Z Day +18

  JAMES

  We made a series of scouting trips to gather what we needed. Along the way, I began a strenuous training regimen for self-defense for the group. Even Trish got involved when it came to the hand-to-hand. I tried to keep it simple: a few basic escape techniques modified for zombies.

  Machete fighting was something I didn’t know anything about, unfortunately. The closest I’d learned was the baton.

  Shae and Mark came to the rescue. When I asked Shae where she learned to fight with a machete, she said she hadn’t; she just had experience with bladed weapons. When I pressed her for more information, she just smiled and said, “Later.”

  There was never a later. That was one of the few things the new Shae and the old Shae had in common; they both liked to dodge any questions about their past. Even when she would give me answers, I suspected they weren’t the whole truth. I never pressed, though; I figured she’d tell me when she felt like it. It didn’t make it any less frustrating.

  Mark was a huge help. His boffer skills gave him the agility and reflexes to wield the weapon easily. All he had to do was adjust his tactics from a few quick blows to a relentless attack that would either destroy his opponent or quickly incapacitate them so he could escape. He’d trained other people before and ended up being our primary teacher.

  We could use each other for the hand-to-hand practice, but the machete training required training aids. Richard and Miria put together several practice dummies made from trees and old clothes to give us something to hack through.

  Firearms were an entirely different matter. Due to the noise, I refused to use them for training anywhere near the house. Gunfire tended to draw a crowd both from the living and the dead. I’d contemplated teaching them using the silenced rifles but figured most of what they would need would be up close and personal.

  As a result, I started running daytime scouting trips that were paired with firearm instruction. We had enough ammo to get some decent training in, but I didn’t want to go overboard as I didn’t know where our next supply of ammo would come from. Everyone seemed to pick up firearms rather quickly, except for Mark. Mark was still having difficulty hitting the target, even with a shotgun.

  Mark and I were atop an old Dairy Queen across the street from a Chevron gas station. Mark had parked our truck right up against the building, where there was a ladder to the roof. We could slide down the ladder and right into the open driver’s window without fear of attack in a pinch.

  Even though we had found the manual, we still hadn’t been able to get into the tanks of the gas station. None of the keys we’d found had worked on the locks. So, we continued siphoning gas out of vehicles as we came across them. We’d drained all the cars around the Chevron and managed to fill a dozen gas cans in the back of the truck. In the process, we’d attracted a bit of attention. I felt it was the perfect opportunity for some shooting practice.

  We moved to the front of the Dairy Queen roof. An old-style child’s playscape was in front of the store, and the uppermost climbing tower was bolted to the front of the fa?ade for stability. It was easy for me to hack open the top of the plastic tube slide. We carefully crawled into the tower and slid down to the bottom. The play area was a fenced-in enclosure utterly inaccessible from the outside. The only way into the child’s area, aside from the way we came, was through the store behind us.

  “OK, this should be relatively simple. They can’t get to us, so let’s start with some basics,” I said.

  “Aren’t they supposed to be the ones in cages with us outside looking in?” Mark said.

  “It’s a whole new world,” I said. “Let’s start with your shotgun.”

  Mark was still sporting a pump-action shotgun. It had an extended tube capable of holding five shells. The stock had been replaced with a pistol grip, and the foregrip had a surefire flashlight embedded in it. I had built it based on a police special I’d seen, thinking it was perfect as a home defense weapon. I’d never thought it would be used to kill zombies.

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  “Ok, the 870 doesn’t kick a whole lot if you’re using a stock, but with a pistol grip, it’s a bit different. If you don’t hold it just right, it’s gonna tear up your wrist or its gonna jump on you and pop you in the nose.” I adjusted Mark’s grip on the weapon as a shambler slowly approached us.

  Mark was paying more attention to the shambler and less on my instructions, so when he pulled the trigger, the gun kicked and caused his wrist to pop.

  “Ow!” Mark cried.

  “Pay attention. Look, he can’t get in here,” I said.

  Mark had only managed to wing his target, spinning the zombie to the side. The shambler had recovered and was now straining against the bars to the playground.

  Mark swallowed hard as he looked at the man who’d been wearing jeans and a button-down.

  “Now, focus. Up close, the shotgun is an incredibly destructive weapon.” I took the shotgun from Mark and fired it into the zombie's chest. Bone, muscle, tissue, and dark, thick fluids exploded outward, leaving a ghastly mess that was the creature’s chest. The force of the blast knocked it over. After a moment, it slowly got to its feet.

  “But as you can see, even at point blank, it will only—” I turned to find Mark retching into a nearby trashcan. I rushed over, “Hey, boss, I’m sorry. I probably should have warned you.”

  Mark waved me off as he recovered and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Mark took the shotgun from me and looked at the zombie who’d returned to his place at the bars. He calmly leveled the weapon at the creature, raised the muzzle until it was even with its head and squeezed the trigger. The explosion as the weapon discharged caused Mark to flinch, and the zombie dropped, a complete mess.

  “Got it, aim for the head,” Mark said, racking the action smartly.

  I patted him on the shoulder, “Yeah, you hit him, just not in the head.” I pointed at the zombie who was trying to get back to his feet.

  “But I was aiming right at his head!” Mark said in astonishment.

  “It’s OK. Shooting takes time and practice. Let’s try it again,” I said.

  We spent another hour working on the shotgun. In that time, Mark never made a headshot, but he did manage to pinch his hand in the action. I couldn’t understand how someone could be so bad at shooting a scattergun.

  Mark went as far as to put the shotgun right up to a zombie’s head, but when he pulled the trigger, he would flinch so bad it wouldn’t hit where he’d intended.

  I was grateful Mark was good with bladed weapons. I prayed Mark would never need to actually shoot something.

  That children’s playground became my preferred training zone for firearms. I could safely get in and out of the area, and there always seemed to be a plethora of targets to choose from. The several strip malls nearby seemed to provide plenty of fresh prey.

  The nearby restaurants provided some much-needed dry rations. Most of what we’d been coming across were either spoiled or looted. Luckily there were still essential dry goods we could use to expand our food selection and provided caffeine jolts for the long hours we were pulling.

  As we continued scouting, we came across things both helpful and painful. The remnants of a flower shop gave me pause. Glancing through the dried and wilted contents was a painful reminder of where the human race seemed to be headed.

  The sheet metal shop next door to the metal fabrication shop was raided for reinforcing the windows and doors of the house before being filed away for future projects.

  We discovered some clothes left behind in a combination alterations and dry cleaning shop that we brought home. Mark and Becca were mean with fabric, a needle, and thread. They requested a few things from the shop, which we got them. Between the two, they’d mended most of the clothes we had and reinforced knees and elbows to help them last longer.

  A furniture store gave us replacement beds. They weren’t anything fancy, mainly just mattresses for those of us sleeping on couches and blankets.

  Once everyone was more comfortable fighting zombies, we returned to Walgreens and cleared the place out. It had been a multi-day operation, but it had been worth it.

  The first day, we’d gone in guns blazing; this time, it was from the pharmacy side. The high counter allowed us to dispatch the shamblers safely.

  With the building secure, we’d left two folks to start quietly packing everything they could. The rest of us made a lot of noise and lured anything outside away before circling back and helping to load up. It took several trips, but we were well stocked now.

  We had grabbed a couple of pharmacology books, but trying to read one was like reading a German dictionary. You could make out some things but fell asleep before making sense out of it. Luckily, Becca had better luck.

  Not all the buildings we found were still intact. A Starbucks was attached to a Quiznos that had caught fire and gutted both restaurants. It was a grim reminder that you had to rely on yourself now as there weren’t fire departments, medics, or police to help you anymore.

  During this time, Shae had been keeping a watchful eye on me. I could tell she was worried. The more we talked about it, the more she told me about disturbing things she’d noticed that I hadn’t. We had tried changing feeding habits, more per sitting or more frequent feedings, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. I reluctantly agreed with her that blood alone wasn’t doing it.

  Several times, I went to Shae explaining how I had lost control again or became angry for no reason. The shakes were with me constantly now. I tried my best to hide it from the rest of the group, but it was only a matter of time before someone would notice, and then the cat would be out of the bag.