What in the serious fuck!? I think, giving the boot a tug. It remains firmly embedded.
Unsure of what is going on, as if this place couldn’t get more weird, I cautiously make my way to the far side of the blockade. A blue road sign, partially covered in soot, sits beside one of the last vehicles. On it reads:
Atlantis 25 miles
Of course there would be a town with that name.
Looking off to one side, along the tree line where they halt abruptly and give way to plains below, I see a thin, dark ribbon that may indicate another highway emerging from the forest. I haven’t found any sign of Mike and, given that he fled the water tower ahead of us, I should have. Assuming he lived through the night, that is. The road isn’t that far away, perhaps a little over a mile away.
“Hey, Trip,” I call out, finally locating him.
He turns, his cheeks full from yet another Spongie that he found. White cream is smeared across his upper lip and yellow cake crumbles fall from his lips as he chews.
“Whas uh?” he mumbles, more cake falling out.
“There’s another road off to the side we should check out.”
“Wha? I’s lie ih her,” he states, well, I think he does.
His mouth is so crammed full that I can’t tell what he’s saying. It’s not like I can really understand him any other time, though. So, we’re kind of about even with our communication.
“There might be more Twinkies hidden over there,” I reply.
Without another word, he starts marching in the direction I indicated. I pause only a moment to write a quick note and leave it weighted, but plainly visible should Mike happen down our path.
Jack Walker — Food Baby
We trudge through the tall grass. The sun is out and I catch a faint whiff of the smoke that’s been following me ever since I arrived in this hellish nightmare. The stalks covering the fields bend in waves as breezes pass, creating ripples across the plains like incoming waves on a beach. Although it’s a nice day, or as nice as one can get here, it’s still a little on the chilly side.
Approaching the far highway, I see another road block similar to the one we just left. I caution Trip behind me. How long he’ll stay there is anyone’s guess. When he gets something in mind, no force of nature will stop him. I halt a distance away from a line of several Humvee-style and armored vehicles. Only the swish of the wind brushing across the tops of the grass and the nearby trees can be heard. I don’t see any movement except for a few birds flittering across the fields, the first I’ve seen since arriving.
Cautiously, I make my way closer. I catch a flash of movement just inside the tree line near the blockade. It isn’t much, more of a hint of movement. I stop, tense and alert, holding my hand behind me to keep Trip where he is. I don’t turn, hoping he understands my signal for what it is and doesn’t think I mean ‘please rush forward and shout something.’ The darkness within the folds of the forest is complete, even for my ability to see in the dark. Looking from the bright light of the sun into shadows makes everything within nearly invisible.
I go to my knees and peer into the area where I saw the movement. My experience has taught me that, if I saw something move, there is something there. A lot of people will look for a few moments, see nothing else, and think that it’s their imagination. I have learned that lesson the hard way. There, another hint, almost like a darker shadow moving with the gloom of the forest. Movement, or a sixth sense, is usually the first indication that others are near.
The shadow resolves itself. Moving out of the shadows, someone, or something, steps into the small amount of light penetrating the forest’s edge. They halt just inside the first growth of trees. From what I can see of their body position, they are looking in my direction. Turning quickly to see what mischief Trip is up to, I see him standing just behind me, stuffing something he found into his mouth.
“Get down,” I sharply whisper.
“Why? I thought we were going to the road to find Ponch,” Trip says, bits of food falling from his mouth.
“There’s someone in the trees,” I state. “Now, get down.”
He leans forward and squints his eyes, peering into the forest.
“Oh, so there is. Is that Ponch?”
“Not unless he switched out his poncho for a dress. No, please, get down,” I say, whispering.
“Why would he do that? That was one sharp poncho.”
“He wouldn’t. Now fucking get down,” I say, reaching back to grab his shirt and pull him to his knees.
He gives me a look of disgust but doesn’t fight me. Focusing back on the trees ahead, I see that the person has moved out from within the forest and is standing at the very edge. I was correct with my first assessment, the one standing is wearing a dress, but it’s tattered and deeply stained. The grayish skin is in contrast to the dark stains that cover her apparel. I don’t have the benefit of long distance vision, but my eyesight is fairly keen, and it’s easy to tell that the person staring at us is no longer one of the living.
I can’t figure out why she isn’t coming at me like the other zombies I’ve run across. Her steady stance tells that she isn’t a shambler, and she isn’t sprinting like Jesse Owens. Both of those types seemed to be as relentless as the night runners and would immediately pursue anything living. I notice more movement within the trees as more join her. They stop behind, still partially hidden in the shadows. I can’t tell their exact number, but it seems there are close to five of them; at least, those that I can see.
Oh well, a zombie is a zombie, I think, raising my carbine.
The woman quickly, and I mean quickly, turns and vanishes into the trees.
What the fuck?!
“Hmmm…smart ones,” Trip says from behind.
I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. As far as I know from what Mike told me, there are the slow ones and what he called, version 2.0 ones. Those, I thought, are the speeders. Although they can run and are more agile, they still seem to pursue relentlessly. Yet, here is one that is reacting with a degree of intelligence.
Is that part of his world as well? Or, are we dealing with something completely different, and something that is only part of this world?
Whatever it is, I don’t like it. The implications are too drastic to think about. The woman reappears at the edge of the trees. I don’t see any of the moving shadows behind and immediately worry about where they are.
“Well, one less can’t hurt things,” I mumble, sighting in on her.
When my barrel centers on her, she steps behind a nearby tree.
Fuck!
I’m not feeling very comfortable sitting in the open like we are, but I’m less so with the idea of venturing into the trees. Glancing around, there isn’t any concealment except for tall grass growing farther out in the fields. The woman ahead, well…zombie — call it like it is — is peeking around the edge of the tree. This doesn’t give me warm fuzzies. There’s too much intelligence at work.
I rise and shuffle farther away from the tree line. I don’t know where those that were with her are but, with the intelligence being shown, I can make an educated guess. I think about just leaving them here and forgoing the road block to make my way through the fields. However, the tall grass, which is growing taller than I am in places, will limit my field of vision, and that’s not a good thing.
The drafts of wind are blowing from the forest into the fields. On the slight breeze wafting through the area, I suddenly pick up the faint smell of decay.
“Oh no you don’t. I know that trick,” I mutter, orienting myself toward the trees but keeping the woman behind the tree in sight.