I shifted the Louisville slugger around in my hand. The smooth wooden handle was still foreign to me after using my machete almost invariably for upwards of a year. So much had changed since we'd found the dead body of a strange girl laying in our vestibule. So much was going to change if my small team made it past the end of the parking lot, eight blocks east and two blocks north, to that other cement fortress.
I said another quiet prayer, and contemplated the rope dangling down the wall before me. I pressed a button in my pocket; and the opening notes to Coheed and Cambria's "Welcome Home" played in my ears. I smirked.
"Lost my muchness, have I?" I murmured. I grabbed hold of the rope and, one-handed, swung myself over the edge.
Day 475.
"Ready! Aim! Fire!" Liz's voice rang out with a volume and authority that somehow made whatever she was saying seem of mortal import. Twenty arrows pierced twenty targets with impressive accuracy. What she was teaching was, indeed, of mortal import.
From my perch atop the dead freezers that bordered the store's former produce section, I surveyed the many activities taking place in this old Vallenmarkt building.
From where our seasonal items were once kept, I could hear a worship service going on with instruments both salvaged and crafted. Overhead, a group of gardeners tended vegetable plants, berry bushes and edible flowers. Behind me, a crew was cleaning up the area that'd been assigned to them in our weekly rotation. Somewhere in the back room, I could hear my second-in command, Manuel, cursing at a generator he was trying to repair.
Among the registers, a game of Monopoly was being played with real money. For some reason, I thought of Emma Stone.
Our motley crew of thirteen had grown considerably since Liz joined our ranks. Her knowledge of archery had made an entire pallet of abandoned sporting goods material suddenly useful. With Liz's new form of defense, we'd been able to perform short outdoor missions: rescuing survivors in neighboring buildings, getting further building and defense supplies from a hardware store across the street. We'd even made it to a gas station a number of blocks away and emptied their propane supply to meet our growing need for cooking gas. At a lumber mill behind our building, we'd fetched some supplies to make our own bows and arrows to use when the need arose.
Our most successful mission was the rescue and relocation of a college-age youth group that had been living in the church less than a block away. Not a single person suffered so much as a scratch in that effort; and our group had doubled that day. Since then, the community living in the Vallenmarkt building had reached over a hundred. I no longer slept alone on my freezer, but shared my end of the store with ten of the college kids.
I grabbed my Bible out of the freezer, climbed back up to my post and turned to Numbers 6. I took my time reading, savoring the chance I had to be alone and quiet with God. I'd often dreamt of leading people, of serving together and doing what I could to help others reach the fullest of their potentials. When the world fell to pieces and I was thrust into my dream job, it was a much busier task than I'd imagined it could be.
I was mulling over verses 24-26 when the musicians and singers arrived, dragging folding chairs and ready for Bible study.
I slid down a rope from my "bed" and pulled a folding chair of my own out of a freezer. The college kids I shared my sleeping area with were very impressed by my freezer/locker setup. Taking a seat, I smiled at the folks gathered around me and suggested we open with prayer
We talked about evangelism that day. Many people shared about how easy it once was, Back When, to stay hidden in church culture and church buildings. There was no pressure to go out to offer God's love to a broken world. After the infection hit, the world seemed too broken to bother helping; but folks were finding in their store-mates a desire for that internal peace that comes with knowing the King of the Universe is looking out for you. The freedom we had to openly and calmly discuss faith with our unbelieving friends seemed to make these believers wonder why they'd been so scared in the first place.
I encouraged them with this:
"In the first century, people were willing to face horrific, painful deaths if it meant they could share the truth about Christ with those around them. It's saddening to think we, Back When, got sheepish over an awkward conversation or a rude rejection. Let's decide now that, if things ever go back to how they were before, we'll remember the lessons we've learned here. We won't play it safe; we'll play it right."
Behind me, Manuel hummed in agreement as we closed with another prayer and dispersed for archery practice. I returned my chair to its place in the freezer and addressed Manuel with my normal raised eyebrow.
"Food's missing again. Still no clues. I even spread sand on the floor. Not a single footprint. It's like we're feeding a ghost."
The thefts could have been happening the whole time; but it wasn't until we started rationing food to keep up with our growing crew that we noticed food missing. One or two servings would vanish each day; the culprit never left a clue behind. More disturbing were the occasional footsteps in the middle of the night and jingling of keys.
I pondered the situation and told Manuel, "We may need to post a guard."
Manuel gave me a look.
"I know, I'm reluctant, too. I'll ask the group and see if anyone has any objections."
Manuel gave me another look.
"I know he will."
Everyone in the store gathered in our cafeteria, where I addressed them from a dairy carton turned upside-down. It was the closest thing to a real soapbox I was ever able to find. I explained once more the situation and the difficulties we were having in finding the thief. I brought the idea of posting the guard to the table and asked if anyone had thoughts on the matter before we voted. As Manuel had silently predicted, a man stood up. I gave him the floor.
"I don't know about everyone else; but this smells like the start of a police state to me. I don't like being guarded all the time; and I definitely don't like having to beg for food. I wonder how long it's going to be before your concern for our well-being has us in chains."
Every one of my twelve original crew members sighed in chorus. I could almost feel Manuel smirking behind me. Pastor Brett gave them a glare.
"Sir," I could barely keep my exasperation contained, "if this was a police state, I'd already have a guard posted. I am not forcing anyone to be guarded; I am offering it as a suggestion. As far as begging for food, rationing is really the only option we have right now if we want our resources to last. You'll recall we voted on that as well. If no one else has anything to add, we'll go to vote in this issue."
A few moments of silence passed.
"Very well, all in favour of posting a guard to protect the food rations, raise your hand."
All of my crew, all of the survivors from outlying shelters and a few of Brett's youth raised their hands. Brett coughed loudly; and those from his church retracted their vote.
"All against?"
Despite the overwhelming majority in favour, Brett stood and raised his hand with gusto. His whole group raised their hands reluctantly.
I appointed a man we'd pulled out of a bomb shelter as guard, a choice at which Brett balked. I invited Brett to help guard the post if he could be civil about it; and we dismissed the meeting.
"When are you going to step in?" Manuel asked.
"When someone asks me to." I replied.
"Isaac, it's clear he's not leading his team; he's manipulating them. Those kids need some help. Our crew could have him dethroned and locked in a cage without a sweat, if you'd give them a chance.
"No!" I nearly yelled, "No, we will not start their revolution for them. If they want to cut loose, we'll help them; but they have to say so. They have to make the first move. My leadership is based on a trust that I refuse to betray - that includes meddling in affairs that I'm not invited into.You guys are not to meddle, either. Do nothing until someone from their team asks."
Manuel sighed, but assented. Thinking again of how many of our conversations had consisted of me venting about that one man, I added, "Please tell me the moment those kids ask for their revolution."
My friend laughed.
For the rest of the day, I cleaned and rearranged the hygiene products corner we'd established in the deli. I included what we'd been able to pilfer from neighboring shops. As I tossed boxes back and forth and dumped smaller items into bins, an anger burned through me.
I'd heard that Brett was once a kind, gentle leader in his church. He wasn't the sort to pick fights or even start arguments. When the infection hit, his college kids said he changed.
Suddenly, he started running drills and barking commands. He used intimidation tactics to keep his kids in line and threatened violence at the first sign of subversion. I could tell he liked to cast himself as some sort of military leader. His youth were soldiers in his personal army; and he believed he was their fearless, beloved commander.
In truth, he struck me as a walking bundle of insecurities, someone who considered this apocalypse permission to live the adventurous life his former position had not afforded him.
In practice, he was little more than a schoolyard bully.
I heard Brett's voice shouting through the store; probably another kid who missed the bulls-eye in archery. I felt bad for Liz.
Day 476.
It was about two in the morning when the shouting started. I could hear Brett's voice again; and I wondered where he got the energy to be so worked up about everything. Then I heard shrieks.and the clatter of shelving. I sat up, suddenly very awake. Grabbing my machete, I leapt off the freezer, rolling as I hit the floor.
Even in the dark, I could make out shadows of zombies breaking though our barricade at the home and garden entrance, flooding into the store. It was like watching the Titanic sink, but without the bad acting.
I gave a shout and started hacking.
It wasn't long before I heard more slicing, grunting, bashing and yelling. This was a legitimate battle; and we were good at this. Another minute later, floodlights came on; and the "zing" of arrows from our trained archers, and the sounds of impact (Bodies sound much wetter than range targets) told me that our kill count was growing.
In my periphery, I could see Manuel arranging men to knock our barricades back in place with one unified move.
When you fight one zombie, there's a lot of maneuvering and technique involved. When there's a large horde gathering around you, I find it best to swing a blade toward whatever touches you first. Whatever you do, swing to decapitate. Poking or trying to hack through a skull will only get your machete stuck in something. Take its head off.
I shouted again, letting my friends know that victory was close. The fight intensified for a moment, pushing the swarm back outside. Manuel gave the order and, with more clattering and crashing, the barricade was back in place. The whole ordeal took about a half hour.
Cleanup was a routine as rehearsed and planned out as fighting. Archers put arrows into anything that moved on the ground. Sometimes, this meant putting down our own who'd been infected or injured beyond recovery. Life in a zompocalypse is never easy.
(I know that sounds like common sense; but I remember romanticising the apocalyptic life Back When. Somehow, I thought it'd all fall into place and I'd be living on canned ravioli and Arizona iced tea until society re-established itself.)
We melee fighters went through and bagged the bodies to be carried to the roof. Manuel's team - people who provided tactical support - took the bodies up and tossed them into our garbage pit. Once a week, we threw some kind of accelerant at the pit and set the whole thing ablaze.
We lost eleven people to that battle.
We killed seventy-one zombies in the fight and another six in the cleanup.
Eleven fighters, seventy-seven zombies and one girl nobody recognised.
Underneath some of the barricade we'd replaced, one of the men noticed a shoe. When he pulled on it, a twenty-something girl was found to be attached. When I arrived to investigate, everyone else had already taken a close look at her. I instantly placed her.
"That's Linda."
"Who?" Liz asked.
"One of my cashiers. I haven't seen her since the night everything started. She's skinnier than she was then; but that's definitely her."
Her effects had been placed to the side. Among them was an envelope and a hypodermic needle. The envelope was unaddressed; so I opened it. Inside was a long note. All the Latin-based words took a moment to dissect and make sense of; but, reading the note again, I knew that, though she was to blame for opening the door and moving the barricade, Linda was also to thank for all that would happen afterward. I shouted for Manuel.
Before he even stopped running toward me, I was talking, "We need to find out where this girl was hiding. I think we've probably solved the mystery of the missing food. Obviously, Linda had a key and dusted off her tracks when you spread that sand out. So, let's get Brett and the bomb-shelter guy off guard duty and have everyone scour the building for hidey holes."
I picked up the hypodermic needle and held it up to the light. As Manuel ran off to organise the search, I said a quiet prayer of thanks.
To be continued...
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