Surviving the Day (10 page)

I grinned.

I washed my hands at the sink, then pulled off my shirt. My shoulder ached a bit as I awkwardly lifted it over my head and set it aside. I carefully washed my arm with stinging soap and water until the blood ran thinly, then took a wad of paper towels and dabbed it dry. I folded up a bunch of paper towels and pressed it against my shoulder.

An elephant walked up onto the porch and knocked on the door. “Come on in Stompy Joe,” I said, walking out of the kitchen so that I could see the door.

Joe pushed it open, but it stuck on the dead doorman. He grumbled and shoved until the guy slid out of the way. “You could at least pick up the place if you know company is...”

He trailed off when he saw me, his face a mixture of embarrassment as he saw me wearing just my bra, then anger as he noticed the paper towel-bandage I was pressing against my arm. He dropped the ammo bag and my backpack then shrugged out of his. He picked up the body on the floor and tossed it out the door, then closed it. Anger mixed with concern erased all traces of embarrassment as he walked over to me.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

“Mr. Gutless grazed me. I guess I should have shot first and asked questions later,” I said with a smile.

“Gutless, huh?” Joe looked toward the stairs. “Up there?”

“Yep, all taken care of. But I tossed a rifle out the back window and there's a pistol under the bed upstairs. Might want to grab those. And see if there's any proper medical supplies. I didn't find any down here.”

Joe looked at me, my eyes, my shoulder. “I...” he began, then stopped. He looked down. “I shouldn't have let you go.” I reached up with my left hand and gently lifted his eyes to mine.

“You couldn't have stopped me,” I told him, then winked. He took a deep breath.

“But...” he began.

“Joe,” I said firmly. “Go get the rifle in the back and the pistol upstairs, and get me some damn bandages!”

Joe's mouth gaped open, then closed. He smiled. “Roger that Ninja Girl,” he said. I could hear the capital letters in his voice and smiled.

He went out the back door, and I could see him looking for the rifle. He found it, picked it up, dropped the magazine and ejected the round in the chamber and caught it as it fell. He pocketed both and carried in the rifle.

“Kalashnikov,” he said, setting it down on the counter. “AK-47, one of the best rifles ever made. It's got a chunk of dirt in it from the fall, but I bet I could fire a thousand rounds through it and it would never flinch. We were using these in Iraq and putting our service rifles in plastic bags to protect them from the sand and grit. These things were all over the place. You couldn't jam them if you tried.” He added the bullet and magazine to the counter then turned and headed up the stairs.

I picked up the bullet. It was quite a bit bigger than the AR rounds I'd loaded into Camo Joe's magazines.

Or clips or whatever they're called.

I picked up my rifle and ejected the cartridge, then worked one of the bullets out and looked at the bottom. “Point 223,” I said. Then did the same with the AK cartridge. It said “7.62” on it. I put the bullet, or cartridge, or whatever it was called back in the magazine, or clip, or whatever
IT
was called, and put that in the gun.

Or rifle.

Point and click, that's all I knew about these things. Maybe a little extra if I could remember the stuff Joe showed me, like how to clean it and clear it if it jammed.

Gimme a good 'ole baton and a sharp machete any day.

Just then a scream came from upstairs. “ERIN!” I ran to the stairs and started to climb them, pulling out my baton. “There's a HAND attached to this gun!” yelled Joe. I stopped my run up the stairs and holstered the baton, laughing. I walked up the rest of the way to find Joe holding the wrong end of the pistol with a bloody hand still holding the grip.

I smiled and said, “Better hope that finger doesn't twitch or it'll put a bullet through your palm.” He quickly angled the barrel away and started shaking the gun, attempting to release the hand. It didn't want to fall off, so he picked up a pillow, shook off the case, then used it to gingerly pry the fingers away from the grip.

“Cheap .38 special,” he said. Then he turned to me and glared. I just stood there trying not to laugh. He attempted to glare at me but failed, cracking a big smile. He laughed, a deep, throaty laugh just like you'd imagine from a giant black guy. “I'll get you for that,” he said.

I just smiled at him. He looked at my shoulder and frowned. “You lost your paper towel bandage,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I had to run up here when you started screaming like a little girl.”

Joe grunted a laugh, then emptied the revolver by upending it and pushing on a stem. The bullets dropped out. He pressed his thumb against the stem and bent it. “There, mostly useless.” He dropped the revolver on the floor next to the severed hand. He shook his head. “I'm gonna have nightmares where this disembodied hand comes after me.”

I just smiled at him. He looked back at me and smiled. “Let's find you a bandage.”

I nodded, then turned and went back downstairs. I got some more paper towels and wet them in the sink, then dabbed at the blood that had seeped from the wound. Three folded paper towels make a decent bandage, I discovered, and held that on my arm until Camo Joe came back downstairs, empty handed.

“I'm an idiot,” he said. “I have supplies in the bag.” I nodded as he went over to the bag and unzipped it. He pulled out a small green bag with a red cross on it. He opened it and took out some alcohol swabs, bandage material, tape, scissors and gloves. He put on the gloves and opened the swabs and bandage material. He cut a length of it and folded it twice. “This is gonna sting.” I nodded again. He swabbed the gash, then put on the bandage and taped it down. “We should change that in a few hours,” he told me. He took off the gloves after packing the medical supplies up, and put it all back in the ammo bag.

I picked up my shirt and washed the sleeve as best I could. “Be nice if I could sew this back up,” I told him.

“I didn't think to pack a sewing kit,” he admitted, walking back in to the kitchen.. “We'll try to find one.” He looked out the kitchen window. It was beginning to get dark. “Maybe tomorrow.” I followed his gaze, then looked toward the front door.

Toward the ocean. My ocean. When I closed my eyes, I could hear the waves lapping at the side of the sailboat. I could hear the cry of the ever-present seagulls and the slap of the mainsail as it caught the wind after a jibe. I felt pressure in my chest and my eyes tearing up as I thought of even one more hour away from my boat.

Why can’t you all just leave us alone?!

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. “I guess we're safe here now,” I told Joe, sighing. “Put the bodies in the back yard and wrap them up or cover them or something.” I went and got my pack and took out my one extra shirt and carefully put it on. “Then I guess we need to find a decent and clean place in this house to spend the night.” I made my way over to the kitchen table and sat down, then lay my head down on my arms and looked at Joe.

“You got it Erin,” he said. “Rest and I'll take care of everything.”

I closed my eyes and listened to the ocean.

—————

Joe

I looked at Erin as she rested her head on the table. Hard to believe I'd only met her six or so hours ago. I would trust my life to her—something that took six weeks to ingrain at boot camp. I walked around the table and looked out the window, it was getting dark, and we'd barely gone a couple of blocks in the madness that is now our world.

I assume our world. Who knows, maybe only California is affected. Doesn't seem likely. The whole zombie thing is just so odd, like it's some kind of man-made virus. And triggered at the same time as the EMP? Too coincidental. I feared we might see Chinese troops landing at any minute, but nothing so far.

I made sure the doors were locked, and then went upstairs.

Gotta search the place, make sure there aren't any old ladies in this house, too. Probably be wielding AK’s if there were.

Erin sure did know how to leave a mess. I pulled the sheet off the bed and laid it down, then shoved the guy she shot in the gut onto it. He flopped forward in that weird way that dead bodies move—so utterly unnatural it didn't seem real. Then I went over to the guy with one hand and pulled his leg. His head flopped to the side and I almost yelled at Erin again—scared me half to death! I smiled for the amazing girl who dispatched these two in the middle of a firefight.

I pulled the almost headless guy on the sheet, then rolled it up and tied the ends. The comforter would be better, so I pulled it off the bed and rolled them in that as well, then pulled them out of the room and down the stairs, thumping as they went. Erin was still lying with her head on the table, but I could see her whispering something. I unlocked the back door, pulled the bodies into the yard and put them underneath a big swing, then removed the comforter. I went around the house, through the fence, and wrapped up the guy on the porch—well, sort of half on the porch—and took him around to the back as well. He joined his buddies underneath the swing.

Once back inside, I went upstairs and wrapped up the one guy I’d shot in the head and added him to the others. Back upstairs again, I found more sheets in a closet, took them downstairs and covered the kitchen window. I had some duct tape in my backpack, so I just cut up the sheet and taped it down. I did the same to the back door and the front door, but was able to simply close the curtains on the front windows. I figured the windows upstairs could just stay busted out—we'd camp out down here, but I did take some pots and pans upstairs and rigged a noise maker in the hallway, just in case anyone or anything managed to climb in a window—just a cord tied to a pot that had other pans stacked on top of it, with the cord strung across the hallway.

Simple but effective.

It took about five minutes of searching to determine there was little of value upstairs. I'd removed the magazines for the AK from the gut-shot guy already, and it didn't look as if they'd stored any more of them up there. Stupid. As soon as the power went out, I would have stashed stuff all over the place. Even in my house, I already had ammo and guns in the storeroom, bedroom and in my Jeep.

I went back downstairs and picked up a stained coffee table and wedged it into the stairwell. No need to go back up at all.

Except for bedding, dammit!

I moved the table and went back up. It took two trips, but I carried down pillows and fresh pillowcases, sheets and blankets. I thought about what I might have missed, and went back up to rummage around for medicines and toilet paper. You can never have too much toilet paper in a disaster scenario.

I decided to make a couple of beds in the safest spot I could find—which turned out to be the kitchen. I'd have to move the table where Erin was resting before I could put them both down. Next, I scrounged around downstairs. There was a shotgun in a front closet—a Remington 1200 semi-automatic. I put it back. There were also three boxes of shells for the .38 special—we didn't need them, either.

It was in the garage that I hit the jackpot—seems these guys were marginal preppers. There was a big gun safe, lit by my headlamp and flashlight—open, fortunately. There were four cans of AK 7.62mm—probably close to two thousand rounds. It would be nice if we could take them to the boat. I already regretted not bringing a larger caliber rifle, so I figured I'd clean up the AK and take it. The safe had a whole box full of empty AK magazines and another half box of short AR clips. I'd stick with my thirty-rounders thank you very much.

I pulled out the AK rounds and magazines and set them inside the house. I’d fill the magazines before bedding down. There were more guns in the safe, like big game rifles with scopes. I didn't really see us taking them though. The rest of the garage was full to the brim with boxes of unknown stuff, gear for the truck outside, and cases of freeze-dried food. At least that's what it said on the boxes. Sure would be nice if we could get this to the boat, but there's no way we could carry it, and I was loathe to attempt multiple trips. Even having something like a cart would be risky—hard to move quickly pushing something like that, and it might make us a target.

More of a target.

I looked around at all the stuff, and my eyes fell on a set of top lights for that big truck out there. I walked back into the house and to a front window, moving the curtain aside and taking another look at the truck. It was an older model, but not all that old. Eighties or nineties?

Worth a try.

I hunted around for a set of keys and hoped I didn't have to go dig in the pockets of the recently deceased owners in the back yard. Fortunately, the keys were in a basket in the kitchen. I checked my rifle, safety on, round chambered, fully loaded magazine with more on my vest, then opened the front door. I walked out and checked my surroundings several times, finally closing the door and heading to the truck.

No automatic door opener, maybe a good sign. I unlocked the door, opened it and pulled myself up. The door pinged when I turned the key, and the engine cranked right over and started. I immediately turned it off, hoping no one in the neighborhood heard it. They probably did though—it was noisy, throaty sounding, like half a dozen Harley’s firing up. I locked it up and went back inside, checking around one last time. There was a mob of people moving two blocks down the road—zombies, I assume. I stood still and watched them for a little bit. It was getting dark, but it didn’t look like I’d attracted their attention, so I went back inside and locked up.

I thought about rigging an alarm for the truck. I could run a cord through a window and setup a noisemaker. I had plenty of paracord in my supplies, and I bet these guys had some in the garage. I decided to go for it and got out a hundred-foot bag from my pack. This time it would be trickier, because the cord would slacken when the truck door was opened. I closed the truck door on the rope, then ran it to the top of the door. I cut out a groove for it with my KA-BAR, then tied a pot and a bunch of coffee mugs to it. With the door closed and the cord pulled tight, anyone opening the truck door would release the cord and cause the pots and mugs to crash down. I nodded to myself. Maybe we
could
get a bunch of supplies to that boat of hers. I wonder how big it is?

I went back to the kitchen to check on Erin—she wasn't at the table, which caused me a momentary start, but she had just lain down on the palette I'd made for her. I smiled, moved the kitchen table against the back door, then fixed my bed beside her. I removed my rifle, unbuckled my vest, and removed my handgun and knives. I took the AK, field stripped it and cleaned it out as best I could with just a kitchen rag and a little can of gun oil from the garage safe. Once I'd finished that chore, I set my new AK and other gear down next to my bed.

Finally, I turned off my headlamp and set it aside, then lay down and waited for sleep to come. The darkness was nearly complete in the house. Outside, except for the partial moon and stars, it would be pitch black in about fifteen minutes or so. I set my internal alarm for five a.m. and closed my eyes, listening to the softly breathing young lady beside me.