by Bobby Adair
For the purposes of my test, the yard was good—not perfect, but good. Any Whites coming would be easily seen a good while before they reached the dock. Bottom line, if my test was going to get out of hand, I’d see it getting that way in plenty of time to get my ass to safety.
With my Hello Kitty bag on my back and my pockets full of twelve gauge shells, I took up a position halfway up the length of the dock. I turned to Murphy who was standing at my side, looking up and down the shore. I said, “I’d feel better if I left my bag in the boat.”
“Yeah,” Murphy agreed. “That would be the smart thing, I guess. But you’ve swam with it before. If you end up in the water you’ll be fine.”
I sighed.
“Besides, you said you wanted a realistic test,” he told me. “We always have backpacks on. That’s just the way life is now. You gotta carry your shit with you. Why not run your test while you’re wearing it?”
Makes sense.
Murphy walked a few paces up the dock to put himself between me and the boat. He readied his M4, but kept the butt at his shoulder and kept it aimed at the water. “I’ll take ‘em out if it turns out you need a hand. Don’t want my Null Spot to get any more teeth marks on his pretty white skin.” He laughed.
“I’m not feeling the sincerity.”
Murphy grinned. “Start when you’re ready.”
I looked at the black shotgun in my hands and got a little bit of an excited tingle. It felt solid. It felt powerful. And it looked badass. I adjusted my stance, leveled the gun, and stabilized my wrist against my hip. I pointed the shotgun at the fat trunk of the nearest oak and fired. The thunder of the gunshot echoed off the house, obnoxiously loud. Instantly, the Whites nearby howled.
Murphy chuckled. “Your test will be here in a minute. Do you want to shoot a few more rounds before they get here? You know, to get a feel for the gun. Maybe reload too?”
Good idea. I pumped the gun and fired at the tree five more times. It was pretty far away, but I know at least some of the shot hit wood. I hurried to reload, moving my hands slowly, putting myself in my calm state as I did. Whites were howling all along the shore, dozens. A few were already crossing the yard, running toward the end of the dock, running toward the tasty stupid man with the noisy gun.
When the first of the Whites pounded his feet on the boards, I had six shells in the shotgun and I was as ready as I was going to be.
I felt the White’s steps vibrate through the dock. An infected girl followed the first one in his sprint toward me. I fired. He lost his balance, spun to his left, and fell into the water. It wasn’t a direct hit by any means, but enough of the pellets had hit him to get the job done. The second White, the girl, was a few paces closer when I fired the second time. She caught most of the shot in her chest. Her legs gave way and she hit the dock with the sound of a large slab of meat.
Excited, I glanced back at Murphy. “Damn. This works.”
With a calm face, he nodded and pointed across the lawn. More whites were trickling into view. Maybe ten were visible running through the knee-deep grass. I had a moment before some of them would be close enough for me to have any hope of shooting them. I pushed two more shells into my new gun and waited.
Twenty-five feet of weathered planks lay between me and the end of the dock. It seems like a good length when you say it, but when frenzied Whites are running at you full speed across the gap, you realize pretty quick that twenty-five feet is a lot like nothing. And as the Whites on the lawn came closer together, looking to mass themselves near the other end—not just two, but at least a dozen more Whites than I had shells loaded in my shotgun—I knew that I’d put myself into a life-or-death situation. Murphy’s well-armed, insuring presence behind me became an afterthought. The safety of the deep water to my left and right was a small comfort.
As soon as a White stepped onto the dock, I fired. My shot killed one following behind him and wounded another. The first White was two long paces closer when my second shot blew a large gout of red out of his chest. That left me three rounds, and at the moment, no Whites on the dock. I finished off the wounded one with a single shot and fired twice more at Whites running across the lawn. They were too far out. I missed both.
Calm.
Breathe.
I reloaded. I did it quickly. More Whites would be on the dock in seconds.
“You good?” Murphy asked, tension in his voice.
“I’m good.” I pushed in six smooth, quick rounds, raised the shotgun to my hip, and fired as a White reached the end of the dock.
Got her.
My confidence was growing with each burst of red blood from white skin.
A group of several more arrived at the other end of the dock.
Too many.
I emptied my shotgun at them in patient shots, giving the wounded and dying a chance to fall before sending my pellets at those behind.
When I was empty, two were still clambering toward me over the dead and writhing bodies.
The number of running Whites coming across the grass was way more than I knew I could handle.
I started to reload, keeping my eye on the two Whites. It was immediately clear that I wouldn’t get the shells into my shotgun in time. Everything happened in adrenaline-soaked fast time. I dropped the shells from my hand and pulled out my machete, hacking down in one motion as the first of the two neared me.
Murphy shot the second, and it fell to the dock in front of me.
I chopped down with my machete and lodged the tip into the boards at my feet, took a quick glance at the coming Whites, and decided I had time to reload, provided I didn’t let my nerves get away from me and fumble the attempt.
I didn’t. I finished reloading.
I killed four more Whites with six more shots.
By then, so many of the infected were converging on the end of the dock, Murphy said, “I think we should go.”
“Yeah.” Feeling good, I yanked my machete out of the wood.
Murphy ran to the boat and I followed. I loosed the bow line and shoved off. We floated out by nearly a dozen feet when a runner jumped off the dock and landed in the water close to the boat. I shot him.
Murphy started the engine and I fired at more Whites running up the dock.
As the boat started to pick up speed, I relaxed. We were safe.
“Good test?” Murphy asked.
“I think the shotgun was the right call,” I smiled.
It was good to have a guy who had some experience with real weapons.
“Just keep in mind the noise,” Murphy told me.
“It’s hard to ignore.” I sat down in the passenger seat. “I know panic is what leads to bad choices when it comes time to shoot. We both know all too well that once the shooting starts, things get bad in a hurry. The shotgun is a last resort.”
“Don’t forget it.” He started to chuckle. “Null Spot.”
Chapter 11
It was late in the day but still light outside when Murphy and I docked the boat at the edge of the lake where the water, a tree-covered slope, and a steep, rocky side of the levee converged. The levee extended the dam a quarter mile to the southeast and only ever held water back when the lake was overfilled like it was now.
No Whites were around. Better yet, no helicopters full of belligerent assholes were buzzing about to strafe us.
Murphy tied off the boat. I left the keys in it, and we carefully negotiated the long climb over the rocks to get to the top of the levee. Still, we were alone and the afternoon was starting to settle down to a quiet that belied the would-be dangers lurking when dark finally settled. The air was dead calm.
Prior to the arrival of the virus, the ambient noise of life was the sound of cars and trucks careening over the asphalt at high speed. It was a sound I’d learned to ignore. I’d recalled noticing when it was replaced by a new ubiquitous noise—gunfire. I remember that the gunfire peaked a few days after everything went to shit. For a time, it was near constant—sometimes close
, sometimes far away. As the virus ate away at humanity, the gunshots grew more sporadic until a day came when I found myself standing and looking around, sensing something was missing but unable to figure out what it was. Like the absence of the traffic noise, the absence of the gunshots was hard to figure out.
By then, the world’s natural sound was that of birds which seemed to be thriving and tweeting everywhere—house sparrows, cardinals, and doves. Coyotes loved the new order of things, as I heard their howls and yelps nearly every night. The only manmade sound left was that made by Whites. I guess when the virus fried their powers of speech away, it left them with the desire to vocalize anyway, howling and yelping like the coyotes, screaming when they were on the hunt or being hunted by other Whites. Near or far, their voices were almost always on the wind.
None of the loud ones were around when Murphy and I reached the top edge of the dam, and we didn’t see any moving nearby. Far below and downstream on the riverbank, I saw some Whites trying to corral a small animal. Unless it was able to get into the water and swim away pretty quickly, I didn’t hold out any hope for it.
Murphy and I climbed down the long, treacherous slope on the other side of the levee, coming off it near the shoulder of ranch-to-market road 620. Out of habit, I looked both ways before crossing the five lanes of asphalt, nearly empty except for those cars and trucks stopped on the bridge.
Once across, we concealed ourselves in the dense trees and took a moment to catch our breath.
“So far, so good,” said Murphy.
I shrugged and silently scanned the shadows under the trees around us, expecting a gang of quiet, sneaky Whites to be lurking there, ready to ambush us. I knew they were out there. They were always out there.
We started down toward the river, following the path of a narrow road that meandered its way through the trees toward the low-water crossing, the place where we had a boat tied off. Along the way, we didn’t see any Whites but we could hear them—there weren’t many, and they weren’t agitated, just regular Whites going about their business.
When we came within sight of the water, I saw our boat drifting on its tether just as we’d left it six weeks ago. Its shine was dulled under a layer of clingy dirt, dust that settled on dry afternoons, turning to mud when the dew settled overnight.
“You’re expecting trouble?” Murphy nodded as he said it. He was expecting trouble, too. Hell, we were always expecting it.
“I just don’t want it to be a surprise. Know what I mean?”
Murphy grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He was joking, of course.
“You cover me from up here,” I said. “I’ll head down. If any Whites come to fuck with me, well, shoot ‘em if you can. If not, and I can’t handle ‘em, I’ll jump in the water and swim downriver a bit. We can hook up down there.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I moved through the trees, crunching brown autumn leaves and hating them for making me noisy. I paused behind thick, gnarled trunks and took my time to look around. We’d gone too long without trouble. That worried me, but nothing happened.
I reached the bank, squatted, and scanned the other side of the river before I stepped through knee-deep water to climb into the boat. The keys were dangling in the ignition. All was just as we’d left it. I raised my shotgun to my shoulder, but the awkwardness of the pistol grip made me feel foolish. I lowered it and laid my wrist on my hip as I pointed the gun uselessly at the far shore. I leaned against a gunwale and waved Murphy to come down.
He made almost no noise at all as he worked his way through the trees. He untied the bow line when he arrived, then jumped into the boat beside me, shoving off as he did so. He said, “That was easy.”
Nodding, I replied, “You ride shotgun, I’ll drive.”
Chapter 12
We were out in the center of the river and starting to float downstream when Murphy lowered his rifle, glanced at me, then looked up at the far end of the dam. “We’re doing this the wrong way.”
I looked up at the tall hill on the other side of the river and saw houses built among the trees. I looked at the dam for a clue as to what Murphy was talking about and then I looked around the boat. “What?”
He said, “We need to start working the night shift.”
“Murphy, have you been smoking some weed I don’t know about? You’re not making any sense.”
“Hey man, I’m having an inspiration.” Murphy shot me a fake frown. “I’m trying to make a major improvement in our lives.”
“Uh, oh.” I cranked the starter on the engine.
“Don’t start the boat,” Murphy said as he came up to sit in the seat opposite me. “Hear me out on this one. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of hiking around and riding boats up and down the river.”
I scanned the banks as we sat in the boat, starting to drift. “Assholes in the helicopter aside, it’s safe for us to travel this way… mostly. On the river, the Whites don’t mess with us. Even when we’re walking, they mostly don’t mess with us unless we start talking or shooting.”
Murphy replied, “What I’m saying is, we’ve got night vision goggles.”
“And?” There had to be more to Murphy’s epiphany than that.
Murphy scooted around in his seat and leaned forward, ready to sell. “What if we had a silent car to go along with our night vision goggles? Then we could go anywhere.”
“Okay, Batman, I give up,” I said as I looked downriver. “Are you saying we should maybe go back to Sarah Mansfield’s house and get her Tesla? I doubt it still has a charge on the batteries, but it’s electric. It’ll be silent.”
“No.” Murphy grinned and pointed out past the other end of the dam. “I was watching this video online a month or so before the outbreak. There’s this dude, Mitch something-or-other, who’s got a shop right up on 620 just past the dam.”
“And?” I asked.
“His thing was converting old muscle cars to electric.”
“Battery-powered muscle cars?” I wasn’t buying it.
“I swear man, it’s true,” said Murphy. “His first car was this old sixty-something Mustang he called the Zombie 222.”
“Okay, now I know you’re fuckin’ with me.” I cranked the boat engine and it started up.
“I’m serious.”
“Uh, huh.” I put the boat in gear to engage the prop.
“No, I really am,” he said. “It’s a real thing. He makes these cars and they’re fast as shit. They generate like eighteen hundred horsepower. No lie. And they’re quiet.”
“The reason I know you’re fuckin’ with me is that nobody, and I mean nobody, would ever put an electric motor in a muscle car. That’s pretty much a religious debate in itself.”
Murphy paused to think. “No, he retired from high-tech or something and it was his pet project. He said he could get more torque out of an electric motor, and he set a speed record. I’m not shitting you.”
Murphy did seem serious. I dropped my hands from the wheel and rested them in my lap. “So you’re thinking we get us an electric car and drive it around Austin at night when nobody can see us or hear us.”
“Yeah,” said Murphy, slapping a palm on his head. “We’ve got the advantage of the night vision goggles. I don’t know why we haven’t been doing this all along.”
“Me neither,” I sarcastically agreed. “Charging could be a problem. Half the time the roads are full of crap. An electric car doesn’t offer us any protection.” I rubbed my chin. “Anything else I’m forgetting?”
“Yeah,” said Murphy. “You forgot to apologize for being a dick just because this isn’t your idea.”
I rolled my eyes and started to say something but realized he was probably right. I sighed and forced an apology. I turned off the boat engine.
Murphy laughed and slapped me on the back, hard enough that I nearly bumped my head on the windshield. “It’s just how you are, man. Don’t you think I know that by now?”
I rolled my eyes again. “Do you remember that map we made when we were at Sarah Mansfield’s house? Do you still have it?”
Murphy shook his head. “Long gone, dude. Too much wear and tear. Know what I mean? Too much shit goin’ on.”
I nodded. “If only we could have laminated it.”
“Why?” he asked.
“A satellite map would show us where all the houses in Austin with solar panels are.”
“Yeah.” Murphy grinned. “All of our gas stations.”
I started to accept the idea. “We could get a network of places around town where we could get a charge if we needed it. I went with a buddy once to look at a Nissan Leaf. They told him he needed to spend like fifteen hundred bucks to install a charging station in his garage, but if he was out somewhere away from home he could just plug the car into a regular outlet for thirty minutes or so and get a half charge or seventy-five percent or something like that.”
That pumped up Murphy’s confidence in the idea. “So we could charge it up anywhere if we had to.”
I shrugged. “Lots of houses in Austin have solar panels.”
“I think we need to go car shopping.”
“And this electric Mustang is a real thing?” I asked, still a little skeptical. In truth, any electric car would do. Plenty of them were around Austin. The old Mustang, though, appealed to me in a sexy, impractical way that made no good sense. But it felt good to think about it. And that good feeling was something I’d been missing for a while.
Murphy picked up a paddle and leaned over the side of the boat, ready to dig into the water to get us to the bank across the river. “Google it if you don’t believe me.”
Chapter 13
An hour later, with our boat tied to a tree overhanging the other side of the river, Murphy and I were standing at the peak of a cone-shaped hill looking up and down the length of 620. We were a little less than a mile from the dam but could easily see the road from our vantage. Plenty of cars littered 620’s lanes but it was passable. Trash and other things that had once been loaded in cars or hastily packed in suitcases lay on the road, in the trees, or washed into piles in the ditches. The remains of bodies—sometimes whole, most often not—lay all over the place with broken bones, clothes, and clumps of hair. More frequently, dark brownish stains on the bleached asphalt marked the spots where people had been slaughtered and devoured.