Timothy Long - Beyond the Barriers

I tried to be useful. I went outside and checked over my SUV. It was in the process of being modified. A mechanic with a terrible face wound looked at me and mimed that he couldn’t talk. Then he stared at me. I assumed he was waiting to see if I would flinch or look away from his wound. Instead, I shook his hand and told him my name. He seemed to think that was okay. He shrugged and went back to work, welding a piece of metal in place.

There was some activity toward the front of the gate. Half a dozen men were gearing up, and a large flat bed truck was being moved near the entrance. The walk was brisk thanks to the early morning air. Most of the parking lot was wide open. On a normal day, back before the proverbial crap hit the fan, this place would have been buzzing with activity.

A burned out half strip mall was inside the perimeter. I made out a check cashing place and a coffee shop. My mouth flooded with saliva at the thought of a fresh cup. I could just about kill for one right about now.

A couple of men had guns at the ready. They were going over their load as I strolled up to them. I was impressed by their decorum. They were smiling, but they knew their way around their weapons.

One of the men, I was pretty sure his name was Daniel, nodded at me. He checked up on me when I was cleaning up the weapons inside. Asked a few questions about an automatic I was working on. I thought he was just checking me out and not really interested in my answer.

“Going hunting, guys?” I asked.

“We got a call—just a half message really. A few streets over, west of here. We think some survivors were trying to reach us and got trapped in a house.”

I was feeling pretty useless around the camp. Everyone seemed to have jobs but me. I wanted something to do. More importantly, I wanted to prove myself to them.

“Want some help?”

They looked back and forth, but not at me. I was probably intruding on a group that was used to working together. They didn’t know the first thing about me. I might get spooked at the first sight of blood. I might demand to go back. I could run off, for all they knew. All the training in the world might have been under my belt, but it meant nothing until I had proven myself.

“It’s nothing personal, man. We’re full up,” one of the men said.

Daniel looked me over then glanced at the other guys. Upon closer examination, I noticed one of the ‘guys’ was actually a woman. She turned, and with her short hair I thought it was Katherine at first. But she was younger, her face fairer. She was dressed from head to toes in full cammo gear. She popped a magazine into a large handgun, jacked the hammer back, and slammed it into a holster.

“Yep. No offense.” She smirked.

“Come on. Thomas said he was okay. It wouldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes, would it?” Daniel said.

One of the men shrugged, but the girl looked away from me.

An older man with a shaved head regarded me. His forehead had a nasty burn scar on it. Hair would never grow there again. I didn’t blame him for shaving the stubble off. He had a pair of pistols under his arms and a snub nose automatic machine gun under one arm.

“I’m O’Connell. I don’t care if you join us. Just do what I say, when I say, and we will all get along fine. Ain’t that right?” He looked among the squad. They all nodded assent, but the woman did not. She looked me over like I was a cockroach.

“Sure. I can do that.” I said. Taking orders wouldn’t be hard. I was just happy to be useful to these guys.

“What’s your poison?” Daniel opened up the top of a storage bin strapped down to the back of the truck. I glanced in and saw a few older guns. A hunting rifle was pushed against one end. The barrel was strapped to the side. I pulled the weapon out and set it aside to assemble on the way. Then I tugged a .45 ACP out. Daniel nodded at my choice and handed me a box of shells from another bin. I dug out a magazine that looked like it fit the handgun. After a bit of testing, I tucked it in my pocket to load later.

We piled into the back of the truck. They sat in a group that I wasn’t invited too. I tried to make small talk with Daniel, but he turned his attention back to one of the guys who was telling a story about facing off against a pair of zombies in an old apartment complex.

We left the safety of the compound. A couple of men came out and moved the gate aside. This involved shifting massive concrete barriers with a heavy lifter. After we drove away, they put them back into place.

“If we run into zombies, what’s the count?” One of the guys yelled over the hiss of air rushing past the truck bed.

“I’m good for five or six.” The girl smiled. She checked her pistols for what seemed the tenth time.

“What’s the bet for?” I asked.

“Just bragging rights. And someday, when we find a warehouse full of beer, a bunch of those” she said.

“Yeah man, Liz here owes me forty-seven cold ones.” One of the men grinned.

“That’s all she’s got, cold ones,” another guy said. The group cracked up until she drew, jacked a round into the chamber, and fingered the safety off in one smooth motion that ended with a gun leveled at the last guy. His eyes went wide.

“Cold enough for you?”

“Cool it,” Daniel said. “We have trouble up ahead.”

We had left the sight of the store and were speeding down a side road. There were a few cars pushed out of the way, with a few corpses that were little more than bones and skin inside them.

We were moving into a residential neighborhood, but it looked like a war zone. Houses were burned out, broken into. Shrubs grew out of control. Rhododendrons, the unofficial flower of the Pacific Northwest, covered entire home entryways. Discarded items and looted possessions were tossed all over yards.

“There!” Daniel stood up in the back of the truck and pointed at a pair of cars that were intact. They were station wagons, and they looked to be full of boxes.

I stood up, holding the hunting rifle to my shoulder as I tried to keep my focus everywhere at once. The driver slowed our vehicle, and I leaned forward to absorb the momentum. I caught sight of a familiar car tucked between two houses, but I wasn’t sure why it rang a bell. It was a newer make, and a deep shiny blue, like someone was taking care of it.

Birds called out to us as we passed. An entire murder of crows took off when Liz waved her gun in their directions.

“Good eating, crow,” she said without any expression in her voice.

“Help us!” A man called from one of the houses. A pair of our men jumped over the side of the truck as it came to a stop in the front yard. Two more went over the other side and spread around the truck, their backs to us so all angles were covered. I was impressed by their cohesiveness.

I jumped down and followed Liz, who seemed determined to lead the way. The two others fell in behind her. One was O’Connell. With four on guard duty and us advancing, I felt confident in my comrade’s ability to react to a threat. They were good.

“Remind me why we are baby sitting the neighborhood? Could just mean more mouths to feed,” the guy on her left said.

“Because they’re people, and we need more if we’re going to win this fight.” O’Connell kept pace with them and looked at the guy.

Another scream from inside made our group pick up the pace. I glanced around to check the position of our back up one more time. The driver of the truck was on the radio. He was probably assuring the compound that we were safe and sound.

I turned my attention back to the house. It was a huge three story that was probably built in the 70s. A grown over gutter draped the building. Vines had snaked their way up the side and given the place a genuinely creepy feel.