyone else.
I tried to be clear with everyone.
I'm going to Arkansas to find my children.
I did.
I'm going to Georgia to find my youngest.
I was.
I needed information. I asked for it.
If you got in my way, I killed you.
Pretty cut and dried.
I think if everyone lived their life like an open book, there would be far fewer problems in the world.
Unless you counted the zombie plague as one huge problem, and the power grabs after as just another day at a new type of office.
But one of her men was pointing his gun at the back of the Boy's head.
Another held a pistol by his thigh, ready to point it at Bem.
Berta smiled.
"Tell me what you want," I called out to her.
"I want you to leave."
"Lady," I shook my head. "What the hell do you think I've been trying to do."
"Just you," she purred.
I clenched my fist so hard it almost cramped.
"Not without them."
She made a small finger movement and the guy behind the Boy shoved him forward.
"We want you to leave too Dad."
My stomach dropped and I studied his face.
He had a good poker face, but the skin around his eyes was tight, smooth. He was holding onto a frozen mask, trying hard not to betray any emotion. I wasn't close enough to see his pupils, but it looked like fear.
Bem stepped up beside him.
"Please Dad, just go. We want to stay here with them."
I watched them for a moment, and glanced at Tyler.
"You too?"
He nodded tightly.
"You see," said Mags as she gestured with your hand. "No one wants you here. You're a danger to us. To them. To yourself."
My mind was racing as I tried to find the angle.
Were the kid's brainwashed? Threatened?
My eyes landed on Tyler’s.
He winked.
One eye, slow.
Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was the wind.
But I felt a surge of hope.
And hoped it didn't show on my face.
The thing about signals though is knowing what they meant.
"Are they safe? Really safe?"
I squared off on Mags and kept my face as still as I could.
"They are."
She stepped down from the stage, and I could feel the men around me shift.
This was it, I thought.
This was where I get shot, or worse. With my kid's watching.
She stalked toward me like a giant cat, long legs swishing her camouflage pants until she was close enough that only I could hear her.
"You're thinking about a rescue again," she purred. "And you're wondering why I don't kill you now."
I didn't nod.
"You're going to do me a favor," she told me. "Do all of us a favor."
"Don't come back?" I guessed.
She snorted through her aquiline nose.
"As if I could stop that," she said. "We’ve seen what you are capable of. My men have seen the results of what you have done. The fact that you are standing here in front of me is proof enough of your ability."
She leaned slightly forward.
I could see a man over her shoulder lift his rifle up and aim.
"We're having trouble with some of our citizens," Mags whispered. "You're going to use your skillset to retrieve them for me. And in exchange, I won't blow your children's brains out on your face and lock you up to live with it for a very long time."
Voice steady. Calm.
A terrible promise that I knew she would make good on.
Her eyes locked on mine and then she stepped back.
"You've heard your children,” she said so they could hear her. “They want you safe beyond our walls. I've decreed it," she turned to the men. "Escort him out."
The guns stepped forward, blocking me from the stage, a wall of rifle barrels that pushed me back toward the doorway.
"I am going to give you a day's supplies," Mags said as she smiled at the kids. "It's a kindness."
Bem nodded, her lips a tight white line.
I watched her hand snake out and grasp the Boy's, holding it tight as the guns pushed me further away.
They thought they were saving me.
They thought they were keeping me safe.
Stupid noble kids. Where the hell did they get their ideas from?
I bumped up against the edge of the door and stepped through backwards. My last glimpse of the kids, they were standing on the raised stage with Tyler behind them.
Maybe he winked again, but I couldn't be sure at this distance.
Then the door rumbled closed and I was staring at blank metal.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
I didn’t recognize the two men that brought the backpack.
I suspected she had sent them partially as cannon fodder, two bodies she wasn’t afraid to lose and if I wasn’t holding my wraith in a tight rein, she would have been smart to think it could happen.
“Mags said there’s a letter inside for you.”
“Great. A pen pal.”
I opened the pack and inspected the contents. One can of SPAM. No can opener. A six inch folding knife. And a letter.
Enough food for one day.