OUTNUMBERED volume 1: A Zombie Apocalypse Series (4 page)

Ira Sparrow didn't let the comment lie. His lean frame stood as he interrupted her. "Mrs. Schaffer, we're all terribly sorry for your loss, but Tom did what had to be done. Anyone in our group would have done the same thing. I'm a
veterinarian and
I serve as the doctor here. I examined Walter after he died. It appeared the infection entered his body around the skin at the base and sides of his fingernails. His cuticle areas were red and badly swollen. If Tom had been away one of us, likely Shane Holescheck or me, would have ended your father's life. It had to be done for the safety of everyone here, including you and Paige. Please don't blame Tom for your father's misfortune because it's unfair and not true." Ira sat. Kira cried quietly but nodded.

Janice seized the moment to speak into the empty silence. "Kira, can you please tell us more of who the Schafers are?"

Kira brushed tears away with the back of her hand and cleared her throat. "My husband, Carl, had been a Navy Seal. My father was an avid hunter and outdoorsman, but he had no military background. Carl correctly saw the course of the zombie affliction early on. He tried to warn relatives, friends, and neighbors. No one listened seriously. They mostly agreed, but all of them had misplaced faith that the government could and would contain and eradicate the zombies. After all, this was the USA and they believed we were invincible.

"Carl trained me, Paige and my father as if we were Special Forces recruits." She smiled and patted Paige on the thigh. "We learned a lot and improved greatly, but, of course, we were never equal to Carl or any other special forces trained person.

"My father had owned a cabin at the edge of the Mark Twain Forest in southeast Missouri for many years. We moved there before the zombie's began to spread to our locale. The area is remote, and zombies didn't wander there often. We felt safe back in the deep woods, but we had to venture out routinely for food and other supplies. That's how we came to be at the Walmart in St. Peters where Carl died." Kira looked at me. "I apologize for blaming you for my father's death. I know it wasn't your fault, but...."

Paige cried and clutched at Kira's arm at the mention of Carl's death. Kira didn't ask her to address the group.

Kira wiped tears away and straightened. "I would like to know more about the origin, workings and structure of your group, so we know who you are and what to expect."

Shane remained seated but raised his hand to get Kira's attention.

"I'll take that Mrs. Schafer. I'm Shane Holescheck." His red hair and short red beard outlined a ruddy complexion. "A year prior to the first recognition of the zombie affliction spreading across the Mid East and Africa, Tom won the Illinois State Lottery. He owned a construction business, and he and his wife, Emma, loved to ride horses. She was Tom's office manager, a part time physical fitness trainer, and a horsewoman. She died recently during a zombie attack.

"After taxes, Tom and Emma had almost six million dollars. They bought two hundred acres of ground here where this building sets. Sixty acres are tillable, the other one hundred forty acres is woodland with a thirty-two acre lake. They'd planned to build a large horse barn with an indoor competitive riding arena. They had dreams of training and boarding horses and working that together in addition to his construction business.

"Before the zombie's attacked major European cities, Tom changed the building plans and made it into a place of refuge. John Alton, our mechanical engineer, solved the detailed engineering aspects. Tom and Emma invited twelve of their best friends and their families to join them at the farm and prepare to live here for the duration of the siege we all anticipated. All of us agreed the threat to our country was great, and we felt the politicians would dither away precious days and weeks with their infighting and one upmanship. We predicted the government would be overrun just as the Mideast and Asia had been. Europe was in the first stages of failure and the apocalypse was clearly spreading faster than they could react to it. We strongly felt we would be next.

"All of the original twelve members had a say in the design and construction of the facility. We quit our jobs, moved trailers to the property, and began building this one hundred foot by two hundred foot, two-story building ourselves. It has many special features we'll be glad to show you.

"Two deep wells were drilled inside the perimeter of the building before the concrete floor was poured and the building was erected. Outside, four, twenty thousand gallon fuel tanks were buried; one is for gasoline and three contain diesel fuel. We have three different sized diesel generators plus solar panels on the roof. We even have geothermal heating and cooling to save on fuel needed to run the generators. Our water tower has a ten thousand gallon tank that sits seventy five feet in the air.

"When we started, some of our friends and relatives came here and laughed at us and said we were foolish. Just another crazy bunch of doomsday preppers. I haven't seen them in the last year, so I assume they're all dead.

"Most of the remainder of Tom's winnings, plus the savings of the twelve members, was spent to buy all the food, fuel, medical supplies and materials that were still available. We bought additional firearms and all the ammunition we could find in a one hundred mile radius. It didn't take long to learn others had the same idea. Some gun stores were sold out before we got there. Luckily, long before the zombie plague hit the US, we had finished our building project and supplies collection. Before the government and banks failed we converted our remaining US dollars to gold coins. At the time that made sense, but since then we've realized the new currency is guns, ammunition, medicine and food.

"During any free time and at night, we all worked on the group's rules and procedures our governing body would follow; they're quite simple. You'll be given a copy of all those items as soon as you're settled in and ready to read them. Ask my wife, Janice, for copies when you're ready.

"Weapons training and target practice, physical fitness, and other specialized training and watch duty are mandatory. A schedule for the following week is posted outside the office every Friday morning. It's your responsibility to check the schedule and show up for your scheduled assignments. School classes for all children run Monday through Saturday from eight to three unless they're sick and Ira Sparrow excuses them.

"Welcome to our survivors group, Kira and Paige Schafer." The entire group stood and applauded the newcomers with enthusiasm.

Kira didn't smile widely, but her attitude toward me appeared to have softened somewhat after listening to Ira defend my actions.

I ended the meeting with other upcoming assignments and congratulations to all members for volunteering for the field trips that gradually increased our supplies. The last thing I mentioned was the three recent occurrences of other humans seen within a twenty mile radius of our compound. They'd not made an effort to engage our people, but instead had sped off. The leadership group was concerned but not to the point of doing anything except cautioning our people to stay watchful. Kira stood ten feet away speaking to Janice. I felt a nudge to my side. Connie smiled and handed me a bite of bar cookie our cook, Andrea Michaels had made.

~*~*~*~

For three weeks, I'd quietly observed Kira's training results. I was impressed by her dedication and achievements. I'd never seen anyone train as religiously as she did. Not once did I see or hear of her shying away from the hardest and most physically demanding training sessions. Her previous training with her husband had apparently made her aware of the challenges ahead of her, and his death undoubtedly drove the seriousness of it home. To her credit, she endured the long hours and sore muscles without a single complaint. I and the other instructors admired her stamina and devotion and told her we were proud of her efforts and results. Outside of our contacts concerning her training and work assignment, I felt anytime I tried to be sociable she avoided me.

Although we'd learned from experience that large caliber handgun bullets .40 and larger were the best method of dispatching zombies at close range, we also recommended ball bats and wrecking bars as a last resort if forced to deal with them hand to hand. Kira flew threw the firearms training and then requested additional training with hand-to-hand fighting, knives, defensive and offensive driving, – anything to become more lethal to defend herself, Paige, and the others from zombies or human adversaries. She showed the utmost determination to face any danger and survive. It was easy to respect her.

Little did I realize how determined she was or that her husband had taken precautions against dangers we hadn't even anticipated.

CHAPTER TWO

N
ear the middle of September, Albert Gonzales, Tony, and Kira volunteered to drive toward Kansas City in search of additional supplies. They left before dawn one morning and were expected to return late the same day. They were in one of the mainstays of our pickup truck fleet, a Ford F-250 king cab, pulling one of the twenty foot, duel wheel, enclosed trailers.

When they didn't return that night, I became fearful of their safety. But I also knew they could have merely run into a temporary problem. The next morning, Paige seemed calmer and more positive than I expected from a twelve-year-old. Several times I heard her telling adults, "Stop worrying, my mom will be back. She's prepared for whatever happens, you'll see. She's stronger and better equipped than most people."

Albert had filed the required trip itinerary before they left. Early the following morning, we sent three crews on alternate routes with four members in each truck to search for our friends. It was possible they'd detoured, wrecked or had some other problem. There was no trace of them.

On the third morning, two trucks and crews readied to depart on another search mission for our overdue friends. As the sun edged above the horizon, the overdue truck and trailer returned. We were alerted by the guards on both towers and felt jubilant that our provisions team had returned safely. But we spoke too soon. Something was wrong.

The truck stopped on the entrance road two hundred feet from the compound. The horn sounded for a full fifteen seconds before a single stranger stepped away from the driver's side of the cab with an uneven gait. Both towers reported there didn't appear to be any other people in the truck, and the male driver appeared to be unarmed.

Martin Radcliff Jr. accompanied me to learn what had happened to our crew. On the surface, it didn't look good for our missing people. We each carried side arms but no rifles. Martin and I were both proficient long range pistol shots out to forty yards.

The man we approached was stocky and grungy. He hadn't shaved in days, and his dirty hair was matted. He looked to be in his early to mid-forties, about five feet ten and two hundred pounds. His t-shirt and jeans were dingy and rumpled. When he moved it was with obvious difficulty and his left leg looked to be stiff and unwieldy.

We stopped ten feet away. "Thanks for returning our truck. Where’s the crew that was in it?"

"You mean the pretty gal with nice big knockers, that wetback Mexican, and the short, stout fella?" He smirked and made a nasty sound. "If you want them back alive you'll fill this trailer with food and ammo. In two days they'll come back in the truck. Otherwise, the dudes get beat and stomped and the woman gets screwed ‘til she can't take no more. Then we'll throw ’em all out to the zombies."

Junior stepped forward until I extended my arm to hold him back.

Scumbag grinned sardonically and laughed. "If I know Rance, he's probably drooling right now just thinking about gettin' in her panties."

Junior cursed, surged forward again and pulled his sidearm. I grabbed his right arm and pulled him back. I outweighed him by forty pounds but his determined momentum pulled me forward a step. "Hold on, Junior, don't do anything rash. Holster your gun." Junior cursed and pulled his arm away but complied.

The scumbag smiled around cruddy teeth. "If I ain't back by dark, your fellas are gonna be kicked and stomped hard, and the real fun starts with the gal. So you need to control that hotheaded punk, and get to loading."

"How about if we decide to make you tell us where our friends are?"

"Look at me up close, pussy." He raised the front of the t-shirt up high on his chest to show broad, ugly red scars. "I was tortured for six months in Iran by experts." He turned around and raised the back of the shirt. The gross scar tissues were in big ugly patches that extended from his shoulders to his pants where the skin had been peeled off in strips. "They didn't make me talk, but if you think you've got the gonads to do more than they did, go ahead and try. But in about twelve hours your friends start dying."

I turned to Junior. "He's got the winning hand, so we'll give him what he wants."

I stepped closer to, scumbag. "How do you want to do this?"

"The trailer stays right here. You can load stuff in pickups or on a flatbed trailer and haul it out here and load it for me. Now let's get moving ’cause I'm going in to see what you've got that I want. Go! Time’s a wasting. And I want ammo, lots of ammo."

I harshly pushed the scurrilous trash back three feet and moved to stand toe to toe. "You're not going near our building, scumbag. You'll get half of what we have, no more." I drew my Glock and stuck it to his forehead. "You can take my offer, or I'll kill you right here and take my chances on finding my friends."

He glared at me, and stared into the depth of the hatred in my eyes. Slowly he turned away as he backed down.

Junior muttered and smacked his left fist into his right palm as we walked back to our building. I was silent, thinking. Inside, our people gathered, and we relayed the ultimatum to them. As a whole, they didn't like it anymore than Junior and I had. I discussed the plan I'd thought of as I walked, and then I spoke to our law officer, Martin Radcliff Sr. He nodded and threw a grim half smile. He had the equipment to carry out my plan. We'd have two or three hours to implement it as the trailer was loaded. Shane directed crews to start hauling canned food and ammo out to the scum driving our equipment. I took Shane aside. "I'm certain from what scumbag hinted at that all three hostages are already being abused. The men may be dead, or they could be by the time we find them. Kira might even be getting raped as we speak. Make sure your crew understands how serious this is and what we might find if and when we get there. We're dealing with animals, so we're going in with no holds barred, and we're not taking any prisoners. If they want a war, we'll give it to them. Bring lots of ammo."

The trailer was fully loaded when I confronted Scumbag before he got in the truck cab. "If any harm comes to our people, we'll search for you until we find you. Think about that before you harm any of them."

He gave me the same nasty smirk as he settled into the driver's seat. "That's tall talk for a guy that's got no idea of where I'm going or how big a force is there waiting for me. See ya."

Seven of us stood helplessly as the scumbag thief cut a wide circle through the alfalfa and back onto the gravel road. When he was far enough off to not see my stern expression, I turned to Shane. "Let's do it. Is everybody ready?"

Shane somberly nodded. "Yeah, everybody we wanted volunteered. That no good bastard driving away is mine to deal with."

Junior wore motocross gear as he straddled a black 450cc Kawasaki dirt bike. He started the engine as we approached and let it warm. It had been modified with customized mufflers to suppress the exhaust noise, so it wouldn't draw the attention of zombie's. Two pickups waited, fueled and ready to roll with five people in each. Shane got in the driver’s seat of the first truck, and I rode shotgun in the second truck with Maria Gonzales driving. Right off I noticed she wore her black leather racing gloves. I hadn't seen them in awhile. Junior waved and took off in a cloud of dust and gravel with the front wheel pulled high off the ground. I swear I heard a high-pitched rebel call come through the confining black helmet.

A tracking transmitter had been stealthily inserted into one of the last boxes loaded in the trailer, and Junior wore one in his clothes. Martin Radcliff held the receiver on his lap in the first truck. Junior would keep the truck and trailer in sight, and make sure our pickups didn't get close enough to be seen. He had the most dangerous role because of the high risk of zombie attacks. But Martin Sr. wasn't overly concerned about his son being attacked and caught by zombies because the seventeen-year-old had won every motocross competition he'd entered since he was ten. If he couldn't out maneuver the stumbling undead no one could. While I was good on a bike, Junior was fantastic.

My main concern for him was the fast zombies we kept seeing in increasing numbers. Those moved a lot quicker than the others, albeit in jerky uncoordinated moves. Some fraction of the monsters must be mutating or evolving in someway. When Carl Schafer was infected by a fast mover, he became one of them within a minute. Their numbers might be growing exponentially by the month. But then I reasoned, the increase might not be that dramatic because few uninfected humans remained.

An added danger was that the kidnappers could have people watching to see if we'd follow Scumbag. Then Junior could be captured or killed. As I got in the truck I gave Ed Jarnigan a thumbs up sign.

He replied, "God speed," and gave me a knowing and reassuring wink above a broad smile.

Junior and each of our rescue trucks carried radios with a two mile range. A maximum range of two miles; if a big hill came between two radios the operators might be lucky to communicate a mile apart. Martin Sr. stayed in occasional radio contact with Junior for four hours. We ran fifty MPH and had traveled well into Missouri when Junior called.

Loudly he blurted over the radio. "I got too close and had to lay the Kaw down in a ditch. Zombies are charging—"

The sound of gunshots shocked us into action. Both of our trailing trucks increased speed to one hundred MPH and precariously dodged debris on the roadway.

“— from an abandoned house beside the road. Hurry, I'm in deep shit."

We heard more gunshots before he released the send button, and the radio went dead. My guts tightened at the thought that we might have lost Junior.

Forty-five seconds later, the drivers braked hard to slow and stop. The undead still standing had advanced to within six feet of Junior as he changed magazines in his .45 caliber Glock 41. At least seven zombies littered the ground between his bike and a dilapidated shack thirty feet from the road. Junior fired again as he scurried backward toward us. Eight heavily armed men and women exited the two trucks. Before our ground crew could act, two sharpshooters laid waste to the remaining three zombies from the moon roof openings. I counted ten of the undead on the ground besides the last three. The youngster did great considering the semiautomatic had a thirteen round magazine capacity. Junior waved, kick started the bike, put his gloves on, adjusted the helmet, and took off like a missile to catch our target. We were glad to quickly get in the trucks and follow Junior with the windows down to get rid of the stench of the undead we'd been too close to.

We continued south on Highway 63 for another hour. I wondered if Scumbag had been delayed by any of the undead we'd encountered or if he had merely stirred them up as he blasted through minutes ahead of us. So many rotting corpses littered the ground it was impossible to know which might have been fresh kills.

Junior called again. An encounter with a large group of zombies north of Columbia, Missouri, slowed him down as he detoured to evade them, and he'd lost precious minutes. He hadn't caught up to Scumbag before he reached the I-70 intersection. The scumbag in our truck could have turned east or west. We'd gotten too far back from the target for Martin Sr. to pull in a signal from the tracking device. I couldn't let my thoughts dwell on what would happen to our kidnapped friends if we'd lost the scumbag leading us to them.

Shane and I quickly agreed his truck would head east on I-70, and my crew would drive west. We'd drive as fast as possible for ten minutes, and then we'd reverse direction if we didn't catch up to our stolen equipment. Junior would continue south on 63. All three groups would loose radio contact and be on its own and left to its own methods. I held faith in the decisions Shane and Junior would make, but I was concerned about leaving Junior on his own again without backup for the time we'd be separated.

Before we reached the I-70 interchange, we met the same horde of zombies Junior had eluded. Upon hearing and seeing our trucks, they lumbered out to the highway en masse. Our trucks stopped side by side a hundred yards from the undead biters. All ten of us exited, took firing positions, and spent a minute on target practice. With all of the zombies down, both trucks zigzagged around and over the putrid hulks as we continued to the interchange. Running over the half-rotted undead had a downside.  When we returned, the trucks would have to be driven through our custom designed deluge truck wash unit to remove any trace of undead flesh and organs.

Our truck leaned hard to the left as Maria hit the curved exit onto I-70 West as fast as she dared. As she left the approach lane she cranked the speed up past one hundred MPH and held it there. No one cautioned her as she chased after the link to her husband's wellbeing and ultimately to his life. Several times she had to slow to sixty to dodge cars and other debris abandoned on the roadway. Finally, after the agreed-to ten minutes, Maria made a squalling turn, crossed the median and headed back to Columbia at high speed to get us back on 63 South. The fact she'd been a consistent winner in women's stock car racing several years in the past was the reason I chose her to drive.

Shane's truck wasn't in sight as we sped through town ignoring a few groups of zombies that shuffled out to eat us. We didn't see Junior's motorcycle along the way and figured he'd blasted past the dotardly monsters before they could react to him.

Before reaching the outskirts of town, we encountered eleven of the rotted undead spread across the road blocking our way. They stumbled toward us moaning and shrieking and flexing their fingers in hopes of getting a few bites at our flesh. Several rotting corpses lay scattered behind them. I wondered how long they'd lain there and if Junior had shot them or Scumbag had been delayed by them. Our truck stopped and a sniper stood up through the truck's moon roof panel and made quick work of exploding their diseased brains until they collapsed in the street with the other garbage of their kind. We continued south gaining speed again through the smelly carnage. In hindsight, I often had to stop and remind myself those had once been humans.