Mountain Man - 01 (3 page)

Time was something Gus still had, so he sprinted back into the store, feeling sour sweat seeping from his pores and catching a whiff of his own bad breath rebounding from inside his helmet, despite the visor being up. There were still dry goods in the back, and he wanted them all. He might not need them or like them, but he knew when one was hungry and desperate, they would make do with anything. He grabbed bunches of beige work gloves, beef jerky, packets of instant coffee, and a huge cardboard box of breakfast cereal, then spotted some huge flats of bottled water under a tarp. If he had missed that, he would have never forgiven himself, but in the end, he left it, deeming it too heavy for his aching arms. He dumped everything into the back of the van with an increasing sense of dwindling time. The three gimps in front of the van had tripled. Doors to houses banged open, and zombies came out of their homes as if hearing the cheery ring of an ice cream truck. The image put Gus in mind of old vampire movies, where the dead rose from their coffins. The first gimp, coming in from the side, had picked up friends as well, perhaps more than two dozen, and the pack had covered half the distance to him.

But there was still
more
stuff back in the storage area, enough for months perhaps. Gus stalled in the doorway, wasting seconds vacillating on what to do. Ever since the end of civilization not quite two years ago, he prided himself on one rule when foraging for supplies. That one rule had kept him alive when all others died. He had learned it from a youth gorged on action and horror movies––flicks where the main cast were a bunch of unknowns screaming their heads off in the face of a sadistic killer or monster or alien.

Don’t be stupid
.

Followed closely by:
Don’t take any risks
. The risk part was optional, as Gus felt any trip into the city was a risk. But any risk he took was a calculated one, like the one today. The tried-and-true routine was to get in, check things out, pick up whatever, and retreat before the gimps showed.

And the gimps were presently showing.

With a glance at the closed backroom door, Gus decided he would have to come back another time. He snatched up his shotgun and jumped aboard the rear of the van. The doors shrieked as he slammed them. He thumped his way through the supplies and hooked his shotgun overheard on a gun rack nailed into the roof above the driver’s seat.

Before him, the zombies thickened, filling the road. He looked out his side window and realized dozens more were only ten feet away and closing.

Realizing the slight booze buzz had left him and that his breath was coming in rapid huffs, he found the keys and started the beast. The engine roared to life.

Inhaling deeply, Gus steered his van to the right of the mob ahead, aiming toward the thinnest point. He had tried bashing his way through a mass of zombies before, at much higher speeds, but the mess afterward had left him reluctant to try such a thing again. Accelerating, the beast got to thirty before he bumped into the edge of the undead, the grill guard spinning the walking corpses away like broken robots. Hands and arms thumped against the left side of the van, hitting it hard enough to make him grimace. He ran down four shambling stiffs, bouncing in the seat as he drove over their flailing bodies. He felt his sphincter clinch and swore to sunny Jesus he wouldn’t shit himself.

He grabbed for his seatbelt and struggled to fasten it. He took his eyes off the road for a split second to get the seatbelt secured, and the van thumped as it went over a curb and onto a yellow front lawn. He snapped forward, almost crashing into the steering wheel. He glimpsed lawn gnomes going under the van, their half-destroyed faces going dark as the vehicle rushed over their heads. He regained control of the beast and steered left, catching a peek of the mob turning around for him. He longed for side mirrors, but one encounter where the gimps had actually hung onto them, grinning and hissing until he shot them off, had left him no choice but to remove the things. He wondered if he would have to do that with the door handles someday.

The van bounced back onto the asphalt, narrowly avoiding a fire hydrant and a punched-in mailbox. Gus got the vehicle back on course and looked ahead, seeing nothing but open road. Getting his breathing under control, he drove a block before stopping and glancing back at his merchandise. He had almost a full load, but there was still room for more. The question was where to look for more. How he had missed that particular convenience store was beyond him, as he’d been up and down that particular stretch of town many times. He thought he knew the area.

Don’t be stupid. Don’t be greedy
.

With that thought, he eased the van up to forty. He took a turn down another road and drove on the main drag of Annapolis, weaving in and around the derelict vehicles still on the road. On the left and right, he saw food warehouses, shopping malls, drugstores, and gas stations, all looking as if they had had the living shit kicked out of them. Gus wasn’t the first person to pick through the larger shops, as there had been plenty of looting going on back when the world up and died. There had been enough looting and danger to make him steal away to the wilds beyond South Mountain, where he waited for almost a month until he ran out of camping supplies and was forced to return. Return to a civilization gone mad. Feral.

He drove by the fast food restaurants, McDonald's, Burger King, Dairy Queen, all broken into and left gutted. On his left, he passed a ramshackle Canadian Tire and Home Hardware, where Gus had gone several times to find building supplies and weapons. Two years ago, he had sometimes seen other people. He remembered seeing police and even a squad or two of green uniformed soldiers, but not anymore. In fact, getting right down to it, Gus figured he hadn’t seen another living soul since… last spring. Not anyone. He heard people at times, up on his mountain estate, gunshots and cries of terror and agony that always went on for too long, haunting the hills and valley and either fading away or abruptly stopping.

Last spring. The thought made him frown. It was fall and heading into winter.

He turned onto the highway that led out of Annapolis, up a ramp that warned he was headed the WRONG WAY, like he gave a shit. Out of reflex, he looked over his shoulder as he merged with the major road, even though traffic wasn’t an issue anymore. As he drove home, weaving in and out of abandoned cars, he glanced at the forests, and sometimes the houses, but he usually kept his eyes on the road, just in case a gimp wandered into his path.

He turned off the highway and got back with his load in the afternoon. It happened like that at times. If the pickings were slim—as they were growing more and more—he would be out longer, but getting what he wanted and returning before dark was fine by him. He wouldn’t go back to that part of the city until a few days had passed and the nest relaxed.

Satisfied with the day’s events, he parked his van and went about unloading his newly found supplies.

After parking the van in the garage, he got out of his gear, returning it to his locker. He took a welcome home shot of Captain Morgan, then another because it tasted good, and knew he’d have to replace the bottle soon.

“Saucy fucker.” He glowered at the captain’s grinning face.

Gus turned around and took in the van full of booty. It would keep him for a while and fill the storeroom nicely. With a huff, he jumped into the back of the van and studied what he had scavenged. He liked keeping it in the packaging for as long as he could, as it reminded him of new, the concept of new, and perhaps fresh, even though each of the canned goods would have to be checked before he ate it. The packaging and preserving process the food went through seemed near perfect, and most times the canned food was fine. If he did open a bad can, it usually smelled or looked off and went into the garbage.

With a resigned sigh, Gus got to work. He lugged the drinks and boxes of food into his house and down to his basement. Two bedrooms converted into storerooms were filled with supplies, and in one of those, he stowed the new food. He spent a good two hours restocking the room, checking dates on the new canned food, and rotating the old out so he could access and eat that first. Old meant little to Gus, as all food production had halted when everything went to hell. Most of the canned food had passed the expiration dates, but it was still edible, as the polymers kept the food preserved. Gus would eat anything, but he recognized the problem facing him. The canned food would run out eventually, and when it did, he either had to grow his own or perish.

With the day moving into evening, Gus figured to relax and have himself a smile. He entered the second storeroom, which was filled with boxes of alcohol. Rum, whiskey, gin, Irish cream liqueur, vodka—though he hated that shit—liqueurs, wine, and plenty of others. He even had a case of apple brandy, though he had only opened one bottle of it. The one place that people seemed to ignore was the liquor store for whatever reason, and he had been able to clean out what was on the main floor’s shelves alone in six separate runs. He had gone back several times, taking more from the storeroom behind the liquor store. Someday, that would change. A scavenger like him would find it eventually.

However, he had stockpiled enough spirits in the downstairs room to go into business for himself. He took out two forty-ounce bottles of a Crown Royal special reserve and another bottle of Captain Morgan dark rum. The Captain Morgan he walked back to the garage and placed on the shelf as reinforcement to the dwindling supply there. The Crown Royal whiskey he brought out front.

The air had turned cold, which forced him to get a couple of sweaters and change into a double layer of sweat pants. When he returned, the sun was dropping in the west, and the clouds parted, colored a reddish violet. He walked out to the edge of the wooden deck, seeing the broken glass from the night before and telling himself he had to clean that shit up—tomorrow. Anytime he made it back from Annapolis still intact was something to celebrate. He plopped down in one of two plush chairs situated underneath a huge green garden umbrella. He wanted a drink––a smile, as his grandfather used to say. Maybe four drinks, before getting something for dinner. Just to relax.

Facing Annapolis, he unscrewed the top of the bottle and sipped. The rush and burn woke up his taste buds, throat, and stomach.
Fire one
, he thought, and then,
Fire two
. He settled back into the lawn chair, keeping the whiskey bottle in his lap, and spotted the blanket on the other, just out of reach. That might be needed a little later, but he was content to sit, drink, and watch the city go to sleep.

Wind cut across his bearded face, and for a moment, he wondered if he needed a toque. Another sip. Another grimace. The booze took the thought away. He adjusted himself in the chair, the material squeaking, and scratched his balls. The events of the day replayed in his mind. Fear. Diluted by the booze––the only and best way he knew of calming himself before going into action––and the driving of his van into the front of the store. Toilet paper. Good stuff. Had to have the shit to wipe yourself. In the movies, it was food, water, and ammo. Never said anything about crap wrap. That was something they didn’t cover in the movies. Someone fucked up.

Gus chuckled, took another shot of the Crown Royal, and studied the darkening cityscape and the Bay of Fundy beyond it. His thoughts became a slow drip of anesthesia as he watched and sipped. Somewhere, he forgot his limit again and lost count of the shots he downed. The city became a basin of black and as biting as the dragging wind. He could see no lights at all, which was, he supposed, a good thing. He didn’t know what he would do if he ever spotted light out there in the void. He certainly wouldn’t do anything at night. That was as certain as all fuck. Sometimes, he caught a scream, or the end of one, waking him from a doze. Sometimes it might repeat, and mostly, he convinced himself it was just his mind becoming a little more unhinged.

Things might have been a little more bearable if he had company, but with company came another set of rules, and he felt, no, he
knew
that being on his own for so long had both saved and warped him. The angst of laying those rules out to a person who might not be receptive to following them turned him off from the idea of company entirely. In the movies, it was always the same––the greater number of people in a group, the higher the probability of there being an idiotic douchebag, which led to a higher chance of the douchebag placing the others at risk. That thought made him shake his head. He’d considered finding a dog at one point, but most of the dogs had long perished, especially the short-legged breeds, not having the speed to escape the zombies. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen any kind of wildlife other than birds. Something probably existed out there, but he just hadn’t seen it yet.

No, it was better to be alone in this world.

It was better.

Another long draw of whiskey took away any argument that another part of his mind might have voiced.

“Jesus
Christ
,” Gus moaned upon waking and squinting out at a red sky. He woke up stiff, hung over, and facing the cityscape of Annapolis from the comfort of his lawn chair. Sometime during the night, he had hooked the blanket off the nearby bed and covered up with it. He squinted at the nearby bottle of Crown Royal and realized it was half gone.

“Goddamn alkie.” He stared at the morning sun. Perhaps seven thirty or around there. He sat up, snarling out a yawn. Deep blue, the likes never seen before due to eighty thousand or more flights a day, greeted him warmly. That was one good thing about the apocalypse. The absence of flights cleared the sky of the usual silk worm gauziness that paled the color. Car emissions had once added to it as well, but the airplanes were just as guilty of fucking up the atmosphere. People just didn’t hear about it as often, if ever. The sky that he opened his eyes to was the color of paintings. He wondered if that was a conspiracy of some kind. Fuck it. The only conspiracy he wanted to hear about at the moment concerned breakfast. Rising to his feet with a grunt, he turned to the kitchen with a long lingering scratch of his nether regions. He threw down his blanket and left the whiskey on the table. His core complained of a chill, and he wondered if he could pick up a cold without other people around. That was that. No more sleeping in the great outdoors, even if it was in a plush lawn chair.