Shamblers: the zombie apocalypse (6 page)

As
Becky grieved her dead friend, I asked, “Has anyone gone into town yet?”

“
We haven’t had a chance to, but God willing we’ll find supplies and shelter when we do,” The Preacher replied.

“Well, there’s no tim
e like the present, is there?” I suggested while Becky composed herself.

He hefted his large cross up over one shoulder and replied, “I agree with you on that motion
, Nick.”

Our group, now numbering six, gathered what little
supplies we had and proceeded into town. We had very few weapons between u. For all I knew, the town could be full of zombies. Desperation forced us onward.

We searched the old cabin, found nothing of use, and moved up the main road. I soon
noticed a rustic, square sign that hung from a horizontal, wooden post by chains. In white letters that looked hand-painted, it read, “Payne’s Creek.” So that’s where we were. Hopefully we could procure a map. I was surprised but also relieved to see that main street was empty. I had never heard of the town before, and I had lived in Cali all my life. I suppose I’d never had a reason to come here, though, at least until now.

This region of
Cali was mostly just woods and tiny, sheltered communities. It had held no real appeal for most people unless they were looking to get away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. This region had been great for vacationing, but I wouldn’t have wanted to live here prior to the apocalypse. Ever since the outbreak, anyone who had lived in a small, rural community like Payne’s Creek considered it a blessing: these were the most likely places to survive.

As we cautiously passed
a few trailers, RV’s and homes, I began to get the uneasy feeling that we were being watched. I paused near an old, burnt-out station wagon and motioned for the rest of our group to do the same.

“What’s wrong?” Marcus asked.

“I feel like someone’s watching us.”

“Man, you’re fucking losing it,” he said
. He punched my arm for good measure. “This place is a ghost town.”

“I’d listen to your
friend, and also drop your weapons,” a new voice spoke up.

It came from the
window of a store that said “Payne’s Creek Store” in white, fat letters on the roof. I glanced over at the window and saw a man who looked like a younger, blonde version of Clint Eastwood. He lacked a cowboy hat, though, and one side of his face had been clearly burned pretty badly. He wore a black, leather jacket, and most importantly, he was pointing a pistol with a built-in laser sight at me. I looked down and noticed a flickering red spot on my chest, right above my heart.

A split-second later, a number of other
men and women popped up from within the store door and windows like some old, western shooting gallery scene. Each one held a rifle, pistol, or shotgun. All of them were pointed at us.

Chapter Seven

“Are you going to kill us?” I asked the Clint Eastwood-looking guy as he pointed his pistol at me from a window of the Payne’s Creek Store. It wasn’t the most intelligent question, and I didn’t expect an honest answer, but it was the only thing that came to mind. It was hard to think with a red laser-dot blinking on your chest. I simultaneously dropped my hatchet a he had instructed.

“That’s yet to be determined,” he answered in a gruff voice. Oddly enough, I found his cryptic answer reassuring: I’d dealt with a number of bad characters in the course of my travels. In my book, the fact that these people hadn’t shot us outright was a good thing so far.

With his pistol still pointed at my heart, the Eastwood impersonator bellowed out, “Search them, boys.”
One of his cronies, a six foot tall Spaniard wearing a sombrero and blue overalls and carrying a pump-action shotgun, stepped out of the front entrance to the store and walked around behind us. Two more men, one fat and one thin, holstered revolvers and met us in the middle of the street. They signaled for me to come forward.

“We’re unarmed,” I stated as I
held my hands up and submitted myself to their search. As they patted me with their hands and reached into my pockets to steal my lighter and comb, now my only possessions, I commented, “feel free to cup the balls too while you’re down there.”

The fat guy laughed. The thin one didn’t have the same sense of humor: he elbowed me square across my cheek
so fast that I didn’t see it coming. I fell to one knee and shook the cobwebs out. The guy absolutely rocked me.

“Larry doesn’t look like much,” the Clint Eastwood guy remarked, “but he’s a third degree black belt.
He is also a homophobe.”

“Ughh,” I groaned, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I suggest you do,” Mr. Eastwood told me. “We’re not looking for trouble here. We’re just being thorough. We gotta protect our own, you know what I mean?”

“I certainly understand,” I added.

“Good, then keep your mouth shut. Let these nice men do their jobs. I tend to get itchy on the trigger when I get nervous. I’m sure you understand.”

I swallowed. “Yes sir.”

“He’s not carryin’ a nothin,” the fat guy informed his boss. He rudely pushed me to the side and called out, “Next!”

I was instructed not to move as everyone else was searched. When it came Becky’s turn
, the fat guy commented, “wow, yous’ a pretty looking thang.” Becky’s only response was to sneer and turn her head away from him. As he frisked her, he groped at her rather unnecessarily.

At this point in my life, it was easily to tell
the difference between a reasonable search and seizure and a fat pervert squeezing a pretty’s girl’s pussy and rubbing her tits for the fun of it. Becky suffered the indignity as best as could be expected. I could tell she was uncomfortable and utterly embarrassed. I resisted the urge to attack the fat fucker. I made a silent vow that I would punish him as soon as the opportunity arose.

One by one, w
e were searched. The few possessions we had were stolen. When it was done, Mr. Eastwood came out of the store and down to the street. He was accompanied by the rest of his crew.

At the far left, I
saw a black version of Rambo. He was complete with a bandana and carried, of all things, a sledgehammer. A LMG (light machine gun) with a telescopic sight and a shoulder strap hung down by his waist. I wasn’t certain who manufactured it, but I suspected it was a British or Belgian SAW. Whatever the case, it was certainly an intimidating weapon. Furthermore, the black John Rambo didn’t look the least bit encumbered by it.

To his right,
in stark contrast to him in every way, was a thin white, redheaded girl. She didn’t look much older than fifteen and reminded me of the girl from the Wendy’s commercials they showed back when we had TV. The main differences were that she wore an eye patch over her left eye and she wasn’t eating a double-cheeseburger. Oh, and she carried a sawed-off shotgun. It looked much too heavy for her to handle effectively, but she kept it trained on Marcus the whole time.

Mr. Eastwood walked toward us in between her and a
short blonde. Her eyes were like blue ice. Her ponytail went about halfway down her back from what I could see. She was wearing tight, black yoga pants, a maroon and white windbreaker, and a large knife in a wide belt at her hip. Her hips looked great. She swayed them as she moved. Even pointing a 9mm Glock at us, she still managed to inspire feelings of lust. If no one killed me here and now, I would enjoy checking out her ass in the future.

The last member of their group was at the far right. He was a towering giant. His tight
, white t-shirt hardly contained his iron biceps. He looked like one big muscle in a shirt, really. His hair was blonde. I imagined that he was Swedish or possibly from whatever region Arnold Schwarzenegger had hailed from before he’d been turned into a zombie. Whatever the case, this guy looked like he dieted on pieces of rebar. He was so badass that he didn’t even have a weapon.

They were a surly lot, for sure. And they were very well-armed.
We were pretty surly, too, for what it counted for considering we had no weapons.

“We can do this a few ways,” Mr. Eastwood instructed. “
Here are your options. Option one: we can send you on your way, and you keep going and don’t look back. Option two: we can kill your whole group right now. Last of all, option three: you can stay here and work with us to defend our town. If you stay, you’ll need to gain our trust, and believe me that won’t be easy. We’ve been betrayed before, so we’re not about to let it happen again.”

“That’s how I lost this eye,” the redhead
motioned to her patch with the barrel of her shotgun.

“I’m fucking talking, Wendy,
God damnit!” Mr. Eastwood said with agitation. “Don’t fucking interrupt.”

“Yes sir,” Wendy replied and bowed her head.

I wondered if that was really her name or if they just called her it as a joke.

“So,” Mr. Eastwood continued, “What would you prefer to do?”

“We’re fucking dead if we leave as sure as if you cut us down now,” Marcus added. “We’ll stay here and help.”

The rest of us nodded in agreement.

“That means you’ll need to work alongside us, under our supervision, for as long as we see fit. You will each pull your fair share. I’ll have no slackers. You break the rules and we either throw you out or we kill you, depending on the severity.” Mr. Eastwood allowed that to sink in for a moment and then asked, “Am I understood?” 

“Yes, sir, we’re clear on that,” I assured him.

“Alright then,” he smiled. He clicked the laser-sight of his pistol off and tucked the pistol into a pocket inside of his leather jacket. “We’ll get you your possessions back in a few days. Until then, I assume you’re all hungry?”

“Fuck yeah we are,” Marcus added.

“We’ll get you something to eat and go over the rules in more detail afterwards,” Mr. Eastwood said. He paused for a moment, smiled again and added, “Welcome to Payne’s Creek. I’m sure you’ll like it here.”

Chapter Eight

I spent the next
two weeks learning the rules of our new establishment. I learned that Mr. Eastwood’s real name, or at least the name he went by, was Karl Yates. He ran a tight ship. At any given time, five guards were on duty. This included a sniper in the town clock-tower where the old town hall was located (which was also used as our barracks). It had been the unidentified sniper who’d first seen us approaching. He had used a mirror to alert the other townsfolk so they could ambush us. The people we had met in the store with Mr. Yates were considered his elite killers -according to the regular townsfolk.

In hindsight
, I was very glad that we hadn’t been armed or attempted a firefight in front of the store: that sniper would have cut us down easily. Several of us could have been dead before anyone even realized where the shots were coming from.

In addition to the guards, Mr. Yates also sent out regular scavengers. His people had long since pillaged the resources of Payne’s Creek. They now ventured into neighboring towns. Instead of sending out one person (as we had done,) they had enough survivors to send groups of three. This helped people to stay alive longer, and it also allowed the groups to travel further. The rule for scavenging was simple: never come back empty handed. Mr.
Yates didn’t care if it took scavenging parties a week to complete their mission, so long as the team returned with useful items. If they never returned, well, we all accepted that as a possible outcome.

The rest of
the townsfolk, including myself and my friends, mostly farmed or found useful ways to help out. We pretty much worked in the fields all day. It was difficult, tough work, but it provided food. The crops were our most valuable commodity, more precious even than ammo. If anyone was caught stealing food, the penalty was death. On day three, one of the guys who’d come in with our original group was caught putting some pea-pods in his pocket.

The Spaniard with the sombrero noticed and announced the theft. After a brief argument and scuffle, my associate was subdued. He was hauled into the middle of the street by the Spaniard and the fat ass (I learned his name was Clod). Mr. Yates then unceremoniously shot him in the back of his head, and he made sure to double-tap the body.

The Preacher and I were forced to bury him at the edge of town because he had arrived with us. It was meant to be a moral lesson. 

Unlike my original camp, Mr. Yates didn’t believe in rotating duties. He was in charge, and that was all there was to it. Everyone else was assigned a duty as
he saw fit. He alone chose what each person’s task was each day. He claimed that everyone’s job was based on their abilities.

Oddly enough, I noticed that he played favorites with his “elite” group.
As an example, the large, black Rambo-looking guy (whose name I learned was Sha’Quizz) almost always served as a guard. He had prior military experience and, more importantly, he was a great shot. Furthermore, he had grown up in Oakland. I figured both qualifications made him suitable for surviving the apocalypse: if he could make it in Oakland, he could make it anywhere.

I was usually just a farmhand
alongside Marcus, The Preacher, and a few others. Mr. Yates never changed our duties because he said we were performing them sufficiently. This was fine by me. We talked and joked as we worked. Life developed the feeling of normalcy again.

Eventually, w
e earned a measure of trust from Mr. Yates. As a reward, we received all of our confiscated items back (except for my hatchet because I learned that someone else had broke it while splitting wood).

I could have been annoyed by this because I was always used to having a weapon. However,
Payne’s Creek was relatively safe, all things considered. The guards were rotated in shifts so they never got too tired, and there were a good number of guns and munitions to go around in the event of a severe threat. Our sleeping conditions were also among the best I had seen since the start of the infection.

At night, we all went
up a ladder to the second floor of the old town hall. We pulled the ladder up behind us once the last person was accounted for. Everyone was then forced to strip naked so we could be inspected for bites (in case there was an effort to hide an incident). No one objected to this safety measure.

Once this procedure was completed,
we were then cordoned off in different rooms. I shared my room with my original group (minus one), and usually shared my mattress with Becky. It was only a twin, and was quite cramped, but it was still a mattress and I was happy to have it.

As I
sat on my mattress with Becky after one hard day’s work, she kissed my cheek. “You know I love you, Nick, don’t you?” she said as she stared at me and propped her chin on her hands.

I almost freaked out. I hadn’t expected that. “You do?” I asked.

She giggled and playfully punched me. “Of course, you bastard…I think we have a good thing here. Mr. Yates is stern but fair. I think we can make this a permanent home. We could be together for as long as we want.”

I smiled at her. “I suppose I love you too, Becky.” I kissed her back. “And,” I continued, “I hope you’re right.”

As she hugged me, I glanced across the room and noticed Marcus watching us. The look in his eyes was unsettling. I could swear he was jealous of me.

I looked over at him and asked,
“Is everything cool, man?” I didn’t want him to get upset.

He nodded, picked some dirt out of a fingernail with a pocketknife, and replied, “Yeah Nick, things are just fine. You have a good night.”

“You too,” I told him.

“Night Marcus,” Becky said.

Marcus was jealous. I could tell. I’d never seen him like this, and if there was one thing that could get in the way of friends, well….she was sitting beside me.

Oh well, fuck him. Becky i
s mine. He’ll just have to deal with it.

The next morning, as I ate
a breakfast of rice and day-old bread inside of the old elementary school with The Preacher, Marcus came into the room. I chewed on my bread and watched him. He grabbed his grub and turned to face us. I waved at him. “Hey Marcus,” I greeted him. The Preacher did likewise.

Marcus nodded to The Preacher, eyed me darkly, and kept walking. He usually sat with us. Instead, he dropped his metal tray down with a loud clang on the next table and sat down beside Clod, Larry,
Sha’Quizz, and Wendy. I watched them as they whispered together and laughed. Marcus looked over at me for a second then turned back to his new friends. I heard them muttering and laughing once again.

“What’s up with him?” The Preacher asked me. “Did you piss in his boots?”

“Nah,” I answered, “he likes Becky.”

“
You shall not covet your neighbors’ wife,” he commented. “Marcus is someone you should beware of.” 

“I’m not sure I need a warning, Preacher. We’ve survived together for a few months now. I am sure he’ll get over this.”

“Of, he may,” The Preacher said, “but I see the evil that lurks in his heart. He is rash, impulsive, and easy to anger. Whether or not you meant to offend him, Marcus will see this as a personal slight.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I told him.

He reached out and gently grabbed my wrist as I was bringing my fork to my mouth to eat some rice. As my rice fell off the fork, I looked up to make eye contact with him.

“You need to know
that I have your back, Nick. Whatever may happen, I swear I will side with you, Becky, and Raymond.”

“Who?”

“The other guy from our original camp.”

“Oh.”

“Seriously though, Nick,” he went on, still clutching my wrist. “I distrust Marcus and so should you. He wants Becky because he cannot have her. You have her, and you have become his enemy because of it.”

“I’ll think on that,” I said calmly, “but I think you’re overreacting to a petty grievance.”

“Do not say I did not warn you, my friend.” He released my wrist.

I finished my breakfast and got up.

Later that day, as I worked in the field, I chatted with The Preacher and the guy named Raymond who I barely knew. Marcus talked to them as he passed us, but he pretty much ignored me. After a few hours of unease, I decided to approach Marcus and clear the air. His childish attitude was starting to aggravate me.

“Hey, I need to talk with you, man,” I suggested.

He responded with irritation, “I’m working, Nick. What the fuck.”

“No, what the fuck to you, you selfish prick,” I shouted. “You’re going to listen to me.”

Marcus stood up. He dropped his rake and got within inches of my face. I looked up at him. He glared down at me. “You giving me orders now, Nick?” he growled.

“Yes I am,” I told him and jabbed a finger into his chest. “Becky is mine, so accept it. You’re acting like a fuck
ing asshole and I’m tired of your bitchy little attitude.”

By now, everyone else around us had stopped what they were doing and were looking at us
as we squared-off. It felt like high school again. A fight seemed eminent.

“You knew I had the hots for Becky,” he replied low enough so
that only I could hear, “and you went and started fucking her anyway. You probably even fucked her in the ass. She was mine, Nick, and her ass was mine too. You know that as well as me. I’m twice the man that you are.”

I head butted him.
While he staggered backwards I yelled, “you son of a bitch. I’m going to put you in your place.”

“Fucker!” Marcus practically shrieked. Blood was pouring from his nose. We went at it.

It took five guys to separate us, including Larry (though I will say, once he entered the fight, he subdued me in about three seconds).

The next day, Mr. Yates summoned us to his office
in the old police station. It looked like it hadn’t been updated since 1955.

“I hear we’ve had an issue,” he remarked while
he chewed on a toothpick. The huge, blonde Swedish guy (I had learned he was definitely Swedish) was standing behind Mr. Yates with his arms crossed. He played the role of bodyguard as well as I’d ever seen.

“I think the sun got to me,” I answered plainly.

“Same here,” Marcus agreed a second later. Neither of us would look at the other. We were both pretty well banged-up. I also didn’t’ feel like explaining our personal issue to Mr. Yates, and I surmised that Marcus felt likewise.

“I honestly don’t’ give a pig’s dick what you
two were fighting over, but I won’t have this shit happen again,” Mr. Yates responded. He slammed his fist down on his desk for emphasis. An old, broken fan atop the desk bounced from the force. “There will
not
be dissent in my town. Are we clear on this?”

“Yes sir,” we both responded. 

He spat the toothpick out onto the floor, took a swig from a bottle of
beer, and answered, “Good. Now that we’re all on the same page, let’s discuss your punishment.”