The Reckoning - 02 (4 page)

             
I scanned the area around us and listened for any sound that might indicate more of the things were coming our way. After an long moment, nothing emerged from the trees and I didn't hear any telltale sounds of their approach. For the moment, we were clear. Once I was sure that it was relatively safe, it was time to continue on with the mission. We really needed those supplies.

             
“Time to go shopping, boy,” I said, gesturing towards the houses.

             
My sister-in-law’s yard was huge.
It had to be at least three acres.
I trotted along in a crouch, heading for the shed at the western edge of the yard.
I mainly planned on using it as cover, to get a better look at the rest of the yard.
I wouldn’t rule out getting to the tools inside of it, though.
Some of them were actually mine that I left here to work on the boat.

             
Moving around the backside of the shed, I peered around to get a better look at the back of the house and the house next door.
My sister-in-law’s house looked like it hadn’t been touched.
It looked normal, despite the chaos all around us.
But the house next door was a different story.

             
I could see that all of the ground floor windows had been boarded up.
The lowest ground floor windows were eight or more feet off of the ground, but the basement windows were right at ground level.
They were boarded up, as well.
The man who lived next door was a retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant named Myron Graves.
He’d spent twenty years in the Corps and another twenty as a rural postal carrier.

             
Myron was one of the good guys.
At sixty-two, he was still in better shape than I was.
He liked to drink beer and tell stories.
We’d shared plenty of each while working on the boat.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.
If anyone would survive this mess, it would be Myron.
He lived alone in a big two-story house that he’d bought with his G.I. Bill when he left the Corps.
He’d lived there with his wife, until he’d lost her a few years ago to cancer.
They’d never had any kids of their own, and had pretty well adopted my boys.

             
I should have told Karen to take Myron with her out on the boat when it all went to Hel.
He probably wouldn’t have gone with her, though.
He was like that.
He always said he’d spent the last twenty years fixing up that old house, now he’d stay there until he died.
I hoped the stubborn old bastard hadn’t gotten his wish.
I could really use his help.

             
I could see several zombies in the distance, but they were too far away to be an immediate threat.
I crept silently around to the door of the shed, only to find it locked.
I knew the key was in the house, hanging on a hook beside the back door.
The problem was that I had no way of knowing what else might be in there, too.
I’d rather not take the risk.

             
Using my multi-tool, I started at the bottom hinge and pulled out the pin.
Then I repeated the process at the top.
I caught the door as it began to fall and slid it to the ground with as little noise as I could.
Then I peeked inside the shed.
It was just as I remembered it.
There was a large familiar green lawn tractor with all the green accessories, along with numerous yard tools and garden implements, not to mention my big red toolbox.

             
There were also two five-gallon gas cans for the mower.
I checked them and found them both to be full.
I always said that my sister-in-law had a touch of OCD.
Everything had to be clean and in its place.
Every time I mowed her yard, she made sure to refill the fuel cans.
That was good news for me.
If my wife’s blazer needed fuel, there was ten gallons right here.
That was more than enough to get me back to Springfield.

             
Moving to the toolbox, I opened the second from the bottom drawer and found what I was looking for; a short handled sledgehammer I used for taking the hull apart on the boat when I was restoring it.
I used to joke and call it
Mjolnir
when I used it.
Now, I’d call it that for another reason entirely.
It would make a great weapon against zombies.
All I’d need to do is fashion a chord or a thong around the end of it to keep it from flying out of my hand.

             
Grinning like a kid in a candy store, I stuck the haft of the hammer in my belt and kept rummaging for gear.
I took a hacksaw from my box and a portable tool kit.
I pushed the wheelbarrow out onto the grass and loaded a few tools into it.
Then I pushed it around to the side of the shed.
I’d use the wheelbarrow to ferry gear back to the raft.
It’d be far easier than carrying it all.

             
After a quick scan of the area, I was still zombie-free for the moment. I finished up by setting the two gas cans beside the wheelbarrow.
The last thing I grabbed was a double bladed ax that I used for woodcutting.
I cut wood every year for my house and for my sister-in-law. I briefly considered grabbing the chain saw, but decided against it because of all the noise.
It was time to move on to the next objective.

             
Grabbing the handles of the wheelbarrow rickshaw style, I headed across the yard towards the back of Myron’s house.
Odin trotted ahead of me, his ears perked up and sniffing the air.
If he wasn’t growling, I took it to mean it was clear.
I could see zombies in the field across the road as I passed between my sister-in-law’s house and Myron’s.
Fortunately, they were too focused on chasing a cow to notice me.

             
I stopped as I reached the back of Myron’s house and climbed the steps to the back porch.
I could see through the screen and noticed that the porch door was tied shut with twine.
Slipping my combat knife out of the sheath, I slid the blade between the door and the frame and cut the twine.
Then I used the blade to pop up the old-fashioned hook latch that was locking the door.

I pulled
it open as quietly as I could, but it still made a creaking noise as the old rusty spring extended.
Odin and I slipped inside and I shut the door behind us.
I looped a few lengths of the twine around the handle, just in case.
Then I knelt down below the windows and waited.

             
Odin didn’t growl and I didn’t see any zombies come around the house, so I stood and approached the back door to the house.
I froze mid-step when I saw the curtain move.
I held my breath, not sure if it was Myron inside or a zombie welcoming committee.
Experience had also taught me to be wary of the living.
Not that I thought Myron would go bad, but who knows who might have taken over his house.

             
“Whoever the fuck you are,” said a raspy voice that I recognized, “get the hell off my porch.”

             
“Gunny, it’s Wylie,” I replied, softly.

             
“Wylie, who?”

             
“Wylie Grant, from next door,” I said, trying to keep my voice low.

             
“Oh yeah,” he snapped. “Fucking prove it, asshole!”

             
“Open the door, you fucking
Jar-head
,” I replied, grinning.

             
“Aw, shit.
Why didn’t you say it was you?” he asked, opening the back door.

             
Gunnery Sergeant Myron Thaddeus Graves was still an imposing figure at 62 years of age.
His barrel chest and lantern jaw were the epitome of the image of a Marine.
He still kept his iron-gray hair in a regulation buzz cut.
He was wearing a pair of fatigue pants with combat boots and a black Marine Corps t-shirt.
There was a k-bar knife on his belt and he was also holding an AR-15 at the ready.  The barrel was pointing towards the ground.

             
“Get your ass inside before the
gawd-damned
zombies see you.”             

             
I didn’t wait for another invitation.
Odin and I slipped inside and he shut the door behind us.
Then he slid a wooden crossbar into place, locking the door solidly shut.
The small window in the door wasn’t big enough for anything to get through, but he had it covered with a thick curtain so nothing could see inside.
With the door shut, he turned to me and smiled.

             
“I never thought I’d be so happy to see your ugly mug,” he said, extending his hand.

             
I took it readily and shook it.
Myron had a grip like a vice.

             
“I didn’t know if you’d be here or not,” I said. “Or even if you were alive.”

             
“Where the hell else would I go?” he said, grinning. “This place is all I have.
I’ll be damned if I let anyone run me out of it, dead or otherwise.”

             
“Are you secure?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

             
“The ground floor and basement are,” he replied. “Upstairs windows are all covered with blankets.
I don’t have power but I do have a whole fuck-load of candles and kerosene lamps.”

             
“Outstanding,” I replied. “How are you set for guns?”

             
“I’ve got my AR, here,” he said, shaking the rifle. “Plus, I’ve got this.”

             
He pulled a Colt 1911 .45 out of his waistband.

             
“Then there are the guns I have in my bedroom.”

             
“What do you have?” I asked. “I’m limited to just pistols.”

             
“Shit, son,” he replied, grinning, “I’ll take care of you.
I’ve got a few rifles and a couple shotguns upstairs.
There’s enough ammo to hold out for a good long time, too.”

             
“I can’t stay here,” I said. “I’m going after Karen and the kids.”

             
“I thought they were out on your boat.”

             
“They were,” I replied.
“I came after them as soon as I got clear from the department.
We pulled them out and I sent them back to the jail in Springfield.”

             
“Why didn’t you go with them?”

             
I recounted the tale to him of how I’d realized that we wouldn’t make it to the Humvees.
I told him about the marina and my decision to blow it up.
Myron listened in silence as I brought him up to date on everything that happed since then, too.

             
“I should have known you were responsible for that explosion,” he said when I finished.

             
“Yeah,” I agreed, “I’ve always known how to make an exit.”

             
“Are you sure they made it?” he asked, his face grim.

             
“I know they made it away from the marina,” I said. “I only have my gut telling me that they made it back to the jail.
I think I’d know it if they didn’t.
I know I’d feel
something
.”

             
“Yeah, you would,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “I was at work when my Katie died.
I knew it, too.
I just felt it.”

             
I just nodded.
I’d heard this story before.
Myron and I had tossed back a lot of beers and shared a lot of stories.

             
“I hate to ask this, Gunny,” I said, “but can I take a couple of your guns?”

             
“Nope,” he replied, grinning. “
We
’
ll
take them all with us when we go.”

             
“I can’t ask you to go with me, Guns,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re safe here.
It’s gonna get ugly before I make it back to the jail.”

             
“All the more reason for me to go with you,” he said, adamantly. “Just how far do you think you’d make it, just you and
dog-zilla
, there?”