Get Off My [email protected] - A Zombie Novel (15 page)

I
n the afternoon, we listened to the radio
update. It was like a Smothers Brothers comedy routine from the Ed Sullivan
show. Good news. Bad news.

The good news was that Chicago B, the mega-horde
had been pounded at the Rock River north of Janesville, south of Edgerton. The
river had few crossings in the area and jutted out to the west making a nice
pocket. Hundreds of thousands of undead had been incinerated. This made a dent
in the horde’s size though I doubt anyone in their path would count their lucky
stars at being surrounded by 3.7 million dead versus 4 million.

The bad news was that the horde was now
following Interstate 90 north. There would not be another significant natural choke
point for fifty miles. In a little more than twenty miles, a day’s trample,
Chicago B would pass through Madison, where it all began.

The TC horde was southeast of the burned out
remains of Eau Claire and Chippewa Falls Wisconsin. The good news was that it
turned south, away from Door County.

The bad news was that the horde was traveling in
line with Interstate 94, which, about eighty miles away, links with the very
same Interstate 90 that the Chicago B mega-horde currently traveled. The
possibility loomed that the two hordes would combine.

The TC horde had clear country for the next two
days walk until they reached Black River Falls. Then, a waterway with limited
crossings would bunch them up again.

I
t snowed all day. It was beautiful, just as I
had hoped. Virginal wet snowman making snow coated all surfaces including the
undead that were standing still. They turned almost instantly into unattractive
snowmen, too skinny and linear to be jolly. If Frosty had looked like these,
the ‘thumpetty thump thump” in the song would have been the sound of
disconnecting Frosty’s brain from his spinal column. Don’t complain about my
analogy. Shooting a snowman in the head to kill it makes as much sense as
having to shoot dead people in their heads to kill them.

The snowmen near our house represented an
opportunity to relieve some of the stress the last few days had induced. Ruth
Ann’s love of all things that fire projectiles included paintball. We had a CO2
paintball rifle with a store of cylinders and the paintballs themselves. We
discussed having this bit of fun including its ramifications. We decided that a
paintball rifle wouldn’t be loud enough to pose much of a risk of attracting
zombies from far and wide.

Just the same, Ruth Ann would forego her turns
with the paintball rifle. Instead, she would be ready with her recurve bow to
dispatch any snow cones that started making too much noise. Ryan, of course, already
knew how to fire the paintball rifle but I needed instructions from Ruth Ann.

Pop! Ryan landed a bright magenta splotch on the
shoulder blade of a statue on the house’s southeast side near where we had shot
the looters. The impact of the paintball jerked the ghoul to its front. It spun
quickly around and growled in the direction the shot had come. It scanned left
and right at its eye’s level never lifting its head to explore what might be
found above it. It shifted into that constant moaning that anyone who has heard
never wants to hear again. It shambled off towards the back of the house and
kept right on going now that it had been activated.

Emboldened by our success without apparent
penalty, I took the next shot at a snow-covered ghoul. This one faced directly
at our firing location but its eyes were obscured by snow. With beginner’s luck
on my side, I exploded a bright blue paintball directly into its face. The
impact of the paintball removed the accumulated snow from its eyes which flashed
upwards right at me while I was still visible admiring my shot.

The creature roared and moved with purpose
towards the house. Ruth Ann nocked her bow, drew and put an arrow between the
creature’s eyes. It fell cleanly backwards with its arms outstretched. Momentum
from the fall brought its arms to rest spread eagle. There was now a snow angel
with a bright blue face on my lawn.

The snow angel’s roar brought two walkers in our
direction. Ryan took his turn, putting the paintball rifle on automatic.
Letting the first howling walker get closer, he made modern art on the creature’s
torso and face.

More creatures started in our direction. The
adult in me decided this is where the fun was transitioning to the part where
you get the sharp stick in the eye. The adult in me was overruled by the
stressed out me that needed just a bit more release. I sprayed the second ghoul
on automatic making the two coming towards us some kind of animated diptych.

“OK, we better stop. We’ve had our fun,” the
adult using my voice said.

“That was great!” Ryan said too loudly.

Ruth Ann’s contribution to the discussion was
two quick bowshots, putting the natty pair down with holes in their heads.

We quietly got down off the roof. Once down to
the second floor we made hot chocolate and tea. We felt a bit of relief from
the horrors of a horde passing through our yard. With the cold weather and lack
of continued stimulation, the group that accumulated at our house slowly
wandered away or deactivated into statues.

O
n Wednesday (Day 35), a number of Blackhawks
arrived. The first two erupted with combat teams upon setting down. The troops
began methodically eliminating all of the undead in the area. We did not hear
any shots from their suppressed weapons. Their teams moved like water rushing
downhill pausing in one spot only long enough to place aimed fire on groups of
undead. They took out individual zombies while on the move without breaking
stride.

When they came upon a home that was compromised,
they simply laid charges around its periphery, fired M203 grenades in through
whatever breach the ghouls had made and blew the house up. Anything that moved
was shot. There was no sense in risking lives on clearing tight spaces. It
occurred to me that I had designed my home to survive the others in the
neighborhood. I thought it would be acts of nature that brought them down not explosives.

A third Blackhawk disgorged a smaller combat
team that swept into the Boetche’s house. In less than a minute, they confirmed
its contents were secure. A large twin rotor helicopter landed next to the
house. A crew went inside and then shortly came out again carting bales of dope
and boxes of equipment. Before the outbreak, this sort of scene would appear on
the news from time to time with DEA emblazoned in big letters on the chests and
backs of law enforcement. Now instead of a crime, it was a weed rescue mission.

With a short but earnest goodbye, Ryan left on
the cargo chopper.

After clearing an extended area of undead, one of
the first two teams set up a protective perimeter around us. The other team
used bailing hooks to make a pile of undead from those killed in the area of
our house. They set the pile ablaze. The stink was terrible. The smoking pyre
destroyed what was left of the illusion of normalcy the snow had brought.

More cargo helicopters arrived. One suspended
what looked like a steel shipping container under it. Another suspended a
pallet carrying a Bobcat with various doodads attached. A third cargo helicopter
landed first. Crewmembers jumped out and guided the soft touchdown of the
suspended cargo carried by the other two.

The shipping container was put down near where
our deck used to be, very close and parallel to the house. After laying down
their loads both choppers that carried the heavy cargo departed without landing.

The ramp door of the remaining cargo helicopter
came down and men walked out with 4x8 sheets of thick plywood. They set the
wood down at the front door. Other men set up a portable table saw and small
gas powered generator. With a hook, they pulled the dead ghoul out of the front
door’s sidelight and added it to the pyre that was still roaring with flame.
They cut and screwed the plywood completely over my front entry way then added metal
gussets anchoring the wood to the concrete further reinforcing the heavy
sheets.

Meanwhile, the Bobcat removed pallets of heavy
metal fencing from the belly of the remaining cargo chopper. Men went to work
on the shipping container that housed a complete fuel cell electrical generator
powered by natural gas. The system was of modest size incorporating fuel
storage, the fuel cell system itself and the electrical glue necessary to
convert the output of the container to levels compatible with the input of the
house.

All told, the fuel cell system could provide fifty
times the capacity of our solar panels with enough natural gas to run a month. Workers
tied the output of the fuel cell to the input of the house so to us, it was
like being reconnected to the grid again. As a bonus, we could continue using
our rooftop panels at the same time to keep our batteries conditioned and charged.
We would have enough electricity to run the servers in the basement plus heaters,
a refrigerator, freezer, microwave and coffee maker all at the same time!

The fuel cell system had the capacity to heat
water as a byproduct, but the work involved in ducting and piping was deemed
frivolous. Hot showers would not return to Christmas Tree. Can’t have
everything.

The heavy metal fencing was anchored to the
concrete of the walls of my house. Then sections were linked together with pins.
Then the pins and gaps between the sections were welded. Buttresses extended to
the inside of the fence giving it increased resistance from outside forces
pushing inward. I was not happy having something that zombies could climb so
close to the house but they seemed to know what they were doing.

Finally, a sloped metal cage was placed over the
cleared off top of our wellhead. Frank’s people, who knew our house’s weaknesses
from watching the TC horde come through, were thinking of everything.

When construction was done for the day, the
cargo helicopter attached the Bobcat to fly it, and the construction crews back
to Door County. It was then that I made believe I was exercising my (suspended)
third amendment rights. The third amendment guarantees that no troops can be
quartered in private homes without the owner’s consent.

A full squad of soldiers assembled near my
garage door. After numerous assurances that the virus was no longer
transmittable via proximity, we admitted eleven heavily armed infantrymen into
Camp Christmas Tree. Not all of the men were strangers. Lieutenant Mancheski,
the Guardsman we declined to go with almost three weeks before shook our hands
as he brought his people in. A Staff Sergeant named Orderly presented Ruth Ann with
two washed mason jars with her hand written “strawberry” still visible. “It
went fast ma’am. We didn’t know if you needed the jars back. I’m sorry about
the other two jars. We lost them but not without a fight.”

Ruth Ann was genuinely touched. She thanked
Sergeant Orderly for returning the jars. A short time before two glass jars would
not be worth the effort to carry back. Now however…

Lieutenant Mancheski handed me an envelope.
Inside was a signed contract with the terms I had specified.

The men began to make themselves comfortable in
the bedrooms and den on our first floor. With ample electricity, water was not
a problem. The soldiers came supplied with food. Periodic resupply was part of
the deal.

They pulled Ryan’s 4x4 out of our garage and
parked it in the Boetche’s garage. They set up a more comfortable sleeping area
in the vacated space. Lt. Mancheski explained this would be used as a quarantine
area if one proved necessary. Until used for that purpose, the garage’s back
door would serve as the main entrance and egress point for the house.

He defined a duty schedule that put four
soldiers on our roof twenty-four hours a day. A fifth would keep watch of the
security cameras and monitor the radio.

Lt. Mancheski asked if there was anything his
men could do for us. It didn’t take much thought. Both Ruth Ann and I answered
we wanted to go out for a long walk! The Lieutenant said that could be arranged
for the next day. The remainder of this day needed to be spent on setting up
and settling in.

I took Lt. Mancheski, Sgt. Orderly and the squad’s
tech person Specialist Brandt for a complete tour of the house instructing them
on each of the system’s operation and capability. They were quite satisfied
with the house’s defensibility especially under a state of siege.

SPC Brandt correctly pointed out that for all my
concern about survivability, I had no way to protect the vital assets I had on
the roof: the solar array and greenhouse.

“Ah, that,” I said. “I considered them
expendable. Their only protection is a homeowner’s insurance policy. Not that that
would do much good anymore.”

“I resemble that remark Mr. Handsman,” said the
Lieutenant. “Before this I worked out of the office that serviced your policy.
So, in a roundabout way, we still have you covered.”

“Small world! If I recall correctly my policy
premium would have been due about now. Would you accept payment in the form of
brandied pears? You’ve had Ruth Ann’s jam, the pears are even better.”

Sgt. Orderly shook like an excited kid and said,
“LT please say yes.”

“As I am temporarily out of touch with the home
office, I’m sure we can work out an arrangement,” he said with a smile.

“Good. Now show me this nuclear reactor you guys
installed.”

Orderly thought I was serious and said, “It’s a
fuel cell system Mr. Handsman, there are no nuclear things in there.”

When we had exited the back door, I heard sounds
emanating from the machine. There was both a 60-cycle noise common to
generators and high-pitched hissing. I commented on the hissing.

Specialist Brandt said, “That’s the sound of the
natural gas working through from its tanks through the system.”

“Isn’t that pretty loud? It isn’t going to
attract any zombies?”

“We don’t think so.”

“What do you mean
think so?
Haven’t you
tried this before?”

“Actually, no sir. This is the first time we
have deployed a unit of this kind in the open field.”

“Great.” Be careful what you wish for, I thought
to myself.

We made our way inside and broke open some
brandied pears. A number of jars actually. Being the caring soul that my stone
cold executioner wife is, she made paper plates full for the troops on the
roof.

That evening I fired up the servers and
confirmed connectivity with Lambeau Field. Our connection speed was phenomenal
with minimal latency. The first items on my “to do” list included setting up a
means of communicating with not only Frank but also the people I would
ostensibly be supervising.  A secure email account that Frank’s people provided
took only a moment to setup. I fired up an enterprise collaboration server that
would let me host live meetings with “my people.” However, I never did get the
damn thing working correctly. We ended up using only email.

Among the first emails I received were
instructions on how to tie into a feed of high-resolution satellite imagery
covering the Midwestern Administrative Zone. The first project I would be
working on needed these. I arranged to pull down new set of high-res images
every fifteen minutes. I would begin writing code to process these images soon.
For tonight however, Ruth Ann and I simply looked at them, one stream in
visible light and one in infrared.

Being nighttime, the visual light images showed
very little, far less than they used to. There were giant expanses of darkness
that were once lit by human activity.  The infrared images showed fairly little
as well. Residual heat from the day mostly. There were some bright spots in the
pictures. These were recent fires or possibly small encampments of humans. Door
County shone very brightly. There was even a glow around my house, which I
found by latitude and longitude.

The hordes did not show up to the naked eye in the
infrared stream but I was told it would be possible to spot them using computer
code to identify their minor difference from the background. Spotting them at
night was some of the code I was asked to write.