MZS: D. C. (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 4) (6 page)

I’ve been planning my life since I was in seventh grade. I can remember researching local art classes and telling my mother how to sign up. The first year was a little tricky, not knowing traffic patterns and distances from home, but I soon figured it out.

Delayed gratification and working toward a goal came naturally to me. My dad worked so hard at his startup for years before he could sit back and enjoy the fruits of his success. I must have learned my drive from him. But now what?

There is nothing left to plan and not much to strive for. What good is survival without the hope of something more? Summers in Europe are most definitely not in my future. Even a simple weekend getaway probably won’t happen again.

Plan, evaluate, and execute defined my approach to life. It sounds cold and harsh—no wonder I struggled to find a guy that would fit in my life. I guess a little off-the-cuff living could have opened up my opportunities.

In college I don’t even remember going out to a friend’s house and not knowing where I would sleep. When a friend told me there was no plan for coming home or that they weren’t sure where I could spend the night, I wouldn’t go. It wasn’t that I was afraid; it was more that I didn’t want to be uncomfortable because of something I didn’t know.

Tonight I have no idea where we are going to sleep. I don’t know how long we are going to drive or where we are going to go tomorrow.

It feels so good.

The death and the gore—oh my god, poor Jaden—are heart-wrenching. There are things that I have seen in the last twenty-four hours that will haunt my closed eyes for the rest of my life. Still, I feel at peace.

From the time that I walked out on Jason with no idea where I was going, my actions have been pure. I’m not just talking honesty, either, I’m talking satisfaction. I believe that if I were forced to relive the same time period, I would be comfortable taking the same actions again.

While working to achieve a specific well-defined goal, all of my actions were trade-offs. An extra hour on one project was an hour taken from a different project. I could leave for an early dinner if I made myself work on Saturday.

Today I learned to fire a gun, a big-ass scary gun. There was no trade-off; it was just fire and help us survive or don’t and see what happens. Weighing pluses and minuses of shooting and destroying formerly living beings never entered my mind.

“Terri, how long have you been sitting in the Humvee?” Tucker asks from way in the back.

“Long enough that I can’t feel my fucking toes,” she growls back.

“Pat-O, do we need diesel? I kind of need to take a dump. If there’s a gas station clear, do you think we could stop?” Cupcake asks bashfully.

“We still have a quarter of a tank, but I suppose it make sense to start looking before it becomes an emergency. I’m not sure if there is going to be power on at any of these places, so we may need to siphon again,” Patrick responds.

Part of me wants to interject and suggest a plan: wait for a sign indicating a service station, pull over, check it out, proceed with caution. But a bigger part of me wants to just accomplish the task at hand. Stop when we see a gas station, pull up to the pumps, and get fuel.

“Weren’t you guys in a gas station after you got out of Boston?” I ask no one in particular.

“Sort of. It was really run-down, basically abandoned. There wasn’t any gas or anything,” Cupcake says.

“But it worked well, right? You felt safe spending the night?” I follow up.

“Yeah, it seemed pretty secure. It was kind of in the middle of nowhere so there were no hordes to close us in,” he explains.

“Do you think we should spend the night if we find a service station with a garage bay that can fit the Humvee?” I ask while looking out the window up into the sky.

“Can it, princess. There’s some radio chatter,” Terri snipes from the front.

The whole truck goes silent and I listen intently. At first there is nothing. I’m ready to start calling her out for the bullshit. We have no proof that she really did what she is claiming to have done before the outbreak. She hears things, sees things, and “knows” things that I don’t believe.

The static-filled voice comes across loudly. “USP Beaumont. Renegade is on lockdown. Repeat, this is USP Beaumont, we have Renegade and he is on lockdown. Perimeter is secure, resources are available.”

Silence.

I need to think analytically to understand the message. It was not plain English, which means that there is an obvious component and a subtle component. What are the parts that I can identify?

Lockdown is a security setting. This renegade thing is being protected.

Perimeter is the area around something. They have a safe place surrounded with defenses.

Resources are food water and shelter. They may have bullets and bombs available, too. The message feels like it’s coming from the military.

“‘Renegade’ is the code name for the president,” Terri says. “I’m searching for Beaumont and USP, but the Internet is getting real spotty.” She sounds nicest when she is searching for something.

“USP is a United States Penitentiary. Some of my mom’s friends had been guests at that type of establishment,” Tucker says. He has no hint of emotion in his voice.

“Renegade could also be patient zero or a test subject? Maybe they are making progress on a cure?” Parker says, pointing out that we have very little to go on.

“Does anyone know where Beaumont is?” Patrick asks harshly.

Thud.

A body bounces off the side of the Humvee. While we’re lost in thought, Patrick is still struggling against the zombies.

“I think their message is done. Maybe we should keep scanning to see if we can hear something else,” Parker doesn’t like listening to the dead air and I agree.

“Easy, smart guy. I’m going to give them another minute. If they repeat the message, we’ll know something more and if they don’t, we still know something.” Terri takes charge wherever she can.

They didn’t give details in where they were. That means the message was only intended for people who know what they are talking about. If you don’t know where USP Beaumont is, then you have no need to go there.

The good news is that this means there are other survivors. It also means that there are enough other survivors that they have plans and codes. They are organized and working together. This is how people survive. I hope they let us join them, if we can find them.

On the bad news front, we don’t have many ways to figure out where they are. We also don’t know if they would take us in if we can get to them. It looks like I may be at another roll-with-it moment. If we find them, we’ll just ask to join up, and if they say no, we go from there.

The static of an open communication causes Terri to hold up her hand to request silence. No words flow through the speakers. Our collectively held breath is released when the static stops.

“Give it another few seconds,” Patrick instructs Terri.

We all wait.

“Sorry about that,” comes over the radio. “We have thirty-plus evacuees requesting extraction. Resources are diminished and our window of opportunity is shrinking. Please advise on ETA.”

A group of more than thirty people is safe and communicating with someone that can help. This is good!

“Tell them we need extraction too!” I plead with Terri.

“Bad news Thunder,” a voice replies. “Resources have been reassigned to USP Beaumont. Extraction is not available at this time.”

Terri speaks into the microphone. “Hello?”

“Understood big D. We’re going to run-and-gun. Hope to see you in Beaumont.” The tone is even grimmer than the words.

“Hello, this is Terri, and we are in a Humvee outside of Washington D.C. Are you with the army?” Terri says quickly into the microphone.

“Terri, this is U.S. Central command operating out of USP Beaumont. Identify your rank and unit,” the voice demands.

“My name is Terri Anderson, I’m a civilian. We have six survivors and we’re on route sixty-six in western Virginia. Can you please help us?” Terri says, tears running down her face.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We don’t have the resources to get that far north. If you can make your way down here, we are accepting all survivors,” the man replies. I feel like I can sense sadness in his voice, though it is likely me projecting.

“Where are you?!” Terri screams.

There is no response. Either the communications network has fallen or the U.S. Central command had an urgent need.

“Shit,” Cupcake mutters.

Terri is holding on to the microphone, crying. Letting go of our latest glimmer of hope is tough.

The Humvee slows and I notice it turning. I check out my window for a horde or some other major problem, but don’t see anything. The truck rumbles over a couple of bumps that at this point I have to assume were zombies and I lean over to look out the front window.

We are pulling into a gas station and I can see the price sign with $3.84 showing on the green numbers for diesel. There are no lights on, but I also don’t see any zombies lurking about. 

Patrick gives clear, logical orders: “Parker and Tucker, can you guys figure out how we fill this pig with fuel? I think if you can find the pump number for diesel we should be able to find the underground tank and siphon from there. Cupcake, McLean, and I are going inside to find a shitter and see if they have food.”

Terri is left sitting in the rig trying to reach whoever that was we were just talking to. Even Patrick does not expect help from Terri outside of the vehicle.

The gas station is old, but not abandoned or run-down. I get the impression that the owners liked the quaint vibe of a backcountry garage. The small store has a few rows of shelving stocked with your typical gas station food and a row of coolers containing drinks and pre-made sandwiches.  

Everything is quiet. There are no signs of looting or a struggle. It’s like whoever was here just left and assumed they would be back any minute. I supposed that could actually be the case, but I kind of doubt it.

“I’ll be inside if you need me,” Cupcake says, and smiles, pointing at a door that says “Restroom.”

Walking over to feel the cooler doors I notice small hardware and automotive items intact on the shelves. Everything is too small to be used as a weapon against the undead. It’s disturbing that I think about weapons with the same importance as food or water.

The cooler doors are warm. Power has been out here for some time. The milk and juice in the first cooler are probably bad. Fortunately those didn’t appear to be their main sellers. The rest of the coolers are full of non-perishables: bottled water, soda, and beer.

“Didn’t you love snowballs?” Patrick says, surprising me, holding a package of pink snowball snacks.

I must have liked Patrick more than I thought. Jason and I had been together for more than six months before he found out about my snowball vice.

“Good memory.” I smile at him and take his gift.

Before I can open it, he pulls me close. His hug is strong and I can smell sweat and fear on his body, but I don’t pull away. This feels good.

“Can we stay here tonight? For some reason it feels right, you know?” I ask when we separate.

He looks around the building critically. There is not a lot to see, but I hope he can’t find anything that would cause him to object.

“It’s not that late. But I suppose we’re not really trying to get anywhere. Are you going to be okay on this hard floor?” he says after a few minutes of thought.

“Probably better than stuck in the Humvee with that smell,” I say with a smile.

“Then welcome home, I guess,” Patrick answers, slowly sinking down to the floor.

I sit next to him and take his hand. The skin-to-skin contact feels good. We’ve been sitting in the Humvee for hours, but I don’t feel like standing or stretching my legs. My head leans to the side and rests on Patrick’s shoulder.

My mind is blank and I lose track of time.

Eventually the bell over the door rings, announcing the arrival of Tucker and Parker.

“All gassed up, boss,” Tucker says. It’s good that he recognizes Patrick as the official leader now.

“I’m suddenly starving.” Parker walks to the shelves of junk food and scans them hungrily.

Cupcake walks out of the restroom and surveys the small store.

“I guess this is home for tonight? Just a warning though, the toilet doesn’t flush,” he says.

Tucker walks down the clear aisle and stands in front of the cooler. After a brief moment of consideration, he opens a door and pulls out a twelve-pack of beer. He walks around the store handing out lukewarm cans to each of us.

The door dings again and I can feel Patrick tense up.

“Beaumont is in Texas,” Terri announces.

“Well, that should be a fun trip,” Tucker answers, before handing Patrick and I our cans.

Terri ambles over to our spot on the floor and Tucker hands her a can. I can see that she wants to protest or say something, but for the first time probably ever she holds her tongue.