The Fractured Earth (8 page)

Friggin' Rambo girl who knows nothin' about the military.

"Battle dress uniform. It's a camouflage pattern, but isn't really used anymore except for the white version. Very tough but lightweight, with lots of nice pouches for ready access to your stuff."

"Alright, let's see what you've got," she said.

I walked back to the storeroom and opened the closet, moving aside my old uniforms until I found my nieces' old stuff.

"That looks nice," came a voice from behind me.

"Whoah!" I said smartly, "You startled me, ninja girl!" 

She smiled. I think she liked that nickname.

I handed her all six uniforms from the closet. "Here you go, try these on. I'll stay here in the storeroom until you tell me it's okay to come out."

She looked thoughtful.

"I have a better idea. Why don't you take your rifle and go sit on the porch."

Dammit.

A damn prom queen who knows my job better that I do.

"Damn, Erin, you're right, that is a better idea, and damn me for not thinking of it."

She smiled her ninja smile—not the one that lit up the room—and turned and carried the clothes back to the living room. Yeah, she was trusting me more. That was the first time she'd let me see her back since I appeared. I followed her and grabbed my rifle from the counter and automatically checked it—fire switch was off, round in the chamber. I clipped it on and carried it low-ready to the door. 

"Get the curtains on your way out," said Erin. I turned to look at her, then quickly turned back. She was already half undressed. I just closed the curtains and walked out to sit on the porch, a crazy stew of emotions.

If my wife and daughter hadn't died during childbirth, I wonder if she would have grown up to be like Erin? Hell, I didn't care about race. I sure did have to deal with some racist bastards in the Army, and in school, and pretty much everywhere. But my own family was just as bad, if not worse. I heard it every day growing up, and twice on Sundays, since that's when we visited the cousins.

Yeah, the racist bull was a big pile of crap, that's for sure, but there was plenty to go around no matter where you looked, and in every color imaginable. I'd decided at the ripe old age of fourteen that I wasn't going to be a racist, no matter what. Fell in love with a beautiful Latina lady.

I turned my thoughts away from that path. I knew what kind of heartache lay at the end of that particular story.

"Alright," I heard from inside. "I'm dressed."

I took a look up and down the street one more time, but didn't see anything heading our way. Just some weird stuff going down about a block and a half away, like a crowd searching the ground for a lost contact lens, with others knocking on doors.

Weird.

I walked back in the door and looked at Erin—the BDU’s were a little puffy on her, but she looked good. "You look good," I said, "far more like the badass you really are."

She blushed and turned away from me.

"Uh, sorry, I..." I began to say, but her upraised hand stopped me. Maybe twenty or so seconds later, she turned back, fully composed and no hint of a blush.

Man this girl was something, ninja creepy something. I hoped she'd want to stay with me.

She pointed to my gun. "Got any more of those?" I thought about my loadout, what she might be able to carry, and what I had that would fit the bill for her.

I smiled with a conspiratorial grin.

"Come on," I said, "I have just what the lady ordered."

—————

Mark

Frankly. I didn't want to get to know any of these people really well. I just wanted to get closer to home, hopefully a sanctuary in this mess.

I sat in relative silence as the truck made its way around the accident scene and back onto the highway, twirling my dad's ring on my finger. We passed many cars on the side of the road, but no more accidents. Several people tried to wave us down, but I told the young woman driving to slow down but don't stop. Only one man actually attempted to block the truck, but he dove out of the way as we continued down the road at about twenty-five miles per hour. There were also a few people shambling slowly along the road, seemingly reaching for us after we passed.

I didn't see anyone with a firearm—and I didn't really expect to, not here in Mass. There are a quite a few hunters, but very few concealed handgun carriers.

A man in the truck bed started coughing and didn't stop. Good thing the truck was headed for the hospital.

"Pull off here and let me out. Then just continue on Route 2 until you get to 12. Take the exit toward Salisburg and you'll come out right near the hospital. They might have working generators, and you might have the only working vehicle around, so be prepared to have it requisitioned by whomever is around there."

"But will we be safe?" asked the young woman. I still hadn't asked her name. 

"Maybe, I don't know. As long as you are in a working vehicle, bad people who understand the scope of what has happened will try to get it from you. The hospital might be a focal point for FEMA or other relief efforts. If you have nowhere to go, it's a pretty good place to start."

I felt lousy. Although what I said was the truth, I doubted FEMA would be able to respond in a timely fashion, if at all. Dad and I had talked about the government's possible reactions in a crisis before. But it was the government line, so people believed me.

"Stay together, stay safe." I thought hard for a few seconds, considering their options—and mine. "There's a spot up this road about seven miles—a small park with a gazebo. I'll check back there every few days for the next couple of weeks. If I see you, I'll come and talk to you and see if there's some way I can help you out."

"Please, what's your name?" asked the driver. "I'm Jen." She stuck out her hand.

I shook it. "Nice to meet you, but I'd rather not say my name."

"Oh, okay."

"Thanks for driving."

"Sir," called the little girl from the truck. "Thank you for your help." She coughed loudly.

I felt so bad leaving these people. I hoped they would make it. I hoped all the disaster stories I'd read weren't the way it would play out.

But I knew differently. Even when things were good, the bad in some people came out, resulting in riots and lootings ... and worse. And the way the gun laws worked, well ... the restrictions on guns are there to prevent criminals from getting them and using them, but, they're criminals, right? They don't follow the rules anyway. When owning a gun is a crime, then only the criminals have guns.

"You're welcome, little lady," I said as the truck came to a stop. "I'm sure your grandfather will be alright once you get him to the hospital." I hoped he'd be alright. He would be if the hospital was functioning, and I had my doubts.

I opened the door and got out, then put on my backpack. I left my shirt untucked for now, figuring I'd keep my dad's handgun concealed. I had a machete on me for crying out loud, no need to look like a complete nutcase.

Speaking of which, it hadn't crossed my mind until now that I was pretty close to a prison, just down the road about two miles. It had all three security levels. The minimum had no walls, just some locked doors—only cons about to get out would be there. The medium had the usually non-violent prisoners—drug dealers, armed robbers, child molesters. If any of them broke the rules, they'd get sent to the maximum, which was the one with all the lights and armed guard towers and serious-looking heavyset guys in uniform walking the fence and chewing gum.

At least those guards were lucky enough to be outside the fence.

As the truck drove away, I began walking the ten or so miles to home. My pace was maybe three miles an hour, so at least four hours. It would probably get dark before I got home.

After getting off the road, I stepped into the woods. They were all along the road here in north-central Mass., and pulled off my backpack. I strapped my dad's KA-BAR from my pack to my left leg, opposite the machete. I put two Think Thin protein bars in my pockets to go with the Millennium bars in my hunter's pack, and took out a tactical flashlight and my headlamp. Both went into cargo pockets.

Thus prepared, I set off again, sticking to the right side of the road. I wasn't too worried about a working vehicle running me down, and I might just be able to hitch a ride.

Looking like a gangly Rambo, sure, who wouldn't pick me up?

I wasn't going to hold my breath.

I thought again about the accident, the guy I shot. His dad's promise to kill me. I thought about the prison. I had no clue what they would do, but if the prisoners were out when the power failed, I wondered if the electromagnetic locks would all fail, and if their backup generators were working. If they weren't locked in, they would probably be able to break out.

There's a happy thought. 

Mostly I thought about my dad.

"Mark! Stop playing that
Annoying Orange
video so loud!" he would say. But I knew he thought they were funny. His favorite episode was the one with Malicorn. He liked to watch
Regular Show
with me, and he read a devotional and a chapter in the Bible every night with me.

Mom would read a Bible chapter one night, and Dad would read the next, but now he did all the reading. It was comforting to have a routine and to stick with it after the accident.

What were my routines now?

I moved off the road into the edge of the woods and removed the backpack. I dug into the front pocket and pulled out my dad's Bible. It had a bookmark at the last spot we'd read. 

I swapped out reading chapters nowadays.

I read a chapter out loud, just like we always did, and could barely talk from choking back sobs.

I replaced the Bible and zipped up the pack, then put it back on and stood up.

Nothing to do but keep heading home. There weren't many houses on this route, almost no stores or businesses, so I hoped I'd have a nice, easy walk.

It lasted almost two hours.

As I approached an intersection with a small convenience store and the ubiquitous Dunkin’ Donuts, I heard a gunshot, like a shotgun or some other big caliber weapon. Unfortunately, there wasn't much cover where I was at the moment—near a bridge and a business that rented big machinery. I jogged behind a front-end loader and peered around the side at the convenience store where I figured the shot came from.

Then I heard another shot and a scream, then another scream. What in the world was going on? Looters already, out here in the boonies?

I went down on my stomach and low-crawled under the loader and made my way to a tractor. I didn't want to get involved—a sure way to get myself killed, but I did want intelligence.

When I got close enough to see, I wanted to toss my intelligence, and my cookies. There was a small gang of people attacking a larger group who were carrying bags out of the store. They were yelling and running away from the others, who had managed to grab a few people and were clawing and attacking them like I'd never imagined, like they had rabies or were just plain insane.

I couldn't grasp what was happening, it just wasn't in the realm of reality. An EMP or CME, sure. Chaos, I understand that. Looting, pillaging, rapes—we saw that after Hurricane Katrina. Bad guys—I encountered that right after the EMP hit.

But this was
The Walking Dead
, only dressed normally and without the ghoulish faces and bodies. Your everyday, average mom and pop clawing and biting at the neighbors. "There's no mystery about it," said the newsman voice in my head, "they simply turned into zombies from an EMP."

I closed my eyes and tried to calm my breathing, then opened them again. The scene hadn't changed much, except now there were people running off, with a few shambling after them, plus a bunch of bodies on the ground with the well-dressed crazies tearing at them.

My brain still refused to function. An EMP … I knew what to do about that. But zombies? As a
Frasier
episode once so rightfully put it, "There's no such thing as zombies!!"

Yet here we are.

It certainly changed things. I'd read plenty of cool zombie books, sure. The well-prepared guy goes on some forlorn trek and does something stupid, all while firing spectacular headshots with a pistol at fifty yards, barely escaping with his life as the undead pull at his arms and rip off his gear.

And half the group doesn't make it.

Hmmm, maybe I needed to find some groupies who wouldn't make it. It's like the bear joke—I don't have to outrun the zombies, I just have to outrun you.

Macabre thoughts.

I backed out from underneath the dump truck where I had hidden, and stood up, keeping the big truck between me and the store. I walked directly away from them and toward the storefront for the rental place. They had all kinds of lawn mowers out here—maybe I could get one that would start and ride home at ten miles per hour. A zombie might be able to run faster, but I already saw that they mostly shambled along after those people escaping, so maybe they couldn't catch me.

It would be noisy, so I'd have to abandon it before I led them to my home like a redneck Pied Piper, but I didn't want to meet one of them in the dark, which would be descending in just a few hours.

The door to the store was locked, and the sign said "Open 6a-5:30p." I guess they catered to the early construction crowd. I knocked as loud as I dared, hoping the undead across the street were too busy to notice, or at least didn't have supernatural hearing. There was no answer, so I crept around the building, looking for other doors, living people, even a worker's cat that was left behind.

I didn't see anyone, or anything.

But I did see a bunch of lawn mowers that would fit the bill, all behind a chain link fence and under an awning.

I have a credit card lock-pick set that was gifted to me at Christmas by my dad, so I took it out of my wallet and started picking at the lock on the fence.

I gave up fifteen minutes later. I should have learned how to use the blasted pick set.

Well, there's always another way.

I opened my waist pack and took out my Swiss Army knife and went to work on the gate fence where it connected to the post. It was just sort of bolted in and fairly easy to take apart. Wishing I had a Leatherman instead of the small pliers on the knife, I nevertheless got the first screw off after two minutes. Each of the other five took the same amount of time, and I was left with a gate fence that was loop-tied on a pole at the top. I crawled under the loose fence and looked for something to snap the wire holding the fence on, but didn't see anything.

Oh well, more screws to loosen. It took at least a half hour to get the gate fence loose enough to drive through. By now, I was wondering if the party across the street had ended.

I walked back toward the front of the store and “sliced the pie” around the edge of the building, but without drawing the gun. 

Slicing the pie is a technique I’d learned about in a “defense in the home” class with my dad. Massachusetts has a Castle Doctrine—you can defend your occupied home with deadly force—I can't say “easily,” but at least with more laws on your side. Tell an intruder you’re armed and have called the police, and if they don't run off, then they must be there to do you harm.