Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 3): Salvation (4 page)

Second
final thing, here is the breakdown of our populations halfway through the
fourth year, prior to the transfer of women and children from Yellowstone to
the Black Hills.

Black Hills

Men                                 341

Women                            710

Children 12 & Under       391

Total                                1,442

Yellowstone

Men                                  295

Women                             517

Children 12 & Under        293

Total                                 1,105

A large
number of the twelve and under children are infants or toddlers. The winters
were long, and, face facts, there isn’t much else to do.

Chapter I

“Oh,
we’re going for a drive, going for a drive, doo dah, doo dah.” Mary was having
a grand time singing off key, while simultaneously holding the portable radio
in one hand and the steering wheel in the other.

“Don’t
wreck,” I cautioned, watching in my rear view mirror as she drifted over the
double yellow line.

“I
won’t,” she replied. “I’m an excellent driver, better than you even.”

We were on
our way to Yellowstone to get a look at the situation on the ground and to
discuss our preparations concerning the prophet and his raiders. It appeared
the fighting would begin soon. As always, I was driving my highly modified,
extremely rugged, spectacular Jeep Wrangler. Mary had taken Lizzy’s nice, but
still vastly inferior, Jeep Grand Cherokee. Riding with her were the twins,
Tara and Dale Zablocki.

Briana
had remained at the citadel with our son, Asher, managing day to day affairs
along with getting the four hundred women, children, and infirm whom Yellowstone
had transferred our way organized. She’d done the same previously, back when
the Ranching Collective in Wyoming had begun dumping their non-combatants on
us. There should be no difficulties getting the entire group settled and
comfortable.

Lizzy
had stayed to help, not that she was going to contribute much. My chubby friend
spent most of her time focused on defense. The valley where the majority lived
was well protected, as were those used for farming or ranching. However, my
efforts to secure the region as a whole were anything but complete, and much
more could be done. Fortunately, we possessed both the equipment and manpower
necessary, even if volunteers for the worst tasks were hard to come by.

“This is
a long, long, long, long way to travel,” commented Mary.

“I know.
But, there are zombies all over southern Wyoming, and the raiders have scouts
crisscrossing the state. Since we don’t want to waste time fighting, or be
ambushed and killed, it’s best we swing into Montana before cutting west.”

She
snorted. “I bet the raiders have people north of the park too. You know they’re
going to do that.”

Mary was
likely correct. The airplanes we used to keep an eye on the roads had already spotted
several small groups in the general vicinity, but those nearest Yellowstone
tended to head straight for the forested areas at maximum speed. They wanted
whatever concealment they could get, which made sense, and as a result we had
no idea how many were present or where they might be hiding.

“Since
we’re going to be met outside the park and guided in, I’m not overly worried
about an attack. Our group is going to be too big for any scouting party to
target, assuming they even see us.”

“We
should have flown,” she countered. “It would have been way faster and easier.
Maybe we would have gotten lucky and been able to burn a few. That’s always
fun.”

Fun?
Sometimes I worry about the girl.

We had
finally developed a system allowing us to strike from above. Initially, the
Ranching Collective tried to take advantage of their monopoly on aircraft by
mounting guns on a large commercial chopper. The results were mixed. Yes, the
gunners could, and did, shoot a significant number of raiders. However, the
helicopter lacked armor and had difficulty maintaining its position while
firing. It was shot up the first time they used it and shot down the second.
Likewise, the first attempt to drop a bomb accomplished nothing but catch the
plane on fire. It was a miracle the pilot managed to land and get out in time.

“I’m
sure they really found it frustrating,” said Mary, with a malicious giggle,
“having a little bitty Cessna take em out.”

After
much trial and error, we managed to mount a small tank to the underside of
several planes. The pilot only had to line up in front of his target, reference
the height / speed chart, and push the button at the appropriate time. The
canister would then release and plummet to the ground, where it exploded on
contact. What we used was not napalm, nor was it a proper military weapon.
These were homemade, constructed by our resident demolition expert, Carlson, a
Vietnam vet who loved blowing things up. Our airborne attacks are one reason the
raiders shifted tactics. Gone are the days when they rode forth, hundreds
strong, as a single group.

While we
still had two dozen such bombs in our inventory, there was a good chance they
would be relegated to the dust bin. You see, we were now in possession of three
military choppers. The Cobra is my personal favorite. It can fly three hundred
miles at a hundred fifty an hour and easily top ten thousand feet. That last
point is especially nice since we were already at a rather high elevation. The
pair we took are armed with twin multi-barrel miniguns. They also have rockets,
big ones that are nearly three inches in diameter. The folk over in Yellowstone
only have a single Cobra, but theirs is a modernized version with a 20mm
gatling cannon, rockets, and four TOW Missiles.

There
are also some Pave Hawks. The variants we are using were originally designed
for combat search and rescue. They have a rescue hoist with a two hundred foot
cable capable of lifting six hundred pounds or Lizzy. All right, that was mean.
I admit it. However, the woman has not slimmed down. Even with all the hiking
and marching and strenuous manual labor, Lizzy still finds the time to stuff
her face with enough food to offset any burned calories. I haven’t asked, but
I’m beginning to think she wants to be overweight.

I’m
digressing into psychological speculation, not good. At any rate, these
helicopters normally carry a crew of six – we use a smaller crew of three
ourselves – and a dozen troops. They are capable of moving at speeds in excess
of two hundred miles an hour and can travel over three fifty using just their
internal tanks. The things can go higher than the Cobras too, up to fourteen
thousand feet. Their armaments are not as impressive, but they do sport a pair
of miniguns. We have one. Yellowstone has three.

The
other helicopters we recovered at Ellsworth Air Force Base had been sent west
to the islands, along with the fixed wing planes, for use by the military. If
I’d known they would not be available for the upcoming war, I would have argued
against their removal. But, to be fair, I had no idea countries or groups of
survivors, whatever the case actually was, were going to start lobbing nuclear
warheads at one another. Regardless, what we kept is more than enough for our
needs, not to mention we are somewhat lacking in properly trained pilots.

We have
thoroughly tested the craft, doing our best to keep their existence a secret.
We don’t want the raiders to know how strong we are. The things have brutal
maintenance requirements as well. The machinists and techs seem to spend
forever keeping them running, so, for the most part, we leave them grounded.

“Problem.”
Mary’s voice crackled over the radio. She sounded worried.

“What is
it?”

“I think
the engine just went kablooee.”

She
slowed and came to a stop, climbing out of the Jeep. Shifting into reverse, I
backed up and joined her.

“What
happened?”

The
petite blonde – although now sixteen, Mary remains every bit as slender as when
she was thirteen – shrugged her shoulders. “I heard a crack and grinding, and
it just stopped.”

Dale
opened the hood, and both he and his sister peered inside.

“Engine
block broke,” announced Tara, a few seconds later.

“Ah,
damn.” So much for Lizzy’s Grand Cherokee. She was going to be pissed. “Okay,
let’s start moving the gear you’re carrying to mine.”

This
sort of event was why we almost always took two vehicles when traveling any
significant distance. Getting stranded was such a bad thing.

“I don’t
think we can fit it all.” Mary opened one of the side doors on my Wrangler.
“You’re pretty loaded already, and we have to fit inside too.”

That was
certainly true.

“All
right, take it all out, everything from both. We can load mine with the gear we
need most – weapons and emergency supplies are priority – and put the rest in
the Grand Cherokee. We’ll collect it later when we get a chance.”

Dale
retrieved his rifle and shot a zombie. It had shambled out from behind a
toppled billboard.

“More
are coming,” observed Tara.

“We’re
only ten miles south of Billings,” I said. “We should try to get this done
fast.”

The
route we had chosen was to follow US Highway 212 toward Billings, bypass the
city by hopping on some agricultural roads, and then take the highway the rest
of the way to Yellowstone.

“I count
one, two, uh, let’s see, six…”

Dale
shot another.

“Make
that five,” corrected Mary.

“Dale,
scoot forward a ways. Tara, you got the other side. Mary and I will move the
gear.”

The
twins hurried off.

“Why do
I have to do the hard part?” protested Mary.

“Because
this is best all around. Come on. If we get this done fast, we may arrive in
time for dinner.”

“Well, proper
food is better than rations, and being guests we might even get a special
treat.” That seemed to cheer her up.

*
* *

“You
know, I think our town is nicer.”

“Definitely,”
I agreed, keeping my voice low so no one would overhear. No sense offending our
neighbors. “They do seem to be a lot less organized.”

Mary
nodded. “That’s cause you like to plan and then plan some more, being crazy
that way.”

“Briana
helps.”

“Nope.”
She took a seat atop a large boulder. “You do the planning. She just makes it
happen.”

“I…
That’s not entirely somewhat true.”

The
teenager pointed at a clump of cabins. “See how they put them? They don’t even
have roads or anything, just smushed grass and dirt where people walk. I bet
that gets real muddy when it rains.”

“Probably.”

The
people in Yellowstone National Park, like us, had constructed hundreds of
cabins but with two key differences. First, they favored single room buildings
while ours tended to have two or three. Even more obvious was that our town was
well planned with an ordered grid of streets. Our friends seem to have placed
their homes all willy nilly. I couldn’t see anything indicating a pattern, or
logic for that matter.

“Not as
safe either,” she continued. “They don’t have cliffs and giant stone walls
surrounding everything.”

“Safe
enough,” I countered. “They are miles from the roads, and the terrain is pretty
rugged. Just finding them would be hard, and as long as they aren’t surprised,
the people could move to one of their other settlements before the raiders
fought their way in. They have a lot of flexibility. More than us, I think.”

“Our
town is still nicer.” Mary frowned. “So, what are we going to do about the
raiders? You know yet?”

Tara
answered for me. “We shoot them in the head.”

Her
brother nodded.

“It’ll
be a little more complicated than that, but basically, yes, we do want to kill
them, all of them.”

There was
a tiny minority who somehow believed we could work things out and come to a
peaceful resolution. This group of delusional men and women were almost all
recent arrivals, survivors we had discovered over the intervening months or
technicians flown in from the islands. Those with the misfortune to have lived
through the prior war with the raiders and the soldiers who had studied the
prophet’s tactics and behavior in painstaking detail were more inclined to
adopt a policy of genocide.

Genocide.
Unfortunately, it would not be that easy. I was going to kill the prophet given
the chance, and I was going to kill anyone who rode with him. Yet, those
monsters were traveling with their families, including hundreds of children.
What was to be their fate? And how would they react, both long and short term,
when we did get around to slaughtering their parents? It was complicated, and I
had no good answers.

“When’s
the meeting starting?” asked Mary.

“Supposed
to be later tonight. As soon as the guide gets back, we’re going off again to visit
the last bit of the park that’s relevant to the discussions. They wanted us to
see the area we would likely be fighting in before talking strategy.”

*
* *

“Ideas?”
Captain Briggs looked around the room.

“I don’t
like the layout,” I offered. “If we operate out of the settlements, even just
the one closest to where the raiders are supposed to be gathering, our supply
line is going to suck. We should leave the villages out of it completely and
just build a base near the edge of the park.”

“We
already have cabins for storage and trails between all our little towns,”
commented an older man. I didn’t know him. “Everything needed is right here.”