HERE LIES: NO ONE [04]
VOTING HAS FINISHED FOR THIS CHAPTER!
Last weeks vote:
>Should the group have any probems finding supplies? Yes 47% No 53%
>Will the neighborhood be easy to clear out? Yes 38% No 62%
>For the fun of it, how many of you would like to see deviations from the regular zeeks? (special infected zeeks) Yes 91% No 09%
>Should the group have any probems finding supplies? Yes 47% No 53%
>Will the neighborhood be easy to clear out? Yes 38% No 62%
>For the fun of it, how many of you would like to see deviations from the regular zeeks? (special infected zeeks) Yes 91% No 09%
Chapter Four: A Machine
"Can you hear them coming? They sound like… a machine.”
-Last words heard on a popular radio station
Weak drops of water fell from the sky, striking leaves and trampled grass. It was one of those soft rains that left the world feeling somewhat quiet; as if Mother Nature was holding in her breath. The calm gray sky and green of the dense forest was interrupted by the hustle and bustle of nearly fifty people as they packed up tents, coolers, and clothing. The scout troops were moving out.
Nearly three months. They had survived the outdoors with the equipment of a week-long camping trip for nearly three whole months.
Well, it hadn’t been Tyler’s choice. It hadn’t been his, or his friends, or even some of the scoutmasters for that matter. Something had happened back in the real world. Back where civilization began and warm meals were cooked. Back where there was electricity and soft bedding. That something had been what kept them here. Here at Camp Stubborn. What a stupid name. Someone trying to raise morale. Stubborn get it? Because we’re survivors, no matter what.
When the scoutmasters had heard of the disease back at home via the hand-crank radio small Timothy Baggs had brought with him, they held a pow-wow to discuss what they were going to do. Go home? Risk infecting everyone? Killing all these kids? That wasn’t an option! They were safer out here, riding out the death. Nothing would come up this deep into the forest. Heck, even the forest rangers would struggle to get where they were. But some of the kids wanted to go home, see if their families were alright. Doesn’t matter! They don’t understand. It’s bad out there. We have to keep them safe.
So Tyler, thirty-nine other scouts, and eleven scoutmasters were forced to survive in their makeshift campground for three months. Tyler hadn’t known most of them at first. He had come up just with his scout troop. Good ol’ Troop 157. Oh thank heaven I’m in Troop 157! Hurrah! Hurrah! It was him, five others, Mr. Zito and Mr. Whiting. After three months though, he got to know everyone else well enough. He could probably list out all of their social security information if he felt like it.
The plan had been to wait it out until help arrived. Either soldiers, forest rangers, or God himself would show up. But after six days, the radio went out and no one came to the rescue. The last message they heard had been one sentence. One final sentence that chilled them to the bone. That single sentence sent shivers down Tyler’s spine every night. He’d curl up tighter in his sleeping bag, feeling his stomach rumble from hunger, and think about that sentence until he fell asleep.
“Can you hear them coming? They sound like… a machine.”
Three months of chopping firewood, fishing in the nearby creek, and watching the scoutmasters head into the woods with their rifles to hunt deer. Food was scarce but they had survived. With fifty people working together night and day, they had made it.
But they were three months in, no one had eaten in two days, and there was no more ammunition for the guns. The forest had been depleted of game for five miles in every direction. Tyler’s last meal had been a sad little crushed mouse. A mouthful of boiled meat.
Three scouts had run away nearly a month ago. They’d decided the masters couldn’t keep them in the woods any longer. They stole a pistol and a tent and hiked off in the middle of the night. For all Tyler knew, they were at home with their family, telling the cops that they’d been held against their will by a bunch of adults. ‘Cause really, there was no way an infection would last that long! No disease was that crippling! Timothy Baggs’ stupid radio had probably just burned out. That’s why they couldn’t hear any chatter.
It took three months before the scoutmasters caved in and agreed it was time to head back. If they didn’t, they’d all die out here. Mr. Zito and Mr. Whiting shook hands with the other leaders as they finished their final pow-wow. Tyler watched as a group of seven piled into a Jeep Grand Cherokee and took off down the narrow dirt road that would lead to a canyon passage. That passage would connect to the freeway and straight back to their houses. Roads that ran like veins across the surface of the planet.
Tyler felt sad; he’d never had a chance to say goodbye to them. He watched as another group left as well. Then another. His troop finished packing and made sure all the fires were put out. As Tyler threw his backpack in the back of Whiting’s van, he watched the last group leave. Troop 157 was all that was left of Camp Stubborn.
“Come on Tyler.” Whiting said in a kind voice, patting the scout’s shoulder. Tyler looked away from the place that had been his home for three months. The kind scoutmaster was still overweight, but not nearly as much as he used to be. The two hopped into the van where the rest of the troop was waiting.
“Finally.” Zito said with an impatient huff. He gave Tyler an annoyed look. The man hadn’t acted friendly since he’d first heard the radio chatter.
Tyler sat next to Hayden and Austin, the two blond-haired brothers that had been his closest friends since the trip began. They nudged him, eyes glistening with excitement. They were going home! Warm food, man! A bed! Family! Tyler looked out of the van window. They sound like… a machine. The words haunted him. He couldn’t feel the excitement the others were emanating. All he could feel was dread. What was happening back home? People dying and coming back, covered in blood? Eating each other? What kind of crazy disease was that? That, everyone had agreed, had to have been an exaggeration. No one came back from the dead. Impossible.
The van turned on after a couple of cranks, whining to life after three months of sleep. They rolled forward, wheels crackling over the dirt path. Tyler watched Camp Stubborn disappear behind them as they turned a bend in the road.
The drive through the dirt trail took a while, but was nothing compared to the mountain passage. After three hours, Tyler fell asleep; the last of his friends to do so. The only person awake was Whiting, driving the car.
Tyler jostled when the van came to a screeching halt, Whiting’s voice swearing out loud. Tyler rubbed his eyes and sat up, hearing his scout friends do the same. They were all staring out the windows and muttering. Tyler peered out and his eyes widened, staring at an unbelievable sight.
The roads that ran like veins were clogged: clogged with thousands upon thousands of cars. The scene was incredible. Vehicles packed nearly bumper to bumper, some smashed into each other. Doors were left open and miscellaneous items were strewn about. A car cemetery that ran for miles across the freeway. Tyler couldn’t even see where it all ended. Far beyond the horizon, that was for sure.
Whiting cracked open the door, Zito doing the same on the passenger side. The two men stepped out of the car.
“Don’t!” Hayden said, next to Tyler. His voice held a wobble of fear.
Where were the people? There’s no movement.
Tyler watched as the scoutmasters walked forward, almost in a daze. Step after step they took, weaving amongst the cars. Something caught a hold of Tyler’s eye. A very familiar-looking Jeep Grand Cherokee. He grabbed the van’s door handle and pulled it open. Hayden tried to grab his shoulder but Tyler shook him off and stepped outside, his legs stretching after being cramped so long. It was quiet. There was no noise coming from the freeway; the exact opposite of what he’d expect. The scoutmasters were a-ways-away now, squeezing between cars and examining the wrecks.
Tyler approached the familiar Jeep. Yes, it was the Jeep from back at camp. It belonged to one of the other troops that had left before them. All of the doors were open and all of the backpacks were gone. The scouts and the leaders must have hiked off between the cars. Tyler looked around, trying to spot any other familiar vehicles. There, another one. A white truck that belonged to a small troop. He walked over to it, finding it empty as well. Soon enough, he spotted all of the other remaining vehicles. The troops must have arrived at this spot one at a time, finding the same scene as Tyler had. He looked up trying to spot the scoutmasters, but couldn’t see them anymore. He could hear Hayden asking him to get back in the car. Something was wrong.
Tyler walked back to the Jeep, wondering if the troop had left some sort of note. As he approached the vehicle, he stopped, noticing something he hadn’t beforehand seen. There was some sort of fluid dripping from the front bumper. The drip mesmerized him. Drip. Drip. Drip. A thick sticky liquid. He heard screams in the distance. Shouting from the scoutmasters. Get in the car! Hayden was yelling from inside the van. Drip. Drip. Blood. The liquid was blood.
Tyler yanked his gaze away, feeling something tremble in his bowels. His fingertips were cold. He could see the scoutmasters making their way back towards him. They were running; squeezing between the cars. Their eyes were wide and lost. Childish. Like kids running from the shadows. Tyler didn’t understand. How... could… Home. He wanted to go home.
People appeared behind the scoutmasters. Forms by the thousands. Heads popping up from behind car hoods. Coming around truck beds. Running. No, chasing. People covered in blood. Just like the radio had warned. So many of them. All of them reached out, hands opening and closing. Hundreds of feet away and yet they were already reaching. They wanted him. They wanted him!
The scoutmasters were screaming at the top of their lungs. Their arms were waving frantically. Tyler felt his body move. He watched himself turn and sprint for the van. He jumped inside and slammed the door shut behind him. His friends were yelling and crying, beating on the windows. Hurry! Hurry! They’re right behind you!
Whiting tripped when he was a dozen feet away. The keys in his hand flew forward and slid underneath the van. Zito ran right past him, not even noticing. Whiting crawled forward, his gasping breath loud enough for Tyler to hear through the closed vehicle. Zito jumped inside and closed his door right as the blood-covered people reached them. The noise! They were yowling and screeching, sound escaping their open throats. It wasn’t controlled vocation. It was like wind passing through the mouth of a cave. Their teeth clacked together over and over, their lips pulled back so far, they were none-existant. The eyes… their eyes! They didn’t even stare directly at the scouts. Blank and glazed, milky and devoid of a soul. The stare went beyond what anyone could grasp. They slammed against the windows, pressing their torn, pale faces against the glass. They rubbed their mouths against the car, smearing blood across the metal. A kaleidoscope of red swirling shapes and shadows. Dancing demons blocking out the sunlight and casting a darkness into the van.
Whiting was halfway underneath the car, reaching for the keys. He tried crawling in farther to get away. They went after him. Tyler could hear the mad scramble underneath his feet. He could hear the jingling of the keys. Whiting was starting to crawl out from the other side, keys in one hand. He stopped, the people under the van beginning to crawl over him. He screamed, a shriek so loud and horrible that Tyler fell off his seat and curled up on the floor. It only made it worse; put him closer to the noises.
There was a wet tearing, slurping noise. A splatter of hot meat bursting free. Gnashing and ripping; chewing. The scream went on and on. Bodies bumped and jostled the undercarriage, causing the vehicle to rock. Hands slammed across the hood and doors. The monsters wanted in. Wanted in now!
Whiting was still trying to crawl out. Well, half of him was. Tyler squeezed his eyes shut tighter. The sounds of eating and the scouts crying intermingled into a hellish symphony of horror. Zito opened the door. They needed the keys to get away!
The scoutmaster reached out and yanked them from Whiting’s dying grasp. A dead face appeared, mouth opening and closing. Zito gave a yelp of pain, blood spurting from his arm. There was a tussle as the man tried to break free and close the door. He succeeded and smashed the keys into the ignition.
The noise. The noise was overwhelming. Screaming, eating, tearing, and shrieking. Can you hear them? They sound like… a machine.
Zito turned on the van and Tyler’s conscience turned off.
-Last words heard on a popular radio station
Weak drops of water fell from the sky, striking leaves and trampled grass. It was one of those soft rains that left the world feeling somewhat quiet; as if Mother Nature was holding in her breath. The calm gray sky and green of the dense forest was interrupted by the hustle and bustle of nearly fifty people as they packed up tents, coolers, and clothing. The scout troops were moving out.
Nearly three months. They had survived the outdoors with the equipment of a week-long camping trip for nearly three whole months.
Well, it hadn’t been Tyler’s choice. It hadn’t been his, or his friends, or even some of the scoutmasters for that matter. Something had happened back in the real world. Back where civilization began and warm meals were cooked. Back where there was electricity and soft bedding. That something had been what kept them here. Here at Camp Stubborn. What a stupid name. Someone trying to raise morale. Stubborn get it? Because we’re survivors, no matter what.
When the scoutmasters had heard of the disease back at home via the hand-crank radio small Timothy Baggs had brought with him, they held a pow-wow to discuss what they were going to do. Go home? Risk infecting everyone? Killing all these kids? That wasn’t an option! They were safer out here, riding out the death. Nothing would come up this deep into the forest. Heck, even the forest rangers would struggle to get where they were. But some of the kids wanted to go home, see if their families were alright. Doesn’t matter! They don’t understand. It’s bad out there. We have to keep them safe.
So Tyler, thirty-nine other scouts, and eleven scoutmasters were forced to survive in their makeshift campground for three months. Tyler hadn’t known most of them at first. He had come up just with his scout troop. Good ol’ Troop 157. Oh thank heaven I’m in Troop 157! Hurrah! Hurrah! It was him, five others, Mr. Zito and Mr. Whiting. After three months though, he got to know everyone else well enough. He could probably list out all of their social security information if he felt like it.
The plan had been to wait it out until help arrived. Either soldiers, forest rangers, or God himself would show up. But after six days, the radio went out and no one came to the rescue. The last message they heard had been one sentence. One final sentence that chilled them to the bone. That single sentence sent shivers down Tyler’s spine every night. He’d curl up tighter in his sleeping bag, feeling his stomach rumble from hunger, and think about that sentence until he fell asleep.
“Can you hear them coming? They sound like… a machine.”
Three months of chopping firewood, fishing in the nearby creek, and watching the scoutmasters head into the woods with their rifles to hunt deer. Food was scarce but they had survived. With fifty people working together night and day, they had made it.
But they were three months in, no one had eaten in two days, and there was no more ammunition for the guns. The forest had been depleted of game for five miles in every direction. Tyler’s last meal had been a sad little crushed mouse. A mouthful of boiled meat.
Three scouts had run away nearly a month ago. They’d decided the masters couldn’t keep them in the woods any longer. They stole a pistol and a tent and hiked off in the middle of the night. For all Tyler knew, they were at home with their family, telling the cops that they’d been held against their will by a bunch of adults. ‘Cause really, there was no way an infection would last that long! No disease was that crippling! Timothy Baggs’ stupid radio had probably just burned out. That’s why they couldn’t hear any chatter.
It took three months before the scoutmasters caved in and agreed it was time to head back. If they didn’t, they’d all die out here. Mr. Zito and Mr. Whiting shook hands with the other leaders as they finished their final pow-wow. Tyler watched as a group of seven piled into a Jeep Grand Cherokee and took off down the narrow dirt road that would lead to a canyon passage. That passage would connect to the freeway and straight back to their houses. Roads that ran like veins across the surface of the planet.
Tyler felt sad; he’d never had a chance to say goodbye to them. He watched as another group left as well. Then another. His troop finished packing and made sure all the fires were put out. As Tyler threw his backpack in the back of Whiting’s van, he watched the last group leave. Troop 157 was all that was left of Camp Stubborn.
“Come on Tyler.” Whiting said in a kind voice, patting the scout’s shoulder. Tyler looked away from the place that had been his home for three months. The kind scoutmaster was still overweight, but not nearly as much as he used to be. The two hopped into the van where the rest of the troop was waiting.
“Finally.” Zito said with an impatient huff. He gave Tyler an annoyed look. The man hadn’t acted friendly since he’d first heard the radio chatter.
Tyler sat next to Hayden and Austin, the two blond-haired brothers that had been his closest friends since the trip began. They nudged him, eyes glistening with excitement. They were going home! Warm food, man! A bed! Family! Tyler looked out of the van window. They sound like… a machine. The words haunted him. He couldn’t feel the excitement the others were emanating. All he could feel was dread. What was happening back home? People dying and coming back, covered in blood? Eating each other? What kind of crazy disease was that? That, everyone had agreed, had to have been an exaggeration. No one came back from the dead. Impossible.
The van turned on after a couple of cranks, whining to life after three months of sleep. They rolled forward, wheels crackling over the dirt path. Tyler watched Camp Stubborn disappear behind them as they turned a bend in the road.
The drive through the dirt trail took a while, but was nothing compared to the mountain passage. After three hours, Tyler fell asleep; the last of his friends to do so. The only person awake was Whiting, driving the car.
Tyler jostled when the van came to a screeching halt, Whiting’s voice swearing out loud. Tyler rubbed his eyes and sat up, hearing his scout friends do the same. They were all staring out the windows and muttering. Tyler peered out and his eyes widened, staring at an unbelievable sight.
The roads that ran like veins were clogged: clogged with thousands upon thousands of cars. The scene was incredible. Vehicles packed nearly bumper to bumper, some smashed into each other. Doors were left open and miscellaneous items were strewn about. A car cemetery that ran for miles across the freeway. Tyler couldn’t even see where it all ended. Far beyond the horizon, that was for sure.
Whiting cracked open the door, Zito doing the same on the passenger side. The two men stepped out of the car.
“Don’t!” Hayden said, next to Tyler. His voice held a wobble of fear.
Where were the people? There’s no movement.
Tyler watched as the scoutmasters walked forward, almost in a daze. Step after step they took, weaving amongst the cars. Something caught a hold of Tyler’s eye. A very familiar-looking Jeep Grand Cherokee. He grabbed the van’s door handle and pulled it open. Hayden tried to grab his shoulder but Tyler shook him off and stepped outside, his legs stretching after being cramped so long. It was quiet. There was no noise coming from the freeway; the exact opposite of what he’d expect. The scoutmasters were a-ways-away now, squeezing between cars and examining the wrecks.
Tyler approached the familiar Jeep. Yes, it was the Jeep from back at camp. It belonged to one of the other troops that had left before them. All of the doors were open and all of the backpacks were gone. The scouts and the leaders must have hiked off between the cars. Tyler looked around, trying to spot any other familiar vehicles. There, another one. A white truck that belonged to a small troop. He walked over to it, finding it empty as well. Soon enough, he spotted all of the other remaining vehicles. The troops must have arrived at this spot one at a time, finding the same scene as Tyler had. He looked up trying to spot the scoutmasters, but couldn’t see them anymore. He could hear Hayden asking him to get back in the car. Something was wrong.
Tyler walked back to the Jeep, wondering if the troop had left some sort of note. As he approached the vehicle, he stopped, noticing something he hadn’t beforehand seen. There was some sort of fluid dripping from the front bumper. The drip mesmerized him. Drip. Drip. Drip. A thick sticky liquid. He heard screams in the distance. Shouting from the scoutmasters. Get in the car! Hayden was yelling from inside the van. Drip. Drip. Blood. The liquid was blood.
Tyler yanked his gaze away, feeling something tremble in his bowels. His fingertips were cold. He could see the scoutmasters making their way back towards him. They were running; squeezing between the cars. Their eyes were wide and lost. Childish. Like kids running from the shadows. Tyler didn’t understand. How... could… Home. He wanted to go home.
People appeared behind the scoutmasters. Forms by the thousands. Heads popping up from behind car hoods. Coming around truck beds. Running. No, chasing. People covered in blood. Just like the radio had warned. So many of them. All of them reached out, hands opening and closing. Hundreds of feet away and yet they were already reaching. They wanted him. They wanted him!
The scoutmasters were screaming at the top of their lungs. Their arms were waving frantically. Tyler felt his body move. He watched himself turn and sprint for the van. He jumped inside and slammed the door shut behind him. His friends were yelling and crying, beating on the windows. Hurry! Hurry! They’re right behind you!
Whiting tripped when he was a dozen feet away. The keys in his hand flew forward and slid underneath the van. Zito ran right past him, not even noticing. Whiting crawled forward, his gasping breath loud enough for Tyler to hear through the closed vehicle. Zito jumped inside and closed his door right as the blood-covered people reached them. The noise! They were yowling and screeching, sound escaping their open throats. It wasn’t controlled vocation. It was like wind passing through the mouth of a cave. Their teeth clacked together over and over, their lips pulled back so far, they were none-existant. The eyes… their eyes! They didn’t even stare directly at the scouts. Blank and glazed, milky and devoid of a soul. The stare went beyond what anyone could grasp. They slammed against the windows, pressing their torn, pale faces against the glass. They rubbed their mouths against the car, smearing blood across the metal. A kaleidoscope of red swirling shapes and shadows. Dancing demons blocking out the sunlight and casting a darkness into the van.
Whiting was halfway underneath the car, reaching for the keys. He tried crawling in farther to get away. They went after him. Tyler could hear the mad scramble underneath his feet. He could hear the jingling of the keys. Whiting was starting to crawl out from the other side, keys in one hand. He stopped, the people under the van beginning to crawl over him. He screamed, a shriek so loud and horrible that Tyler fell off his seat and curled up on the floor. It only made it worse; put him closer to the noises.
There was a wet tearing, slurping noise. A splatter of hot meat bursting free. Gnashing and ripping; chewing. The scream went on and on. Bodies bumped and jostled the undercarriage, causing the vehicle to rock. Hands slammed across the hood and doors. The monsters wanted in. Wanted in now!
Whiting was still trying to crawl out. Well, half of him was. Tyler squeezed his eyes shut tighter. The sounds of eating and the scouts crying intermingled into a hellish symphony of horror. Zito opened the door. They needed the keys to get away!
The scoutmaster reached out and yanked them from Whiting’s dying grasp. A dead face appeared, mouth opening and closing. Zito gave a yelp of pain, blood spurting from his arm. There was a tussle as the man tried to break free and close the door. He succeeded and smashed the keys into the ignition.
The noise. The noise was overwhelming. Screaming, eating, tearing, and shrieking. Can you hear them? They sound like… a machine.
Zito turned on the van and Tyler’s conscience turned off.
