18
Underdog
Chickasaw National Wildlife Refuge, TN
I studied the map, memorizing highway numbers and plotting alternate routes. In the middle of a horde or a firefight was the wrong time to decide to take a different road, best to have a backup plan ready. I was sharing a small campfire with the large diamondback rattlesnake I’d nearly stepped on while taking a leak. I huddled as close to the smoke as possible, despite the summer heat, to ward off the clouds of mosquitoes that swarmed every inch of my exposed skin. They filled the woods in black clouds seeking anything with a pulse they could plunge their proboscises in. I fought the urge to scratch at the numerous bites they’d already inflicted on me, it wouldn’t help, just make them itch more.
My clothes were drenched in sweat and zombie gore. Perspiration streaked down my forehead, stinging my eyes. I’d forgotten about how hot and muggy the south was in the summer. It was more motivation for me to get my ass to Jacksonville and back to New Mexico.
For his part, the rattlesnake sizzled slowly on the oak limb I had him skewered with over the fire. His juices made a satisfying sizzle when they struck the red-hot coals that made my stomach rumble, despite the sandwiches I’d eaten earlier. Never pass up a hot meal when you’re in the field, you never know when there will be another.
When he was finished cooking, I set the skewer aside to cool a little. I piled the coals high with green limbs to generate some thick smoke to help fight off the bugs. I wasn’t too concerned with anyone seeing the smoke after it filtered through the dense canopy overhead. The mosquitos convinced me to abandon my plans to rest here anyway. There would be plenty of places I could hide away for a couple of hours of rest far away from the hungry bloodsuckers.
Snakes aren’t bad eating if you are hungry enough and have the right seasoning on them. This one didn’t, just a little salt and pepper from some packets I’d found in the glove box. Hot meals would be few and far between over the next few days, so I pretended the tough bastard was a ribeye steak. I sliced it into thin pieces, so it was easier to chew, while I slapped myself silly swatting at the mosquito’s intent on sucking me dry. I thought about what Beverly had said to me about what the bloodsuckers might be carrying and was glad she’d given me those shots. I’d have to make sure she got an invite to the party I was going to throw when I was a hundred thousand richer.
I’d encountered nothing dangerous since entering the forest, no zombie campers or park rangers or gangs of ravenous hillbilly cannibals, just a small black bear, fifty gazillion mosquitos, a lot of birds and of course, the rattlesnake. I was due a little luck after the shit storm I’d been through to make it this far. I had no idea how my competitor was faring, but in my gut, I knew he was out there, the distance between us shrinking by the minute. There was no doubt in my mind that his employers used the same method to pick him as the Tower had used to pick me. That told me I was the second-string player, not the best, but the best the Tower could find. I contemplated waiting and setting up an ambush for him, but there really was no way of knowing if he was on my trail or had chosen to cross the river somewhere farther north. The endless bites and incessant drone of the mosquitos convinced me to keep going, maybe they would drain him dry, and I wouldn’t have to worry about him. Besides, if we were gonna tangle up, it would happen soon enough.
I followed the meandering forest roads until I came across a primitive campground next to a wooden marker that pointed to a nearby waterfall. A few tattered tents stood in the clearing, the belongings of the previous tenants scattered about by hungry bears and raccoons looking for an easy meal.
I ignored the sign that said NO VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT and steered the Armadillo down the trail until I reached the waterfall. Minutes later I was bare assed in a waist deep pool under the curtain of water flowing from the rock shelf above me. The cool water washed away the gore, sweat and road grime I’d accumulated and eased some of the fatigue from my bones. Once I was feeling human again, and lathered down in insect repellant, I put on my work clothes. Black fatigues, t-shirt and combat boots. I placed the Ruger Bisley in the safe located in the back of the Jeep and slid the M&P .45 into its holster on my right hip along with a couple of spare magazines. My backup piece, a Smith & Wesson Shield was tucked into its small of the back holster and my fighting Bowie rode on my left side. A Benchmade folding knife with a four-inch blade was clipped in my pants pocket. I checked the load in my M4 and stuck half a dozen spare mags in the pockets of my vest. My elbow and knee pads, along with my tactical vest, gloves and leather jacket went in the passenger’s seat. It was just too damned hot to wear them. After taking a minute to link a new belt to the MK-48 I was as ready as I was gonna be. There was still an hour or two of daylight left, the sun was already getting low to the west. The cold spray of the waterfall had restored me and if push came to shove, I still had the bottle of trucker speed Stabby had given me.
I left the refuge, travelled a few miles on a weathered asphalt road and hung a left on US 51 North. The most direct route was nearly seven hundred miles, but that involved following the interstates and would take me through Atlanta, Georgia. The path I would follow would be over eight hundred. No way in hell would I get that close to Atlanta.
In the early days of the outbreak, people tried to flee the cities for the safety of the rural areas. Some were already infected when they made their mad dash and lost control of their cars when they turned. Zombies are terrible drivers. Those fleeing overloaded the interstates, crashed into each other in their haste to escape the infected and jammed up the roadways for hundreds of miles in each direction. The undead swept through the stationary targets, attacking and infecting everyone in their path. Cars packed full of the undead, trapped by their seatbelts still sat there almost a year later. On the western side of the Mississippi, it had taken months for the Lakota crews to clear the most used roads so the trucks could travel between settlements. There would have been no such effort here and the interstates would be impossible to navigate, clogged by cars and undead. Many, many undead. I would stick to the back roads, two lane blacktops and state highways north and eastward along the bottom edge of Tennessee then dip down into Georgia and head south for the coast, always sticking to the rural routes where the population was smaller and the chance of running into a horde fifty thousand strong was less likely.
If I didn’t run hard, the fuel in my tanks would get me halfway there, the jerry cans I was carrying would almost make up the difference. I’d have to scavenge enough for the return trip. I was a little concerned about the fuel still in the underground tanks at the abandoned gas stations. The humidity was ridiculous here and the high ethanol mixtures attracted water like a sponge. The Jeep was equipped with a pump and hose that would suck it out of the underground tanks. Every wasteland driver was equipped with a similar setup. One of the things Gage and Jim boosted for me was an inline water separator that would filter any water in the gas out, and I intended to look for signs at the stations that boasted ethanol free gas. Like my dad used to say, no need to borrow trouble.
A half hour later I was in Dyersburg, Tennessee. The sign at the city limits boasted a population of slightly more than seventeen thousand. I skirted the town’s edge on a side road. There were no signs of habitation. A few skeletons in the street, picked clean from the animals and the elements, but that was it. It appeared to be a ghost town, but that assumption could be fatal. Little towns were always dangerous. Many of the houses would be full of zombie families. The undead outside would mill around aimlessly if there wasn’t anything to draw their attention, usually easy to spot, but if they gathered up in an open warehouse or a football stadium, they’d be all over you before you knew it. Most of them would get swept up in the hordes if one moved through, but in the out of the way rural places many of them never left their hometowns. More than one retriever had met his end underestimating what seemed to be a deserted town.
Another half hour down the road I came across a farmhouse nestl
ed in the shade of a grove of live oak trees. Fifty yards from the house sat a big red barn in an overgrown field that would suit my needs just fine. It was at least a mile between the mailboxes out here and this place sat back a couple of hundred yards from the main road. I pulled up the gravel drive and watched for any signs of activity. A silver minivan was parked in front of the house. Birds flitted in and out of its open doors. The tires were all flat and a broken tree branch protruded from the windshield. There was a tractor sitting out in the field, rusting and waiting on its operator to return. Cow bones scattered by predators littered the pen attached to the side of the barn. A one-ton pickup was backed in the shade of a large oak tree with the hood up, a thick layer of dust covering the faded paint and the windshield.
The house itself was an older two story, typical of the style that dotted rural America. Probably home to several generations of the same family, dedicated to earning a living from the fertile soil of the region. I tried to envision it a year ago, before everything went to shit, and decided that it was most certainly the envy of the neighbors at one point. Barbeques and family gatherings were probably a frequent event. Men drinking beer around a pit smoker loaded down with ribs and chicken talking about the crop prices and college football, while the women served up baked beans, fresh corn on the cob, potato salad and banana pudding, all the while gossiping about the latest small-town scandals. Surly teenagers with their noses buried in their smart phones would have lounged around, texting each other about how lame their parents were while the smaller kids squealed and chased each other through the refreshing spray from a yard sprinkler.
Now, without the care and upkeep of its former residents, it was being slowly reclaimed by the elements. The cream-colored paint was cracked and peeling, upstairs windows were broken out from debris flung around by storms. Birds, mice, raccoons and other animals would rear their young in the shell of the majestic house, using the stuffing from the couch cushions and strips torn from the curtains to build their nests. Any food not in a glass jar or metal can would be reduced to shredded plastic and cardboard slivers from their predations. The front porch was crushed in on one end where a tree had fallen against it, the support posts bowed and splintered. The front lawn and flower beds were overgrown masses of weeds. A rusty tricycle sat next to a porch swing supported by only one of its chains, the other a rusting pile on the weather-beaten deck of the wraparound porch. A dust covered iPad sat next to an empty tea pitcher and a pair of drinking glasses on a small round table with a wicker rocking chair on each side of it. It certainly looked abandoned, but there was only one way to be sure.
I was pretty far out in the sticks so the odds of running into survivors were higher. I watched the curtains in the house for a flutter that would betray the presence of someone wondering who the handsome man in their front yard was, while they checked the load in their deer rifle. I turned the Armadillo around and parked facing the road, left the engine running, just in case I needed to make a hasty retreat. I was the trespasser here and had no desire to do harm to anyone.
I took a second to slip on my jacket and vest. I kept my hands up where they were visible and made my way across the lawn and up onto the porch. The dust on the porch was undisturbed. A solid knock on the door rewarded me with silence. That was a good sign, any undead in the house would be pawing at the door within seconds or spilling from the broken windows. I knocked again, rapped out shave and a haircut. Zombies hate that, more silence. I walked the perimeter of the grand old house, checked the tornado shelter and the shed filled with lawn and garden equipment for any signs of survivors. They were both empty, no one had been here for a long time. Either the family had moved on to somewhere safer or was among the wandering hordes, I had the place to myself.
I found the missing family when I slid the barn door open on its rollers. The female took me right off my feet when she launched herself through the opening. I felt the wind leave my body when I landed on my back, the raging zombie atop me. She couldn’t have been more than a hundred and twenty pounds or so alive, but in her undead state, she was freakishly strong. Her sun dress was tattered and ripped; one strap torn off to expose her chest. A putrid breast slapped me across the face while she was attacking me like a rabid animal. I don’t care how kinky you are, getting tit slapped by a zombie is not a pleasant experience. I threw a forearm into her forehead while she attempted to disembowel me with her jagged nails. Her head snapped back, and I got a good look at her. She couldn’t bite me, her lower jaw and most of her face was blown off. She swatted my arm away like it was nothing, gurgled her rage at me with her ruined mouth and buried her face in my shoulder seeking a patch of vulnerable flesh to gum on. I grabbed her hair in my right hand, it came out in a gory chunk of filthy hair and greasy scalp, so I seized her by the back of her scrawny neck and jerked her head away from me. With my left, I drew the Bowie from its sheath and rammed it upwards through the soft palate of her mouth, into the brain. She went limp and I shoved the dead weight off of me. I was covered in gore and bodily fluids. So much for that bath I’d enjoyed under the waterfall. I felt a pang of sorrow when I saw her swollen belly, she’d been pregnant when she became infected. The sight made me nauseous. I rolled to my side and purged the undigested chunks of rattlesnake from my stomach. Disgust filled me at the thought of someone unleashing a biological weapon that destroyed the innocent in this world while creating an environment where only the strongest and most ruthless thrived.
Chest still heaving from having the wind knocked out of me, I got to my feet and pulled the M&P, ready for the rest of the family to try their luck at the all me you can eat buffet. Nothing else came through the door. The light was fading fast, so unless I planned on finding another place to stay, I had to get this place cleared out.
I pulled a flashlight from my vest and eased towards the half-opened door, my pistol gripped in a shooter’s stance, the light in gripped in my support hand in line with the muzzle. I let out a low whistle and listened for the shuffle of feet. Nothing happened, I waited a few more seconds then stepped through the doorway.
There were six bodies laid out on the floor in the center of the barn. My light revealed a gunshot wound to the head on each of them. Three more adults, three smaller bodies. They were shriveled, almost mummified. The sight of them was almost enough to make me swear off eating jerky ever again. I could tell by their hair and clothing the three larger ones were probably the husband and a set of grandparents. The three smaller corpses were a teenaged girl and two younger boys. The rodents and bugs had been nibbling on them, but nothing large enough to tear them apart and scatter the bones. They were past the point of being odiferous, only a slight moldy stench lingered. A rusted Marlin lever action rifle lay on the floor. It was a heartbreaking scene. One or more must have been infected and attacked the others. It fell to the pregnant mother to take action. She’d been infected too, by one of the smaller children, judging by the size of the teeth marks on her arms. The shot she’d saved for herself only maimed her and missed her brain.
A thorough search of the barn revealed that I was alone. I found an old canvas tarp and covered the remains. If I had more time, I would have given them a proper burial. The zombie, I left outside after retrieving my knife from her skull. I pulled the Armadillo inside and closed the door. I keep a chain and a padlock in the Jeep for situations like this, and I used it to secure the door. It was as good as I was gonna get tonight. I preferred barns over houses anyways, no scavenger ever goes for the barn first, they always hit the house.
I contemplated leaving, pushing on through the night, this place was a tomb. The adrenaline from the fight was still surging through my veins, but I knew moving on was a bad idea. Despite the adrenaline rush, I was exhausted, and my senses were dulled. That was a rookie mistake I made with the barn door that almost cost me my life. The thin sliver of a moon wasn’t bright enough to drive by without headlights. Rolling down the highway with the LED beams shining was a sure-fire way to announce you were
coming. Plenty of time for some opportunistic asshole to set up an ambush or lay a nail studded board across the road.
With no other real option, I decided that if the dead didn’t bother me, I wouldn’t bother them, so I strung up my hammock between two poles. I’d learned the hard way about sleeping in the old hay in these barns. Sure, it looks inviting, but it’s full of lice and chiggers just waiting on an unsuspecting traveler to serve himself up as dinner. I slipped into the hammock, .45 resting on my stomach and listened to the sounds of the night creatures until I drifted into a deep slumber. This time my third grade students were waiting for me, dead eyed and pointing at me with accusing fingers.
19
Runner Runner
East of Brownsville, TN
I left the farm just as the sun was peeking over the treetops, feeling more rested than I had in days despite the nightmares. I ran US 64 eastwards, steering clear of the populated towns. There was a spot out in the middle of nowhere where I hit a miles long jam of abandoned cars. A battle had been waged here judging by the scattered bones and bullet holes that peppered the cars. No surprise there, guns were prevalent in the south and those fleeing the hordes would have been well armed. A Lexus SUV still had its zombie driver and passenger on board, a toddler in a car seat, securely held in place by their seat belts. Slow cooked from the summer heat, they resembled macabre melted candles. I drove through the medians to get around them when I could, other times I had to traverse the ditches. Power lines and trees covered the roads in places, the electrical lines like long snakes stretched along the highway. It was slow going, but still better than trying to navigate the interstates. I changed over to US 231 just shy of Tullahoma, Tennessee and made my way through little towns named Coalmont and Middle Valley making sure to stay clear of Chattanooga before dipping down to Mineral Bluff, Georgia, population one hundred fifty.
Road to Riches: Deadline: Book 1 (Zombie Road) Page 14