He had hoped that there would be some good news on the TV. All the local channels were displaying the beginnings of a press conference at the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. They had no explanations but plenty of theory and conjecture about recent events taking place the world over. He flicked channels in contempt, only to find a press conference from the White House with the video having been spliced showing images of the same situations throughout the world, in China, Russia, even far away Australia. All of the worlds politicians, doctors and scientists it seemed, would be unable to put the world back together again. His channel surfing ground to a halt on a channel showing something different: A Gill Grissom lookalike demonstrating how to kill the creatures, now semi officially tagged as “walking dead” or “undead,” and simply “zombies.” A gunshot echoed from the television, “They do not feel pain and will keep coming at you. Shoot them in the leg and they slow down,” On screen, the figure turned towards a second zombie, “Shooting any zombie in the torso will knock it back,” clearly demonstrated as two bullets punched in to the creatures chest, sending it sprawl. Gill paused, turning his attention back to the first zombie, that moaned and clawed its way across the ground towards him, its knees caps destroyed.
“The only way to kill these things is to destroy the brain,” he fired twice in to the face of the creature and it stopped squirming. “Shoot them in the torso to knock them off balance. A leg shot will slow them but the only way to kill them is the head. Aim for the head. Anywhere else and it’s your own ass.”
He shrugged and changed the channel again. Even in the cool air of his apartment, he found himself shaking slightly. He had done the right thing, killing those two things downstairs but he still grimaced at the memory from hell, and knew that it would be difficult getting sleep in the next few weeks or months. Sleep was not something that came to him easily anyway. His past kept up most nights, making him a natural for the night shift.
Whatever was coming, he decided, he was going to have to prepare for on his own. The first step, he decided, would be to keep some kind of journal of all these events. Just to help him get the facts straight, and partly, to help him cope with what he had done and would probably have to do in the coming days. He had considered starting it on his laptop – a light weight apple but almost as quickly opted for pen and paper. Pens would probably be easier to find than electricity if the world continued its downward spiral. Putting down his thoughts did not take as long as it should have, but he knew it was displacement activity: the last thing he wanted to do was to face whatever the hell was going on out there. He glanced again at what he’d scribbled down. “I’m not going to be able to read that in a few days time.”
His hands trembled as if he was having a seizure, and he shook his head, as if he was trying to clear his head, and more accurately, his soul of what he had just done to survive. Finally, he reached in to the back of his wardrobe and pulled out a large hiking bag and the motley assortment of survival, camping and other gear that he had accumulated over the years. Having always been something of an “on again off again” outdoorsman and casual camper, he at least knew how to use whatever equipment he had, and more importantly, he thought had a print out binder stuffed with all kinds of handy and useful information.
It was more the action, of doing something that helped calm his nerves. That and the rest of his arsenal were nearby. He had only three handguns, counting the Glock 18 stuck in the waistband of his trousers and the “riot shotgun” that was his principal form of close range home defense. Admittedly, his interest in firearms had grown somewhat in the few months he had been a resident of the United States.
The TV had continued to blare in the background and he ignored it. There was nothing of importance said and as far as he was concerned, whoever out there was on their own, just as he was. The hiking bag was packed, and then repacked as he reprioritized and resorted for what felt like the umpteenth time. However, he was finally satisfied that he had everything he needed. The only things needed were more food, water and gas for his car. He hoisted the pack and adjusted the straps, then hopped on the spot several times, making sure there were no lose fastenings that could make an unexpected noise.
Satisfied with his preparations, he reached in to his back pocket and double-checked his wallet, staring at the picture. A lifetime ago, and it was just about the only good reminder of his past, a happier time. The bad times, especially the worst of them, he wore on his flesh, especially his back. He was ready to confront the madness out there as he switched off the TV, unlocked the door and stepped out.
Standing at a hair’s breath over six foot two, his job as Assistant Executive Housekeeper kept him in reasonably good shape. He pulled the door shut and locked them out of habit, and pocketed the key
The echo of engines came from the street and he risked a quick glance out the window. It was a military convoy. National Guard: A single truck sandwiched between a pair of humvees with men at the roof mounted fifty caliber machine guns, with several men aiming out the back of the truck as well. The convoy had attracted some attention but it was a controlled situation, as the guardsmen had no problem applying extreme prejudice against the horde of zombies giving chase. The undead fell to the roadside, riddled with enough bullets to make them mere fragments of their former selves.
It was almost cinematic as farther down the corridor; locks were undone and thee door swung open. Two individuals stepped in to the hallway. The gentleman was clad in a well fitting business suit and the woman. She was dressed for the occasion in comfortable clothing with flat shoes, cradling a shotgun with the pommel of a katana possibly was visible over her right shoulder. They didn’t moan, or shamble towards him and it dawned quickly that they were human. The National Guard had departed and apart from the now corpse strewn street his car was still parked down below, “It is going to be an interesting ride,” he mused.
They exchanged brief nods before the best dressed amongst their group spoke up, “If the military are still making patrols through the streets, then there is a strong possibility that they can save us. If you people want to play hero, go ahead. I do not intend to be killed. I’m going to join up with the military that are trained to handle such a situation!”
He turned and bolted for the elevator as Cameron stared after him for a moment. The distinguished looking man now waiting for the elevator was obviously rich, and very conscious of the fact that his sheer wealth had allowed him to make powerful friends. “We should do exactly as we have been instructed and proceed immediately to the shopping mall Pioneer Place as it is the closest evacuation point.” He looked at the two of them, “You’ve got to come with me. You got to keep me safe,” he looked over at the raven-haired man, “I know that you both can do that. I don’t want to die.”
The man was actually starting to ramble and Cameron turned away from him for a moment, frowning in disgust, “You have any weapons with you? Or any idea as to how you are going to get there? Call me crazy because I think walking would be a bad idea,” he growled.
“The Morrison Bridge is a couple of blocks away. Once we cross that, it’s a straight road to the mall,” her voice was calm and controlled, and judging by the blood upon the sword she carried, she had already done the necessary to survive, “But we should get acquainted first.”
“Cameron,” he replied, leaning against the wall, holstering the weapons as leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, “Cameron Hunter.” He looked out the window again, and dropped away from it quickly, “Company! Stay down and shut up!” he hissed.
She moved over to the window and risked a glance, “At least twenty of those things out there. Name is Jaira, Jaira Coltquist,” she ducked away from the window, offering him an outstretched hand. He gave it a quick shake, taking a moment to savor her beauty, “Got a plan?” she asked, almost whispered to him, nervous about the undead horde moaning its way as it passed along the road outside.
“Stay alive,” he replied, “We wait for those bastards out there to move along before we make our downstairs and out to my car. Then we can worry about how to get over that bridge, if we can keep ourselves safe for the time being, we can worry about getting to the mall later.” He turned to the last member of their group, “Got a name?”
“Sir Steven James Rehnquist,” he paused to catch his breath, “I am a Professor of Political Science and a visiting scholar from Oxford, currently giving guest lectures at Portland State University. I demand that you take me with you and get me away from here,” he finished the opening lines of his speech.
Cameron cut him off before he could carry on with the rest of his obviously prepared and rehearsed speech, “Shut up! You’re going to catch hell if you don’t!” snapped Cameron. They watched, carefully, making sure to only leave themselves exposed for several seconds as the procession of undead made their way down the street, turned a corner and vanished, “Now that we don’t have to worry about them, my car is parked next to the door downstairs.”
A fist descended upon the fire escape door that lead up to their floor, accompanied by a mix of moans and groans. The sound of broken glass was accompanied by that of splintering wood as a trio of the undead spilled out in to the narrow corridor. Steven was terrified as he turned tail and attempted to run, nearly falling over his own feet as he did so.
Jaira tensed for a moment and dropped in to a defensive stance. For its scabbard the blade emerged with a quiet, yet firm hiss. She held the blade horizontal over her head, one arm outstretched in front of her. Cameron eyes if anyone bothered to look, would have betrayed a momentary fear. He had raised the Glock and managed to screw on the suppressor just as the frail door finally splintered and gave way under the barrage of blows. She moved forward.
He gave her a look that she would come to know well, a mix of irritation and infuriation as he snapped off the safety. Jaira charged forward as she ducked below the outstretched arms of the first zombie, the business end of her blade stabbed in to the throat of the second in the narrow confines of the corridor as she twisted her wrist. By extension, the blade also turned and ripped through the side of its neck, semi dry blood oozing like drool for a moment before the creature toppled. She spun the blade and stabbed downwards through its head before squaring off against the third.
Cameron sidestepped the clumsy blows, and grabbed an outstretched forearm throwing the creature off balance.His gun hand smashed the end of the silencer in to an eye and promptly blew the back of its skull and most of its brain down the corridor. The creature’s face went slack and he kicked the corpse against the wall.
He turned to find Jaira had decapitated the last of their opponents, “Let’s get in to cover in case more of those things decide to show up.” She bent and wiped down her blade upon the ruined shirt of her most recent kill, taking care to get as much off the blade before she returned it to its sheath, “Steven,” she said with a sigh, “Get off the floor.”
Cameron stared at the oddball pair for a moment, and found himself musing that they would be great in a book or novel.
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