Alaskan Undead Apocalypse (Book 4): Resolution (58 page)

“Just down the road. We could walk there and
they wouldn’t know that we was even there. It would be like
shootin’ fish in a...in a…”

“Barrel. Yes, get everyone together. We’ll
hit them now. We’ll strike at them while they are unaware. We’ll
ride down upon them like Valkyries descending from Valhalla to
harvest their souls.”

The young militiaman stared at the Colonel
and went so far as to nod, but had no clue what the massive Colonel
was talking about. It did sound pretty cool to him though. He ran
back out of the dining room where he’d found the Colonel.

The young man, Marcus, was one of the few
with a little bit of military training; he’d attended the Alaska
Military Youth Academy a few years back.

The Colonel could hear him gathering
everyone. Colonel Bear was excited at this opportunity. If they
could attack and defeat these strangers without Carter’s help, then
maybe the Colonel would have an easier time convincing all of the
others to back him when he confronted Carter. If they were all
basking in their victory when Carter returned, the Colonel would be
able to take whatever steps he deemed necessary when the moment
arose. That was all for later. For the time being, he would focus
on taking his vengeance on those deserving it down at the end of
the road. He would bring all the vengeful spirit of the ancient
Furies with him and deliver the justice he knew those people
deserved.

There could be no pity, not even for those
children. Real justice knew nothing about pity or mercy because it
had no need of either. That was the nature of true justice. It was
cold, pure, and beautiful.

The Colonel drank the martini made for him
by Zach, another of the men who rode with him in his Hummer. It
wasn’t cold and it didn’t have an olive, but it was strong and that
was what he wanted. Having finished one already, he could feel the
liquor in his cheeks and lips, which were warm and flushed.

“Marcus! Bring me my rifle. It’s about time
for us to be going. Our destiny awaits us at the end of the
road.”

Creeping through the woods like the
boogeyman, the twenty or so remaining members of the Colonel’s
militia approached William’s lodge with as much stealth as the
forest floor would allow.

They walked partially bent at the waist,
trying to evade detection from the potentially watchful eyes inside
the lodge. Most barely breathed, afraid that their breath might
give away their position.

Their target seemed impossibly far away and
not getting any closer despite their best efforts. The trees, a
healthy mix of Sitka Spruce, Alder, Birch, and Cottonwood, were
tall and narrow but growing in dense pockets in the thin, glaciated
soil. They had to pick their way around and sometimes under the
twisted nests of branches to maintain their gradual approach.
Through this section of forest there were no clear-cut trails or
paths. They had to slog their way through knotted layers of
vegetation, doused with a growing blanket of frosty white.

By the time the militia had reached the edge
of the tree line bordering the lodge’s cleared property, most of
their fingers were stiff and cold and their cheeks protested in
splotchy patterns of pink and red. They paused, not certain what
came next.

The Colonel had told them to get near to the
house without being seen and then assault it aggressively. It
sounded so easy when the Colonel said it, but faced with the task
without the Colonel’s continued direction or encouragement, none of
it was so clear.

They had all been surprised to learn that
Colonel Bear was sending them into battle while he and Greg were
going to remain behind. The two of them would wait in the Colonel’s
Hummer, his command vehicle as he called it, and serve as a
tactical reserve. He could rush into the fray with his tank-like
rig and deliver a decisive and crushing blow at the right
moment.

Unfortunately, none of them knew how to
carry out an assault. None of them were soldiers or had any idea
about how to be one. They were scared and doubtful of themselves,
unsure of how to begin.

After several tense moments, one of the men
in the group stood out from the trees and waited. Nothing happened.
The lodge looked as unthreatening as generic building anywhere
else. It wasn’t a haunted house, exuding terror and threats with
its very presence. No, it was just a really big house and it
appeared to be empty.

Others joined the first man standing out in
the open and again there was no response from anyone in the house.
They started to walk down the driveway toward the building, which
sat at the bottom of a fairly significant incline. Parked near the
lodge was a nice looking Land Rover, covered in snow and looking as
if it hadn’t been moved in an age.

The first man said to everyone else, “I
don’t think anyone is home.”

They could all see footprints in the snow
near the front door, the front of the lodge, and into the nearby
woods. Someone had obviously been there recently. Seeing the
footprints caused all of them to stop in their tracks. They looked
around, concerned that perhaps they had just walked into an ambush
of some sort.

About then, the Colonel and Greg came
barreling down the road and into the driveway. Greg slammed the
brakes and came to a sliding stop several feet from the steps
leading up to the door, leapt from the monstrous black truck and
ran up onto the porch. He was carrying his assault rifle, a common
AK47 with a long banana clip, at the ready, aimed at the door.

The Colonel spilled out of the front
passenger seat slowly, like a glob of tapioca pudding wrapped in
clothing. He tried to take on the bearing of MacArthur cutting
through the surf on his triumphant and much publicized return to
the Philippines in World War II. He ascended the steps
deliberately, nearing the door at his own pace.

In front of the door now, he looked over at
Greg walking over and trying the doorknob. To their surprise, it
turned. The Colonel finished the job of opening the door. It
creaked open, revealing just what the Colonel had anticipated and
feared. The lodge was empty. It did smell very nice however, but
there was something more. He heard something coming from just
inside the door. It was a faint, high pitched beeping tone. He
stepped inside and took a quick look around but didn’t immediately
see the source of the sound. It sounded similar to a watch alarm or
some other electronic device.

Greg looked at his commanding officer and
shrugged his shoulders. They assumed the beeping would stop
eventually and so paid it little attention and peered into the dark
building. It looked like a nice place, and had been used very
recently.

Then the beeping stopped. Colonel Bear and
Greg shared a quick grin, which was interrupted by a startling,
blaring, repeating alarm tone. The aggressive sound echoed into and
through the forest, bouncing off of and between trees. It disturbed
the quiet of the forest and found its way deep into Shotgun
Cove.

The metallic echo, most of its tone
dissipating from the normal human audible range, crept around the
buildings and across the newly paved streets and driveways. It
vibrated the air all the way to the undulating, ravenous wave of
undead even then making their way into the Cove. The echo was like
a dinner bell to them, exciting, agitating, calling.

Their emaciated bodies found renewed energy,
electric and sudden, in their limbs. Like an accompanying drumbeat
or a marching song, the creatures growled and hissed a hellish
chorus. The army of death found renewed collective energy that set
their legs to a more brisk, determined pace. They could sense the
presence of prey. Their cravings propelled them forward as if a
whip was driving them. The infection fueling their brains demanded
they hunt...demanded they kill...demanded they eat. It would not be
denied and the anticipation of the feast only made them all the
more insane.

All the roads in Shotgun Cove led to the
same place. They were all tributaries to the same major artery, the
Shotgun Cove Road. At present, Colonel Bear’s militia was marching
in one direction on the road and the masses of undead were moving
in the opposite. They were like two trains heading toward one
another on the same track. Nothing would stop the collision and,
just like with a pair of trains, this crash would be tragic and
bloody.

Jules looked up at Neil. “Where are we going
now?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. William said that
we’re going somewhere safe.”

Jules looked back out
Serenity’s
window at the gray but calm skies that hung
all the way down to the water’s surface, a darker shade of gray.
The water wasn’t boasting a smooth, glassy surface but it was
largely calm.

Jules smiled widely. “I like
Serenity
,” she said.

Neil thought to himself that he did too.
They were riding the surprisingly gentle currents of the Prince
William Sound out away from Whittier. Neil leaned back into the
comfortably padded seat and looked up toward the helm.

William stood stoically at the wheel,
guiding them toward the destination he had in mind. There were
remote cabins all over the Sound and William had one particular in
mind which had a wood stove, an oil stove, plenty of room, and
perhaps electricity. It would be tight, but it would also be warm
and dry. They could conceivably stay there through the winter. Most
importantly, they would be removed from any population centers and
threats of encounters with any zombies; even outside chance
possibilities were all but nil.

Rationing would be required, as would
hunting and fishing, and likely planting in the spring. Neil was
hopeful that things might work themselves out in the end. He
thought that maybe they had finally found somewhere they could make
a home. They could settle down and start to think about the bigger
picture and not simple day-to-day survival.

While he pondered those possibilities, the
newest member of their group, Mason, came in from the rear of the
boat. He rubbed his hands together to get the blood flowing again.
“The other boat is keeping up with us pretty well. William and I
loaded it up with so much fuel I didn’t know how it would do, but
she’s making good time.”

Mason had earned everyone’s respect for his
care and ultimate rescue of William. Back at the Inn at Whittier,
Mason had spirited out of the establishment William, who led them
down to the harbor. They found William’s other boat, the
Nostromo
, still moored where it had been
prepped all those months ago. William had wince when he saw her. To
Nostromo’s sides clung darkening layers of barnacles, algae, and
other growth There was no time to deal with it at that moment; they
were focused on other tasks like escaping the harbor before they
were trapped.

Once he climbed into the boat and looked
around, William was surprised to see that the piers were all empty.
When he turned the ignition and the boat’s engine grumbled to life,
he expected them to be rushed by throngs of the undead but nothing
happened. They pulled away from the moorage and slipped through the
water without incident. In fact, William was so confident that he
formulated a plan.

Just like on
Serenity
, William had a secured locker holding an
assortment of firearms and ammunition.
Nostromo
was carrying a pair of well cared for vintage
AR15s, the original model for the United States Army’s M16 and a
military issue semi-automatic combat shotgun with a folding stock.
When William opened the locker, Mason’s eyes widened and his
nostrils filled with the overpowering scent of oil, which overcame
the surrounding aroma of the ocean.

The young man gushed, “Wow. Those are some
nice guns.” Mason looked at the small submachine gun he had been
given by Carter and knew that it would never compare to the ones
William owned.

William asked while looking the young man in
the eyes, “Which one do you want?”

“Really?” Mason asked incredulously. “I
mean...
really
? Which one do you think I
should take?” He set the MP5 down and moved closer to William.

William handed Mason one of the lightweight
assault rifles and demonstrated how to load and then prepare the
rifle for firing. He then told Mason that he wanted to go over to
one of the refueling stations and see about loading some barrels of
boat fuel onto the
Nostromo
. Mason nodded
his head and agreed. When William asked for Mason’s help and
expressed that he couldn’t possibly do all of what he wanted alone,
Mason gladly stepped up and promised to do what needed to be
done.

He didn’t know anything about William other
than the man’s first name and that he had a fishing boat armed like
a naval warship, but Mason trusted the big black man more so than
any of the militia people with whom he had been living. He didn’t
care about any of those people because none of them had ever shown
any interest in his wellbeing.

The two men found a few fifty-five gallon
drums which they filled and then used a power loader to move onto
the back of the boat, which did sag slightly when the third barrel
was lowered. They filled every other metal container they could
find. It took a good long while, but eventually they had a full
load.

While they did all of this, Mason told
William about the Colonel’s rage and his plans for revenge against
William’s friends in Shotgun Cove. The information kept William
focused on his task and helped to energize his tired and still not
healed legs and arms. He needed to get back to Shotgun Cove to warn
and protect his new friends.

Thinking about all of them hopefully back at
Shotgun Cove, William wondered about Neil, who he had accidentally
shot. William wondered if he would be welcomed back at all. If he
had killed Neil, how would he be received? He couldn’t imagine that
any of them could possibly think he had done so intentionally.
Still, he couldn’t shake the nagging sense of doubt when they set
out to return to Shotgun Cove.