Surviving the Day (6 page)

“What's a prepper?”

“A person who prepares for a disaster. We started prepping after Katrina. The government response was pathetic. Clearly people need to be able to fend for themselves.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I said. “So you're prepared for all this?”

Mark was silent. “I don't know,” he said. “We have some supplies and knowledge. But zombies? There was no such thing until now.”

It was my turn to be silent. I squeezed his hand again. “You've brought us this far.”

“I suppose,” he said.

I lay there for a time, lost in my thoughts. Mark was clearly awake as well. He started caressing my hand, probably unconsciously, just sort of touching each finger then starting over. It was comforting, like someone combing my hair. I closed my eyes, hearing the night sounds. Peeper frogs and crickets.

The touch of his hand lulled me to sleep.

—————

Interlude: U.S.S. Trinity Attack Submarine: Pacific Ocean

“Try it now!” yelled Chief Marcus. He released the cable he'd spliced and held a thumbs up to the seaman down the hall. The man flipped a switch and a rumble sounded.

“It's working!” he called. Chief Marcus nodded. The boat had been at neutral buoyancy, cruising at just ten knots when all the power and communications went out. They were able to leak oxygen into the closed atmosphere, but the pressure increase was uncomfortable. He wondered if they would experience the bends if they were able to resurface. He and Seaman Anchors, an ironic name, he thought, had rigged a battery directly to the ballast pumps. He'd crossed his fingers that the voltages were right, and so far it seemed to be working.

“Stay on the switch, ye idiot!” yelled the Chief as the seaman stepped away. “Turn it off if there's a problem!”

“Aye, aye,” said Anchors, smiling a little at the Chief’s brogue accent. Anchors figured that the Chief was probably from Ireland originally or something, or he just affected the dialect under stress.

“We're going up,” said Chief Marcus. “Switch it off, we don't want to rise too quickly.” Seaman Anchors nodded and flipped the switch again. The rumble stopped but the boat continued to rise.

“Are you sure we're going up?” asked Anchors.

“Oh, aye,” said Chief Marcus. “Ye can feel it in yer stomach.” Anchors shrugged, feeling nothing. “Now we must figure out how to equalize the pressure without blowin' yer ears off,” he added.

Chief Marcus beckoned to Anchors. “Let's go, playtime's over!”

“It was anything but playtime,”
thought Seaman Anchors as he followed the Chief. It had been hours since the power went out, and no one knew anything. They'd been trying to get the ballast pumps restored for at least half that time.

The pair made their way up the ladders to the bridge. All of the officers were dead, their chewed bodies moved into the Captain's ready room. The XO had gone insane, biting and clawing at the bridge crew and anyone who came to help. Whatever struck him seemed contagious, as every one of the officers, including a brand new Ensign they just took on, had succumbed to what the rest of the crew took to calling “Officer Madness”. The Chief had opened the weapons lockers and armed the crew, and they killed the officers, but not before losing most of the crew as well.

Six remained, including the Chief and Seaman Anchors, two Petty Officers and two other Seamen. Anchors was technically just a Seaman Apprentice, the lowest rank on the boat, but Chief Marcus had stopped calling him “Seaman Apprentice” and now just called him “Seaman”, “Anchors”, or, more often, “ye dumb git!”

Anchors and Marcus were really the only uninjured crewmen, though. The others sustained injuries in the fight and had passed out before the pair had managed to leak oxygen into the boat. They just left them in the sickbay to recover, unable to spare the time for more immediate medical assistance. Besides, the boat's medical officer had been struck with Officer Madness with all the others.

Once they'd cleaned up the mess on the bridge and figured out that the power problem was more than just some thrown breakers, they tried to call for help. But none of the communications gear worked, either. Chief Marcus didn't know how long it might be before the Navy started looking for them, but it would sure help if they were on the surface. He didn't know how deep the boat was and was surprised when it rocked noticeably.

“Chief? What was that?” Anchors asked him. Even the greenhorn Seaman had felt that.

“We're on the surface ye gedunck!” answered the Chief. “We must have been shallow already. Let's see if we can pop the hatch.”

He walked to the conning tower ladder and climbed up. He gave the hatch an experimental twist. “Oh, aye, and it's stuck tighter than yer momma's legs,” he called down. “Get me a wrench!”

Anchors ran back through the boat to the machine shop and grabbed a couple of different wrenches, then hurried back. He climbed partway up the ladder and held out the tools. Chief Marcus nodded in thanks and took a medium-sized one and wedged it into the handle. He grunted with effort and the wheel moved.

“Alright, listen up!” he called to Anchors. “Ye need to climb up here beside me. I'm gonna hold this lid down while ye turn it. I'm afraid of a big pressure drop if we open it too quick!” Marcus handed the wrench back to Anchors and held on to the wheel, then stepped off the ladder to dangle beneath it. “Hurry it up, ye pollywog!”

Anchors climbed up the ladder, squeezing his thin, short frame next to the Chief. He reached up and turned the wheel, but couldn't get it to move. “Aye, I'll help ye,” said Marcus. The Chief put a foot on either side of the narrow cylinder and turned the wheel while Anchors did the same. It moved more, so the Chief let himself dangle again as the Seaman turned the wheel.

It finally popped, and a whistle of air went past their ears. “Aye that got it!” said the Chief. Anchors moved down the ladder while Marcus held down the wheel until the whistling stopped, then put a foot on the ladder. The air started going out the hatch again, and both of their ears popped. “I'm lettin' it go!” Marcus warned, and then he grabbed the ladder with his left hand and released the hatch. It didn't fly open as he suspected it might, instead sighing with a last bit of air and then closing again. He climbed up a step and pushed the hatch open, then climbed out into the fading sunlight. Anchors climbed up beside him.

“How far are we?” asked the Seaman.

“San Diego is that way,” said Marcus, pointing away from the setting sun. “We'd just set out, so we should only be five or ten miles out. There's a pair of binoculars in that chest there. Grab 'em,” he added.

Anchors opened the utility box and pulled out two pairs of powerful binoculars that were half as long as his forearms. He gave one to the Chief who began scanning the horizon, then looked through the other pair. He could see a break in the horizon that must be the shore, or maybe the hills behind the city. “I think I see it!” he told the Chief excitedly.

“Aye,” said the Chief in a dejected voice. “Aye.”

Anchors stopped looking through the binoculars and glanced at the Chief. He wasn't aiming his at the land, but was looking north. Anchors turned and looked that way and could see another ship in the distance, as well as smoke coming from it. He raised the binoculars and played with the focus until the ship came into sharp view.

The powerful device left nothing to the imagination. It was a cruise ship. Smoke poured from a tower, and the upper back deck was on fire. There were people in the water, but no lifeboats. He could see some passengers attacking others, while some tried to beat on their fellows with deck chairs and shuffleboard sticks.

“Chief?” he asked, lowering the binoculars.

The Chief was looking south now. Anchors turned to follow the Chief's gaze and took in a sharp breath. Off in the distance, further than the cruise ship, were other vessels in distress. Two container ships had apparently run into each other, and one of them was definitely sinking. There were other boats scattered off in the distance, unmoving specs.

“Chief?” he said again.

Chief Marcus lowered his binoculars. He looked at Seaman Anchors. “I don't know son,” he said sadly. “I don't know.”

—————

“I found it!” yelled Jeffrey, holding up a set of keys and shining his flashlight on them. “You were right, the manager had a set.”

“Hrumph,” mumbled Richard, pulling a camouflage rain suit from a hanger. It was the largest size on the rack. He set it down beside other gear he had laid out, his headlamp shining brightly on them. He looked at Jeffrey. “Get me a pump shotgun, big game rifle and a .22, best ones they got,” he called out. “Scopes and ammo, too. And open up a safe and shove in guns, ammo and junk, set the combination.” He chuckled to himself. “That'll keep anyone else from getting them!”

“Damn that's a fine idea!” yelled back Jeffrey as he headed over to the guns section of the store. “Yeah… Good idea Uncle Richard,” he muttered under his breath.

Richard looked down at his pile of stuff. He removed his work boots and socks and pulled on a pair of new wool socks and then tried on a few pairs of boots. He settled on a nice, camouflage-colored pair that were waterproof. He removed the boots and then took all of his clothes off, revealing his usually hidden tattoos. Jeffrey glanced up at Richard as a hanger clanged to the floor, then quickly looked away.

Although Jeffrey did generally like uncle Richard and the cousin he grew up with who was killed today on the highway, he shuddered to think of the man’s philosophy on life. He looked up again as Richard dressed.

The most prominent tattoo was a swastika covering his entire back. He had one up his leg that read “LIFER”, but with a slash through it since his murder conviction was overturned. Jeffrey had always believed in the self-defense story that his uncle told, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“Or the drug stories my dad warned me about, or the gang he was a part of, or any of the other dozen wild things I was told but never believed,”
thought Jeffrey. He looked away and continued working on the guns.

Richard put on Under Armor, a polyester tank top and shirt, Permethrin-infused cargo pants and shirt, and finally his new boots.

“Cash or credit,” Richard chuckled.

Jeffrey glanced up briefly from his work with the guns and saw that his uncle had finished dressing.
“No warning now that he’s covered again.”

Richard gathered an extra set of socks and Under Armor, an extra Permethrin shirt and his rain suit and folded them up. He opened a big frame backpack and stuffed them in, then went to the camping section. He grabbed a cooking pot, a stove, and several tanks of fuel. He ripped open some freeze-dried food containers to check their contents, then added unopened ones to the pack. He added a canteen and some water purification pills, and then went to check on the guns.

Jeffrey was pulling guns down from the display and unlocking their triggers. “Nice,” said Richard, hefting a Mossberg 500 12 gauge. “The standard.” He looked up at the display. “Get that Maverick,” he told Jeffrey. “It can hold more rounds.” Jeffrey put down the .22 he was working on and grabbed the Maverick. He found the trigger key and handed the gun and key to Richard, who removed the lock and threw it across the store where it struck a display and crashed through the glass. He chuckled and opened the action and checked the barrel. He opened a box of shells and loaded the magazine, then pumped the shotgun once and loaded another shell. He aimed at the body of the shoe salesman he'd killed.

“Fire in the hole!” he called. Jeffrey looked up and dropped the scope he was about to attach and covered his ears. The gun boomed out and echoed in the store.

“Gahldammit Uncle Richard!” he yelled. Richard looked back at him and laughed.

“What?”

“You made me drop this scope! Now it's probably crap!”

Richard turned and leaned over the counter, locking eyes with Jeffrey. “Put it on my tab,” he said in a menacing voice.

“Jeez man! Just a little more warning next time, okay?”

“Sure Jeffrey, I'll wait for you to zip your pants before I shoot a damn zombie!”

“Ah man!” Jeffrey took a deep breath. “Here, check this out,” he said, redirecting the conversation. “Match-grade Weatherby, .30-06. I put a ThOR thermal sight on it—eight grand.”

“Did you check if the sight actually works? It's got chips in it, dimwit!” Richard pulled the gun out of Jeffrey's hands and switched on the scope, peering through it. “Dead, ya knucklehead.” He looked at the displays and pointed. “There, the Steiner tactical. Put that on it, and see if they have any tactical flashlights we can mount. It sucks holding this flashlight and shooting.” He handed the rifle back to Jeffrey, then stuffed the rest of the shotgun shells in a cargo pocket. Richard grabbed three more boxes of shells and walked to the various islands around the guns. He pulled a couple of cleaning kits from the shelves along with a rifle sling and carried them to his pack and then he tore the tag off the sling and attached it to the shotgun.

“I'm settin' up a range,” he said to Jeffrey. Richard walked the aisles nearby, pulling out targets. He walked back to the gun display counter, then turned and shone his flashlight the length of the store. “Not open enough,” he mumbled. He shined it diagonally and started walking, counting his steps as he went. He shoved aside displays and even toppled a set of shelves with men's sportswear, finally stopping after thirty-three steps. He looked back toward the gun counter and could see Jeffrey's headlamp bobbing in the distance. “That's about a hundred yards,” he said to himself.

He grabbed hold of a display and pulled it over to his hundred yard spot, then set the targets on top of it. He left his hand flashlight shining on it and went back to the camping department for a lantern. He found a battery-powered one and stuffed in some batteries and switched it on.

It still worked.

Richard carried it over to the targets and replaced the flashlight, then walked back to the counter. He took off his shotgun and picked up the scoped Weatherby, then moved behind the counter. He found a box of Weatherby premiums and loaded the rifle. He rested it on the countertop at a spot where he had a clear line to the targets. “Zip it up, I'm shooting,” he said to Jeffrey, looking over at him. Jeffrey gave him a Thumbs Up and pointed to the earplugs he was wearing, then down at the counter to a set of ear protectors.

“Hrumph,” muttered Richard. He set the rifle down and put on the ear protectors, stretching them to fit over his head. He picked up the rifle and set the scope for 5x. It had a big aperture, so it worked pretty well in the low light. He fired a round. Low right. He emptied the clip. A perfect grouping, all low right. He reloaded the rifle and made some small adjustments on the scope, then fired two rounds. Almost centered. He made a minor adjustment on both knobs and fired again. Perfect.

Richard reloaded the rifle and handed it to Jeffrey. “Here!” he yelled to get his voice past the ear protection they both wore. “I'm gonna change out the target, you try it!” He walked around the counter and over to the targets. After replacing the one he'd shot up with a fresh target, he moved well away from the firing line. He flashed his light three times at Jeffrey, who started shooting. When he saw three lights flash from Jeffrey, he walked back to the target.

Perfect grouping, dead center. He switched out the target and walked back to the gun counter.

“I'd say that scope was sighted,” he said to Jeffrey as he removed the hearing protectors.

“Good job,” agreed Jeffrey, who also pulled his out. “I've never seen anybody scope a rifle that fast,” he added, hoping to flatter Richard and stay on his good side.

Not that he has a good side.

“Hrumph,” muttered Richard. “Let's wrap this up.” Jeffrey put another Steiner on a Browning .300 and handed it to Richard, who looked at the barrel and shoved it back at Jeffrey. “Damnit man, same calibers! Use the same damn calibers! That way we don't have to carry different ammo and get our asses blown off trying to find the right kind!”

Jeffrey took the rifle back sheepishly and removed the scope, his hands shaking. He found a Browning .30-06 and put the scope on, then handed it over. Richard checked the barrel. “Better,” he said. He put on his ear protection and motioned for Jeffrey to do the same. He loaded the rifle with the same premium ammunition and sighted it in.

Jeffrey handed him a scoped .22 and worked on another one. Richard sighted in each one, adding more lanterns before taking about ten minutes for each gun. He took a .22, .30-06, and a 12 gauge bore snake from the cleaning supplies and ran them through each rifle. He wadded up the snakes and handed them to Jeffrey along with the cleaning fluid. “Put these in your pack,” he said, “and put some damn flashlights on these rifles.” Jeffrey took the snakes and started looking for the tactical flashlights while Richard went back to the displays and picked out slings for each gun. He attached them, then went and picked up his pack. It was only half full, so he topped it off with ammunition. He added an extra Mossberg 500 shotgun after removing the barrel, then zipped up the pack and hefted it to his shoulders.

“Dammit,” he muttered, struggling to lift it. He opened the pack and reluctantly removed the extra shotgun and barrel, then starting pulling out ammo boxes. He kept three hundred rounds of .22 long rifle, three hundred rounds of .30-06 premium, two hundred rounds of buckshot and fifty rounds of 12 gauge slugs. He added them back to the pack and lifted it again.

“Better,” he muttered. He looked around for Jeffrey and saw him heading to the camping supplies. “Hey Jeffrey!” he yelled. “Get me a sleeping bag!”

“Alright!” called Jeffrey. “I’ll get a nice pink one for you.” Maybe some humor would lighten him up.

“It better have a woman in it!” Richard yelled back. He heard Jeffrey laugh. He picked up the extra ammo boxes and took them to the safe that Jeffrey was using. There were several on display, so he took all the best guns and ammunition and stuffed them into the safe. Jeffrey walked up behind him and handed him a compact camouflage sleeping bag.

“Lock it up,” said Richard. Jeffrey closed the door.

“Combination is 9-5-0,” said Jeffrey. He spun the wheels and stepped back. Richard walked up to the safe and set the wheels to 9-5-0, then opened the safe.

“Get any ammo you need,” he told Jeffrey. “The good stuff is all in here.” Jeffrey looked in, then grabbed several boxes of the same rounds Richard took, plus five boxes of .40 caliber for his pistol.

“I wish this crap joint sold pistols,” said Richard. “Closest place I know of is about seven miles in the wrong damn direction.”

“Maybe we'll find someone willing to part with theirs on the way,” said Jeffrey.

“I should be so lucky,” said Richard. “Let's find a spot to camp out and head out in the morning.” He turned around, shining his flashlight around the store. “Maybe a manager's office or something.”

A scraping noise sounded at the front of the store.

“Did you lock the front door?” asked Richard.

“Aww damn,” said Jeffrey, pulling the manager's keys from his pocket. “No, I went right for the guns.”

“Well, let's go say hi to the neighbors,” said Richard, unslinging his shotgun and dropping his pack. A light shined at the front, and Richard turned off his headlamp and motioned for Jeffrey to do the same. “Watch your fields of fire. I'll be in front, you stay behind and to my left. I'll cover 180 in front so stay the hell back. Go!”

The pair walked silently forward through the middle of store, taking cover behind various displays.

“Hello?” called someone, a man's voice. “I saw a light, is there someone here? We're looking for camping supplies. I have cash.”

Richard stopped and looked back at Jeffrey and shook his head, grinning. He turned back and called out, “Walk to the middle of the aisles and shine that light on yourself,” he called out to the man. “Jeffrey,” he whispered, “go left and see if there's anyone else in the store. Stay hidden.”

“Roger,” said Jeffrey. He headed left, his shotgun held in front of him.

A figure walked to the center and directed his flashlight up. “Is this okay?” he called. He was a young man, probably late twenties or early thirties, wearing a Red Sox cap and looking nervously at Richard.