Jake's Law: A Zombie Novel (19 page)

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June 23, 2016   Kielberg Canyon, Galiuro Mountains, AZ –

Morning’s first faint light creeping over the mountain tops lifted his spirits, but didn’t warm him.
He sifted through pieces of metal from the mine cart, finally locating one that was long enough and sharp enough for his purpose. Further diligence was soon rewarded with an old coffee pot half buried in the sand, refuse of the old mine site. With it he could collect water and store it, if he could find it. He searched along the cliff until the steady drip of water falling reached him. A trickle of water dripped from the rocks, as it found its way down the mountain from the recent rains. It was only a few drops at a time, but he was patient. He knew the best place to store water in a desert was inside your body. After the pot was half full, he drank it, relishing its slightly salty wetness, and placed it back beneath the slow drip to fill while he saw to his breakfast.

His stomach growled to announce its emptiness. He thought of the smoked sausages in his smokehouse and yearned for just a taste of
one. He would have to settle for what he could forage. He recognized the arrow-shaped leaves and red stems of greenthread plants. They grew in abundance above the four-thousand-foot elevation. With them and a handful of elderberries, he brewed a pot of Navajo tea. What it lacked in flavor, it made up for in satisfying the gnawing hunger in his belly.  

From a length of tree branch
washed down by the rains, he fashioned a crude spear with the metal he had salvaged, attaching it with heavy fiber thread ripped from a yucca plant. He hefted it in his hand to test the balance. The Native Americans would laugh at it, but it would serve its purpose. He now had a weapon. Next, he needed clothes. He knew of two places to obtain clothing. One was his ranch, which was out of the question. The other was one of the local ranches, and that meant facing zombies.
Better zombies than men with guns
. With spear in hand, he set out. The miles wore on him, sapping his little remaining strength. His beating and near starvation had weakened him. He leaned more heavily on his spear for support.

He found a spot where a tree whose roots the current had eroded leaned over the river.
He could climb the tree, cross the swollen river, and descend via the trees branches dangling over the other side. He performed a balancing act as he climbed the tree, using the spear as a balancing pole. The cold water rushing by beneath him didn’t look inviting, especially with the boulders protruding from the current. He almost made it. Just over halfway across, the roots loosed their grip on the wet earth. The tree and he fell. He went to his knees, clasping the tree with both arms. The tree shuddered to a stop inches from the water. He resumed his crossing on hands and knees, the rough bark digging into tender flesh.

The first ranch house was a blackened ruin. The shattered shell of a propane tank lay splintered beside the house, either the cause of the fire or as a result of it. He fared little better at the next ranch. The owners had time to pack everything before vacating, leaving the doors wide
open for vandals and the wildlife. Piles of animal scat stained the carpet. Each house he came to had been thoroughly looted, meaning that he wasn’t the only survivor in the area. The corpses of a couple of zombies meant the survivor was armed.  

His makeshift
sandals were ragged strips worn through by the time he stumbled upon the next ranch house. As he clambered over the fence, a rifle shot forced him to the ground. Someone still lived there. A male voice called out.

“Get off my property.”

“I just need water and something to wear,” he replied.

“I’ll hit you next time. I mean it.
Git!”

Jake decided a naked man with a crude spear couldn’t win an argument with a rifle. He left.

He abandoned the idea of nearby ranches. They were few and scattered across the valley, taking too much time to search, and time was another thing he didn’t have. Levi’s men could discover he was missing at any time. His best hope lay in San Manuel.   

 
He avoided the road, following the river until it began to curve away from the town, and then cut cross country. He went up and down washes and arroyos and over ridges, trying to avoid teddy bear cholla, prickly pear, and saguaros with his naked body. The sun beat down on him unmercifully. He focused his attention on the direction in which he was going and plodded onward. His yucca sandals disintegrated along the way. He continued barefoot. His feet touched asphalt before he realized he was on the outskirts of town. He immediately spotted zombies prowling the streets. Normally, he would have left them alone, especially in his haggard condition, but now he didn’t have that option. It was almost dark and food and clothing might be in one of the houses. He had to reach them. The creatures’ emaciated condition and slow gait encouraged him. They were Shamblers, not Runners. He hoped they were weaker than he was. If he moved quickly, he could subdue them silently without alerting other creatures, perhaps stronger ones, of his presence.

Gripping
his spear with both hands, he raced across the open ground toward the first one, a man who might have once been a cook or butcher wearing a bloodstained apron. Jake didn’t have time to wonder if the blood had been from its profession or from its prey. It noticed him when he was less than twenty feet away and lurched toward him, a low wail rising from its throat. He jabbed the spear through the creature’s eye and into the brain, yanking it free before the zombie could fall and wrench the spear from his grasp. The second zombie, now alerted, closed on him just as a third lumbered into view, saw him, and growled. Outnumbered, he had to act fast. Using the spear as a vaulting pole, he rammed the second zombie in the chest with both feet. It stumbled backwards and fell. Before it could rise, he stabbed it through the skull.

The third creature was in better condition
, faster than a Shambler, but not as strong as a Runner. It moved swiftly and was upon him before he could recover his spear from the second creature’s head. He kicked at it to keep it at bay, while he struggled to free his spear. Just as he thought he would have to abandon his only weapon and run for his life, he managed to yank it free. He stabbed it into the third zombie’s heart several times. Even injured, perhaps fatally, it continued its pursuit. Jake spun on his heel and rammed it into the back of the creature’s skull, just beneath the occipital ridge. He yanked the blade sideways, severing the creature’s cervical vertebrae, but the haft of the flimsy spear snapped, leaving his precious steel blade embedded in the creature’s skull. He tossed the piece of useless wood to the ground and fought to catch his breath.

The long walk into town
and the battle with the three creatures had sapped his strength. He couldn’t face more of the creatures, especially weaponless. Still breathing hard, he stumbled to the nearest house. The door was locked, but he broke a window and crawled inside, careful of the broken glass beneath his already bloody bare feet. He was relieved that no irate homeowner with a shotgun confronted him for his act of breaking and entering. In the post-apocalyptic world, justice was often swift without trial or explanation.

In the kitchen, he
located two cans of peaches, the only food not devoured by invading pack rats and hordes of insects. His hand trembled, as he used the can opener to get at the can’s contents. The syrup was sweet and satisfying. He drained the first can, letting juice dribble down his chin and onto his chest, before devouring its contents using his dirty fingers. Satisfied, he tossed the empty can aside and began searching the kitchen for anything useful. He smiled when he saw an eight-inch chef’s knife lying beside the sink. He picked it up. Its weight felt good in his hand, and the balance was superb. On impulse, he also took the six-inch vegetable knife from the knife block. With weapons in hand, he inspected the rest of the house. The bedroom was a shambles. Clothing was strewn over the bed and floor from the hasty departure of the former homeowners. The only articles of clothing he found that fit were a pair of denim jeans two inches too short and a black tee shirt with a list of Van Halen tour dates and cities for their 2012 tour. It would have to do. 

Digging beneath the bed, he found a
pair of work boots. They were a size too big, but with two pairs of socks, they sufficed. He found no weapons other than the two kitchen knives, now tucked into his belt. He had better luck in the garage. He pocketed a Bic lighter and a case pocketknife with a file and two blades. A collection of yard tools hanging from a rack on the wall caught his eye. Most were useless as weapons – an electric hedge trimmer, a jig saw, a hoe, a shovel, a rake – but one had potential. He picked up the pair of large hedge shears, admiring its twelve-inch blades and sixteen-inch wooden handle. Using a wrench from a toolbox, he dismantled the shears, testing the feel of one of the blades in his hand. It was heavy enough and sharp enough to be an effective machete. He gave the blade a few minute’s attention with a rat-tail file to hone the edges to a razor-sharp finish. As an afterthought, he removed the tines from the rake and kept the handle to use as a walking staff.

Now, clothed and properly
weaponed, he set about gathering any small items that might prove useful, including the remaining can of peaches, and dropped them in a child’s SpongeBob Squarepants backpack he found hanging from a hook by the door. He felt foolish carrying it, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He couldn’t ignore
Jakes’ Law # 9 – Use the tools you’ve got.
He tried not to dwell on the fate of the child that had owned the bag or its parents. Too many people had died to make it personal. There were just three people he cared about, and two were prisoners. He had to do something about it, but not yet. He wasn’t ready for a confrontation with Levi.

His exhaustion overwhelmed him as he was planning his next move. He made certain the doors were secured and curled up on the bed. He was taking a chance, but he couldn’t continue without rest. He fell asleep almost immediately.

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June 24, 2016    San Manuel, AZ –

He awoke just before dawn, better rested but sore. One by one, he examined the nearby houses, gathering what items he deemed necessary or useful – a ball of twine, a flashlight and extra batteries, a cheap compass, a light jacket for cooler nights, a small mirror, a few bottles of water, chlorine tablets for an RV water tank. The water purification tablets would make drinking water from springs and creeks safer. The home’s former occupants had been camping enthusiasts. An all-season tent was tempting but too bulky to transport. A roll of plastic tarp was lighter and would serve the same purpose, as well as catch rain water. A canteen, a collapsible plastic five-gallon water bag, a sleeping bag, and camp cookware went into backpack, followed by two rolls of duct tape. Its myriad of uses would come in handy.

He coiled a length of climbing rope he found hanging from a rafter around the outside of the pack
. Fate seemed to favor him as he came across a pair of leather hiking boots in his size. He discarded the old boots but kept both pair of socks. Most houses had already been thoroughly ransacked, but one pantry produced several cans of beans and soup. His child’s backpack was full. He added items to a pillow case and suspended it from his belt. The one object he most desired he couldn’t find – a pistol or rifle.

H
e glanced out the window at the sound of a trashcan being overturned. His search had attracted unwanted attention from zombies, not all of them as slow and emaciated as the first three. He decided it was time to leave. He knew remaining near San Manuel would be dangerous. If the zombies didn’t get him, some of Levi’s men would eventually discover his escape and search him out. His best bet for safety lay in the mountains with which he was familiar.

The
Galiuro Mountains were a maze of canyons, washes, ridges, and peaks. He decided on the upper elevations east of San Manuel where water, game, and trees for firewood were more abundant. Hefting his brightly colored backpack, his rolled up tarp and sleeping bag, his makeshift machete, and his rake handle walking stick, he started out.

Escape wasn’t as easy as he hoped. He avoided most of the zombies by dodging in and out of houses
and through backyards, but one persistent creature, an extremely large specimen, continued to dog his trail. Finally, realizing that the zombie’s untiring pursuit would outlast his remaining store of energy, he stopped to fight at the edge of the river. In his weakened condition, it was a risky move. He dropped his pack and gear, and allowed the creature to catch up. Part of its lower jaw was missing, but it still retained enough teeth to cause considerable damage. Its size, over two hundred and fifty pounds, would work in its favor. When the zombie saw Jake, it wailed and quickened its pace.

When it was
within striking distance, he faced it with his makeshift machete. He fended off the first attack with the blunt edge of the blade to judge the creature’s strength, which proved to be considerably more than his. He realized he could take no chances. As the creature raced at him the second time, he backed up, and then leaped aside and brought the blade down on the side of creature’s neck. The sharp blade sliced deeply into the tender flesh above the collar bone. When he wrenched the blade free, blood sprayed from the wound in rapid pulses as the artery drained. The creature continued to lumber toward him while the last of its strength slowly ebbed. Jake kept backing away until the creature finally collapsed to the ground at his feet, dead. He wiped the bloody blade on the creature’s shirt and rolled its corpse into the river. The current swiftly sped it downstream and out of view.