Timothy Long - Beyond the Barriers

“You had a pretty good body count. Wayne put it at an even dozen, but I thought it was a lot less—maybe five. Dave from security said he bet you wouldn’t even make it. But you made it. Come on, fighter. I’ll find you a towel and show you the showers.”

I followed her out and down a passageway that was constructed of more shelves, until we reached a section of employee changing rooms. We chit-chatted as we walked, mainly about how I came in. She asked questions about the ride, how the roads were, if I’d seen any gangs. I asked her about life in the store, how people got along, how disputes were settled. She moved ahead of me at certain junctures.

The old rooms were set aside for breaks, training, and changing clothes. I followed her lead by taking a bucket of water, about a gallon, and a thin brick of hard white soap that was well used, then followed her into the room. She turned to me when we reached a juncture, then pointed to the right.

“You go in there.”

I smiled at her. Of course. What else did I think was going to happen? I started to say something, but a small grin quirked her lips. I realized she had been teasing me all along. Despite her weary look, she was quite an attractive woman, and I wondered what it would be like to take her to bed.

“I didn’t get your name.”

“No, you didn’t. But I didn’t get yours either.”

“Erik Tragger.” It was the second time in a day I had used my name in front of others. After the long, lonely time in the woods, it still sounded weird to my ears. “At your service,” I added lamely.

“I see. Well, my name is Katherine Murphy, but don’t even think about calling me Kat. I hate that fucking name.”

“Noted.”

“Good. So, Tragger, meet me at the workout room tomorrow, and maybe we’ll go a few rounds.”

“Same time?”

“You got a watch?”

“Yep.”

“Well I don’t, so just guess.” She turned and left.

I stared after her for a while, until she rounded a corner and was gone from my sight. Water splashed a moment later, so I went into the men’s side and did my best to wash away four months of loneliness.

Morning came on slowly, like someone was pulling me out of a warm bath. I rubbed my eyes to the sound of someone banging on my metal cot. I opened them, and there stood a boy of about five foot eight. He was a pudgy child, with a sloping forehead. He hit the side of my cot with a plastic toy soldier.

“Can you stop that?”

“Travis, what?”

“Stop it. I’m tired, man.”

“Travis, what?” His words were slightly slurred, and when I looked up, he was rolling his eyes up in the back of his head, looking at the ceiling and then back at me. Just what I needed. Some retarded kid to wake me.

The kid wandered off, bumped into another cot, which brought a cry from the inhabitant. Still staring up at the ceiling, he ran off. I lay back, put my arm over my eyes, and breathed in the smell of people again. It was a long time since I had been around anyone, and now I was surrounded by them.

I sat up after a few minutes and rubbed my eyes. Glancing at my watch, I found it was close to seven in the morning. Others snored while I got up and used the bathroom, suspecting there would be a line later on. I was greeted by several people on the way, but others just glanced up at me then looked away. Some had haunted looks in their eyes; others just looked unfriendly.

I looked out for the woman I had met the night before, but I didn’t see her. She was probably in a tent with one of the men. Someone like that would be very desirable, and I envied the man she slept next to every night.

I ate another bowl of gruel-like food that filled me up, but didn’t taste so hot. The cook had put some effort into spicing it up, but I knew I was eating dog food again. There wasn’t enough paprika in the world to change that. I spent the day with Thomas and a tough-looking man named James, who had a scar running across his nose from cheek to cheek. They headed to the weapons cache and I followed along, hoping to get a look at their arsenal and maybe borrow a decent gun. Borrow? Who was I kidding? I would probably die before I had a chance to return it.

They looked over the weapons, and I noted, out loud, that they weren’t properly taken care of. James scoffed, but Thomas glanced my way, then took down a handgun and gave it to me.

It was a Baretta 92F. The weapon was a standard military pistol with interchangeable parts. I stripped it in a couple of seconds, breaking it down enough to peer into the chamber. They seemed impressed. Thomas asked me to take a look and let him know how bad the damage was.

We went over the guns, and I pulled out assault rifles and inspected them. No one had done a proper cleaning, so I took the worst of them, stripped them, and cleaned them. People stopped by and looked on from time to time. Perhaps it was being back in a civilized setting after being alone for so long, but I found the company of others comforting. However, I chose not to engage anyone in conversation for very long.

I took an AR-15 from a rack, inspected it, took a box of shells, and went outside. The morning was chilly, and I thought I could smell rain in the air. The clouds hung around, keeping it generally gray. Around the fence, the ghouls wandered, snarling and running at the barrier but stopping short. I saw a few zombies as well, and when they chanced upon a ghoul, or got too close, a fight broke out.

I climbed up on the back of a truck with a flat bed. A lot of the other trucks had been outfitted with metal plates where holes were cut in the side for firing ports. Spikes hung on them—short sharp things that wouldn’t provide much grip if a ghoul tried to climb up, but would discourage them.

My Honda had been parked in a different spot and now sported new tires. No one asked me about my car, and I really didn’t care. The old world was gone, just like my two-hundred–and-fifty-dollar a month car payment.

I stood up, inspected the gun, loaded it, and then put the stock against my shoulder. It had a scope to provide some magnification, but it wasn’t intended for long-range work. I sighted down it, tracked one of the zombies, and then stroked the trigger. He fell, wearing the same stupid look on his face that he had before the 5.56 round entered his forehead.

I got used to firing the weapon again and, in the process, attracted a few onlookers. I dropped a couple more zombies, then went for some faster-moving ones. One jerked to the right as I shot at him, so I only ended up taking off part of an ear.

I packed up the gun and ammo and turned to the store, intent on cleaning it and putting it back. There were about thirty or forty of the things, and they howled and snarled as I turned my back on them, so I held up one hand and gave them the finger.

Throughout the day, I had thought of Katherine and her lithe body. I wanted to work out with her, but more than that, I wanted to talk. Just talk. I wanted to know more about her.

At last night fell, and we locked up the guns. Thomas said he had a feeling about me, so he gave me a key to the armory. I felt honored and almost hugged him.

I went to the workout room that night around the same time, and went a few with the same dummy Katherine had gone at. She didn’t show up, even thought I waited for close to an hour. So I called it a night and showered with the bucket of water.

The next day was much the same, except I talked to more people. The retarded kid, Travis, wandered by a few times and stared on while drool ran down his face. He looked none too bright, and I wondered why anyone had bothered to save a kid with such issues. I actually stared at him for a while and had a philosophical debate with myself. If he were changed, would he still be a zombie with mental retardation?