Black Tide Rising - eARC (20 page)

Behind him, Grandpa said, “It’s always tough the first time you shoot a man, but you need to get over it fast, because we’re not getting any resupply.”

“Sorry,” he said. He took two more shots to hit one, who clutched and screamed and thrashed around on the ground before stopping. Dying.

He shot at another shambling body. There were a lot of fat people around here, it seemed.

Then Grandpa and Wendell started shooting, and that hurt his ears.

As he winced and cringed, Grandpa said, “Yeah, hurts, doesn’t it? You little fuckers made me sell the two cans for the rifles. I guess you get to deal with the noise. It’s not like my ears matter anymore.”

The rifles cracked, and bodies fell.

Come on
, he thought.
What were the odds?

He shot. Another went down. Then he froze, because the next was a pretty young girl, under the stains of blood, dirt and waste. But he couldn’t do anything to save her, and she was trying to kill the people in the car, who seemed to be young girls, too.

Behind him, Grandpa said, “Better reload and save the partial mag.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He swapped out for a full clip, fumbling with it.

Honking sounded down the street, and a black Toyota Land Cruiser with bars and racks raced through the moving obstacles. It stopped on the pavement, the doors flew open, and two thirtyish men rolled out, followed by a redheaded woman. They had black web gear, pouches, handguns, and were holding AR carbines. The woman wore stockings and a miniskirt over combat boots and under a tailored web vest. It would have been hot under other circumstances. That, and when she got closer, she appeared to be a well-kept fifty.

“Reggie, sorry we’re late!”

“Glad you could make it.”

The two men charged up the steps onto the porch, pivoted, and took positions at each corner. The woman dragged a bag behind her. Once she was up, the men took turns grabbing more gear.

“Where’s the heavy stuff?” one asked. “Yes, we’ve been in Q all week.”

Grandpa said, “Yeah, there was a personal issue that got in the way. This is it until I can fix things.” He fixed Andy with another gaze. The old man wasn’t going to let him forget it.

“Crap. Well, there’s a shit ton of zeds moving this way. We left ahead of them, so you’ve got a while, but they’re probably closing.”

“I was afraid of that. But it’s looking light for now.”

There were perhaps a dozen wandering bodies, though one suddenly started jogging and sloshing toward them.

One of the newcomers put a bullet right through the figure’s head.

“Nice shot, Trebor.”

“Thanks. Is it okay to be excited?” The man smiled faintly. He had a very high-end looking AR15, and an Uzi slung behind his gear. It had Israeli markings.

“Sure. Trebor, Kyle, Kristan, this is my grandson Andy, and that’s Sammy. You know Wendell.”

“Hey, Andy, Sammy.” “Hi.” “Sup.”

“Boys, these gentlemen and lady are card-carrying members of Zombie Squad.”

Kyle pointed to the ID badge on his web gear. “We are America’s elite ambulatory cadaver suppression task force.” He faced back around with his rifle, a perfectly respectable bolt action with muzzle brake and folding bipod.

Andy said, “You’re kidding, right?”

Trebor said, “We were kidding. It was all metaphor for disaster prep and fundraising. But here we are.”

“Yeah.” He kept twitching over that. Zombies. Guns. But Grandpa really had been overdoing it. Except…

Grandpa said, “Wendell, you got it?”

“I do, Reg.”

“Good. Boys, Wendell’s in charge. He’ll tell you when to shoot, what to shoot at, and where to place yourselves. Got it?”

“Uh, yes.” “Uh huh.”

“Kristan, Andy,” he said, with a jerk of his thumb. “Come with me.”

Andy followed grandpa inside the house, and felt a ripple as the old man locked the door and twisted a second lever. Something clanked like a vault.

“Just in case,” he said. “We are going to come back.”

Kristan was smoking a cigarette. Grandpa didn’t like smoking, but he didn’t say anything so Andy didn’t. Monica, in the kitchen, looked like she was going to, but stopped. The kids were watching TV and looked very agitated. Lisa was upstairs cleaning. He couldn’t see her.

They went down the stairs and into the office in the front. Those windows were exposed at ground level outside, even if they were high up here. They had bars now, but…

“Once we get upstairs, there’s sandbags out back. But for now, I’ve got plywood. The back windows have to be done.”

Grandpa pulled the closest door, reached in, and grabbed a tool chest. He dragged that out, popped the top and fumbled with both hands.

“Screw gun,” he said, handing it over. He grabbed three pre-cut sheets of three quarter inch marine grade plywood.

“Now we do the back windows and the garage. You know what to do?”

The boards had holes for the screws, which were more like small bolts.

Andy said, “I see. Smart.” Damn, the crazy old man really had thought everything through.

“First, help with this stuff.”

He started grabbing boxes while Grandpa unpacked the closet. He handed stuff to Kristan, Kristan carried everything through.

Clothing came out, some of it old fashions. Winter clothing came out. Boxes came out. Another tool chest.

“C’mere,” the old man said with a wave.

He stepped closer to the closet.

Outside, there were bangs of gunfire, some of them very loud. That must be Wendell’s rifle.

Grandpa said, “Christ, we need to hurry.”

But he continued moving methodically.

One side of the closet had an inset door. With the shelves and clothes out, that opened. The closet continued under the stairs.

There were more boxes, some of them ammo crates.

“Oh, good.” Andy sighed in relief.

“Yeah, it would be, if it wasn’t two hundred and sixty troy ounces of silver each. Ammo crates are the only thing strong enough.”

Jesus. What did the old man have stuffed down here? He’d unloaded an easy hundred grand in weapons, and still had bullion?

He took the crate and lugged it through to the rear room.

When he came back, Grandpa was down like a ferret, pulling more stuff. He took that, too, and came back.

What the hell is under here?
he wondered as the closet kept going.

There was a hole.

So, into the office, into the closet under the stairs, to the left and under the landing, then a short door to the left. He shimmied into it behind the old man.

We’re under the porch
, he thought. Gunfire directly above, muffled through the slab, proved it. It was a concrete block vault with LED lighting and a dehumidifier, under the porch.

More guns. Under here, where no one would ever have seen, Grandpa had more guns.

“I never told you goddamn punks how much I really had,” the old man said. “You’d have shit yourselves. There are two spreadsheets.”

There was another entire rack of AR15s. Next to that, some old military rifles in red lacquered wood stocks. A rack of those. There was a shelf of Glock pistols. There were crates of ammo. Four sets of body armor and helmet hung on a rail.

“Well, grab stuff and start passing it out.”

In short order, Grandpa, the two brothers and Lisa were in armor, though they all felt very uncomfortable. It was like wearing a fridge. Reggie and the zombie hunters were already armored up.

He was really glad of that, because there were a lot of running bodies out there now.

Back out on the porch, there was a low wall of sandbags. In between surges, the men stacked more while Kristan and Sam kept eyes out. She really was in good shape, and a pretty damned good shot.

“More!” she called, leaned across the railing, and shot.

Kyle leapt back up, squinted through his scope and fired. Wendell stood alongside and fired, his rounds ejecting and tinging off the house.

The defense was layered. They had big bore rifles, smaller rifles and carbines, and if it got close enough, Trebor’s Uzi and the shotgun leaned against the doorframe.

Andy hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

This was nothing like the movies, either. With all the firing he’d done, he thought he’d hit three. Moving targets weren’t easy, he didn’t like shooting at people, and they didn’t want to let them get close.

Not at all. Several of them bashed through the bay window of a house down the street, then poured into it, scrambling over the frame and each other.

* * *

Reggie watched them swarm into the Erdmans’ house, and knew there was nothing he could do. If he had some kind of artillery, or could set it on fire, he would. But the poor couple and their baby were either dead, or soon to be worse than dead.

A dozen more followed the first gaggle, and he started shooting into the mass. He winged one, caught a leg, blew chunks of flesh from another, and put one down with two torso hits. They ran on even when shot, like a combination of PCP user and meth head.

That just stirred up several others, who rumbled their way, limbs and skin flapping.

“I count twenty,” Kristan said, sounding remarkably calm.

Trebor said, “I’m getting low here.”

Andy stuttered, “Oh, y-yeah. Last clip.”

“We need more mags!” he shouted and banged on the door.

The mail slot, that hadn’t been used in years, opened, and a single mag slid out. It bounced off the ground and a round popped loose.

“Open the goddamn door!” he shouted to Monica.

There was a loud clack of the bolts latching.

Oh, shit.

He sprinted off the porch, around the garage, and went in the back. The plan for that was a two by four into metal slots, and she hadn’t got to that yet.

But she had locked the door to the garage. He had his keys, quietly unlatched the knob first, turned it with one hand, then unlocked the deadbolt fast and threw his shoulder into it.

She was standing at the bottom of the stairs shrieking, screaming and flapping her arms.

He slapped her hard enough to stagger her off the wall.

“You are an adult woman, get a hold of yourself and act like one.”

She stared at him in complete shock.

“Domestic violence!” she whimpered.

“There is no domestic relationship between us and never will be. Now, you can either do as you are told, or I will throw you the fuck outside with the zombies. And Sammy? That goes for you, too. I realize being a man is alien to you, but you need to learn right now. Your sons need the example.”

He turned, took the stairs in three steps, panting in exertion. Dammit, he was old. He unlocked the door and stepped back out. He left the front door open, jammed a bolt into the lockplate, and got ready to shoot. Things had quieted down again.

Over his shoulder he said, “Fill the goddamn mags.”

Yeah, it was ugly out here. There had to be a finite number of them, but they could get very numerous very quickly before that slowed down. There were near a million people in the city, most of them either unaware or useless.

Sammy joined them, hiding just inside the door. It wasn’t as if they wouldn’t have warning, but his grandson was a pussy.

Andy, at least, was shooting like a man who was protecting his family. Maybe Sammy would come around.

“How do I use the clip loader thingy?”

The boy didn’t know the difference between a charger clip and a magazine.

Reggie reached over and showed him. “This is a clip.” He held up the ten round stripper. “This is a loading spoon. This is a magazine. Clip goes here, and press.” He showed, and ten rounds slid into the magazine. He pulled the clip loose, dropped it and grabbed another.

“Work on that stack.”

“Hey, these clips jam at five rounds.”

He glanced over, and saw Sammy trying to press the rounds down.

Shit, those mags.

“Crap! Bring ’em back in!”

He ran for the garage. Bench, where was the drill index? There. Eighth inch. Downstairs, swap driver bit for twist drill.

“See this rivet? It blocks them at five rounds. Drill that out on each. Bring ’em up.”

“What happened?”

“Got ’em cheap out of New York. All you have to do to make them work is drill out a stud. Worthless gun control law, but now we’re stuck with goddamn zombies because of some…never mind, just drill.”

He’d erased chunks of the spreadsheet as they went through his collection. He had a backup copy in the vault, under a false name, but he’d completely forgotten about these. They’d been bought online through a gift card, and delivered to a friend in Ohio who’d reshipped them as “used tools.”

Drilling each rivet took about ten seconds. Stuffing in ten rounds took another five, and those mags went right up to Wendell and crew. Once there was a small stack, they could start putting two clips in each magazine, then three.

He looked around.

They had the windows reinforced, and wire set. The boys had completely missed the loops of concertina he’d stowed in the garage rafters during their intervention. Sandbags, plywood, those he’d called “Storm supplies.”

He’d never understand the mindset that being prepared was somehow immoral or dangerous. He hoped, going forward to not have to do that again.

He stood on the landing where he could give instructions up, down, and out.

“Okay, tomorrow we toughen things up. More wire and traps, barricades around the property. We have to worry about people who didn’t prep who’ll be hungry.”

“We’re not turning away starving people,” Monica said.

He gave her The Look.

“We don’t have enough for everyone. We’ll be charitable, within reason, and these are my supplies. You’re welcome to leave if you don’t agree.”

She wrung her hands and went back to the kitchen.

He figured she’d come around. She wasn’t stupid, she was compassionate, she’d just had a very easy life. She was learning.

“Okay, we’re secure enough unless they start using prybars, which might happen. We have bars and plywood on all the lower windows, nothing they can climb on, and not much they can hide behind. It’s heading toward dark. We need to move inside and bed down. Wendell, can you take the office?”