The Broken and the Dead

The sun lonely was setting by the time we pulled off the highway; we drove several miles down a lonely country road. Once we parked OMT and I rearranged the green and black duffle bags so we could use the built in bed. OMT didn’t even bother to shut it down; he just left it running with the lights off. I asked him how we were on fuel and he responded that the thing had TWO 100 gallon fuels tanks one on each side of the cab. He said they must have filled them just before the outbreak because it was nearly full.

We had neglected to bring our MRE’s from the SUV so dinner was pretty sparse, half a kit-kat bar apiece. We took turns keeping watch but in my off time I had no trouble sleeping. The next morning we took a few minutes getting ready but all we really did was go to the bathroom and stretch. We made our way back to the highway and started the final leg of our weapons journey.

Finally I brought up the subject I had carefully avoided.

“What about the Livingston’s” I asked.

He didn’t look at me “I promised we would stop by, give them the opportunity to join us, which is what I am going to do.”

We drove on a bit further and he didn’t add anything so I asked

“What about their daughter and her friends.”

“Then I will deal with it, it was my doing, I killed them.”

For some reason I was upset but for the life of me I didn’t know why

“But they were awful, they deserved it!”

“Yes, they did.” then he added “but people get a little prickly when family are involved.”

I was feeling a bit light headed and couldn’t get this all straight in my head

“And if they want to kill you?” He paused “Listen John, no matter what happens this is between me and the Livingston’s, I need you to promise me that you will not get involved.”

I started to complain but he cut me off “PROMISE.” he said. I finally nodded just as we topped the rise and their gas station came in to view.

But where the neat but old fashioned station once stood there was scarcely more than a few blackened beams and a large pile of rubble covered in soot and ash. “Oh damn.” OMT said. We pulled over to the side of the road a hundred yards from the wreckage. We watched for a minute or two so I asked what he wanted us to do.

“I don’t want to separate but I don’t want to leave the truck alone.” he muttered.

He ran his fingers over his rough beard and shook his head,

“We have to check on them.”

He looked at me and I could tell he was distraught,

“John, can you keep watch here?”

But before I could answer there was a knock on the passenger side door and the silver gray hair of Mr. Livingston was just visible over the edge. “OH SHIT!” I said. OMT had been just as startled as I and he hung his head and shook it for a minute.

“Roll your window down John.”

I laughed a little nervously as Mr. Livingston climbed up onto the running boards so he could peek in

“Oh good! I was hoping it was you two, but I wasn’t sure because of the new truck and all.”

OMT looked at him, bracing his left arm on the steering wheel,

“Mr. Livingston, you should not have just walked up to us, you never know who might have been in this thing.”

“Oh don’t be silly boy, those monsters don’t drive trucks.”

I thought to myself ’but some monsters do’ but I said nothing.

“Mr. Livingston not everyone we have encountered has been, well, friendly.”

“Really?” he ask, seeming genuinely shocked.

“Really” I added.

OMT changed the subject,

“So what happened to the gas station?”

He shook his head sadly, clearly remembering a very unpleasant event.

“It was the things, the Z’s you called em, but let’s get up to the house and we can talk a bit more in private.”

Mr. Livingston told us to drive on down the service road about a half mile, take an unmarked gravel road, go past a railroad crossing and then bear to the right when it splits. Their house was right up the hill. We did as he asked and by the time we got there both Mr. and Mrs. Livingston were waiting for us on their front porch. OMT parked the Freightliner and we got out, we were invited in and we sat around a coffee table and Mrs. Livingston produced some homemade corn muffins and coffee, the corn muffins were good but to be honest I had not learned to drink coffee yet so I just had water. We told them about our adventure and Mrs. Livingston covered her mouth when we told them about the road block and how those men who chased us died. They asked OMT if we had seen anyone on our trip that resembled their daughter, he shook his head sadly and said

“No, we didn’t see anyone like her.”

They both looked so sad and all I could do was look at OMT and think ’what a liar.’

OMT asked again what happened to the gas station and Mr. Livingston began his story. It seems that a neighbor, Mr. Collins had come down to the station in a terrible rush, the things were coming across his fields and heading right at his place and if they went straight on they would be at the gas station in 20 minutes. The two men barricaded the store as best they could and waited. Mr. Collins had an old .38 revolver and Mr. Livingston his 12 gauge. They hit the place hard; at first they just explored but when they got close it was as if they could somehow sense or smell the men inside. The creatures were fast and didn’t resemble people at all. One of them got in and bit poor Mr. Collins on the shoulder before the two men were able to kill it. Mr. Livingston shoved one of the commercial refrigerators over onto the floor and it landed with a crash, but it had wedged between the counter and the door, making it impossible for the creatures to get in that way but they knew the burglar bars on the windows wouldn’t keep them out long.

Mr. Collins was suffering terribly and the wound on his shoulder looked like it was boiling, terrible smelling pus was oozing through his shirt and in less than 10 minutes Mr. Collins was unable to stand. He was burning up and the arteries and veins near the wound had turned black under his skin. Mr. Collins was in his early 80s and they had known each other for more than 40 years. He said he couldn’t last long and he begged Mr. Livingston to leave him there and that he would create a distraction, take as many of the bastards with him as he could. Reluctantly Mr. Livingston agreed. They set up a make shift bomb, two full canisters of propane, the big ones they use on BBQ grills, fuel additives, bottles of gin and vodka, anything that might explode was piled just below the biggest window, where they thought the monsters would finally break in. They shook hands, Mr. Livingston giving his friend a bottle of whiskey for the pain, and he told him that he was sure they would see another soon enough. Mr. Livingston first opened the valve on one of the propane tanks then stood by the back door and waited. It didn’t take long, the creatures finally tore the window bars away and they seemed to fight to be the first ones in. They had all gathered there like sharks in frenzy. Mr. Livingston jerked the rear door open and made a sprint for it, he heard his friend fire once then twice and then there was a tremendous explosion. That was it and here they were.

“At least those damn things are not fire-proof” he said.

Poor Mrs. Livingston was choking back tears as her husband told the story and it was all I could do to not cry myself.

“He was a hero.” he said.

OMT and I both nodded, there was no denying that and there was nothing left to say.