Dave's Zombie Proof Bunker and Refuge for Unattached Wimmens

"Shhhhhhhhhhh," I hiss into the microphone on my radio. "I'm onto something here..."

The nervousness creeps back in. At the pit of my stomach a tiny ball of angry black tar grows and turns leaden, nearly freezing me on the spot. My feet seem to have grown roots and I cannot move them. Ice cold chills run down my back and I suddenly know a fear I have never felt before.

"Something wicked this way comes..."

From the radio, Whip asks, "What? Say again your last. 'Wicked'? Dave...talk to me..."

I silence the radio with a quick twist of the dial; it was giving away my position. The rifle suddenly becomes a liability, too long to swing laterally with the close growing stalks of corn. I drop it in favor of the big 10 mm pistol. Resolve begins to flood back into my fearful brain. I remind myself over and over why I'm out here: "Save yourself...save them."


Long moments pass. The heart rate begins to drop back below 200 bpm. My head feels like it's on fire.

Noise to my left. I turn. How far? How close? Where....?

Is my brain really doing this to me, or has the wandering scarecrow--or one of his brothers--returned? I low-crouch as silently as I can. It's maybe just nerves.

Another movement. Dammit, I was really hoping that all this was a sort of hysteria, of a sort of madness brought on by the changes to our world. But the noises being picked up by my ears are not imaginary. And the chance to solve this mystery once and for all is important. Is Dave going crazy...or is there really a new threat in this field?

Nervous energy has me singing again...

Take my love.
Take my land.
Take me where I cannot stand.

I don't care,
I'm still free.
You can't take the sky from me.

Take me out,
to the black.
Tell 'em I'm not coming back.

Burn the land.
Boil the sea.
I've still got Serenity.

My spine becomes of steel. My eyes quick, feet fleet, mind made up. My aim will be fast, true, and deadly. "Lord if I am to die today, let it be in a pile of empty brass..."

I move towards the sound.

~sneaks in and hides under a blanket~

Keleigh said:

~sneaks in and hides under a blanket~

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Nothing to fear as long as you're inside. Don't come out until the "all clear" has been sounded.

You're safe in the bunker. Go have some wine and cheese. I'll be back soon.

Chaingun said:

Nothing to fear as long as you're inside. Don't come out until the "all clear" has been sounded.

You're safe in the bunker. Go have some wine and cheese. I'll be back soon.

Click to expand...

Yum. Wine and cheese makes it a good afternoon for me. You go slay things, I'll stay in here with a good book and maybe make some food.

I'm fine with that. No zombies are going to get my friends...especially ones that make tasty food!

~goes to see what kind of tasty food I can make~
How many am I cooking for?

You can come hang in the kitchen with me, Keleigh! I spend most of my time lurking in here, but help is always great! Would you like a cocktail?

...grateful for the distraction, wondering why Whip is shaking her radio and saying, "Dave? Dave?" over and over again..

After I finish whatever it is that's stalking me out here, I'm going to be hungry. I appreciate you ladies helping out in the kitchen.

I promise to return the favor.

I have the perfect dish waiting for you when you manage to make it back in.

Ellafun said:

I have the perfect dish waiting for you when you manage to make it back in.

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You mean, "IF I manage to make it back in..."

There's cornbread.

Alone in the squat tower at the top of the bunker, I huddle over my rifle and squint through the scope. There's something out there. Two somethings. One's Dave. Right now, my goal is pretty clear. Shoot the something that's not Dave. I've been watching the cam footage, and something's definitely been going at the scarecrows at night. His vest stands out clear as night against the grey of the corn. He's moving forwards.

" Be careful, honey."

Its more a prayer than anything else.

There's a scuffle, a gunshot. The smaller dark thing darts away obscenely fast. I get behind the rifle, ready to fire. It take a moment to account for its speed, figure out where to hit it. I bring the rifle around and aim as it scampers away.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Pull the trigger.

The thing drops to the ground and doesn't move.

WhipLuvr said:

Alone in the squat tower at the top of the bunker, I huddle over my rifle and squint through the scope. There's something out there. Two somethings. One's Dave. Right now, my goal is pretty clear. Shoot the something that's not Dave. I've been watching the cam footage, and something's definitely been going at the scarecrows at night. His vest stands out clear as night against the grey of the corn. He's moving forwards.

" Be careful, honey."

Its more a prayer than anything else.

There's a scuffle, a gunshot. The smaller dark thing darts away obscenely fast. I get behind the rifle, ready to fire. It take a moment to account for its speed, figure out where to hit it. I bring the rifle around and aim as it scampers away.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Pull the trigger.

The thing drops to the ground and doesn't move.

Click to expand...

"Nice shot," I murmur, pacing a steadying hand on Whip's shoulder to counteract the startle reflex; I know she didn't hear me come up.

"That wasn't a deadhead - that's the good news. I've been noticing a lot more game out there" I say, gesturing vaguely in the direction of 'not-here.' The bad news is what it's attracted - predators.

I peer through my own night scope, scanning in a quick but thorough figure-eight, noting Dave's position automatically and looking for anything with an attack line...the coast appears clear for the moment but the night definitely feels........crowded.

Heading back down into the bunker, feeling the pull of the hunt deep inside me, but knowing with Dave out there and Whip watching him, even with an IR scope, without radio contact going out could result in tragedy, I decide to close a loop. I've noticed Dave picked up and then replaced the collection of dog tags I left on the fuel cans.....they were for him, but I was too tired and he was too busy for an explanation. I grab an MRE sleeve from the fuel pile, knowing it's somewhat wasteful but also knowing Dave will immediately burn it after reading, I use it to write a note.

Dave,

The dog tags are for you. They came from a Marine unit - a company minus or so - I came upon while traveling. I took the time tracing out what happened, and collecting the tags for you - we can't always properly bury our dead, but we can always honor our brothers.

From the looks of it, they'd been set upon by a group of deadheads outnumbering them at least five to one, and by God they FOUGHT. It was also well after the breakdown, and they held discipline. This fact isn't for public consumption - they were taking each other out when they'd been bitten. I saw a lot of deadheads taken out, and a lot of Marines with bites on the front of their bodies and single 5.56 rounds in the back of the head. The last three died all at once, and they were warriors to the end - their weapons were empty, they'd all been bitten at least twice....they circled around a grenade and, from the looks of it, waited until they all had at least two deadheads gnawing on them before the holder pulled the pin.

The rest of my trip, we need to talk about in person. I already told Whip - there's a lot more game out there than I've been seeing, which means there are also more predators. The problem is, some of those predators have guns just like us. I erased a camp of raiders who made the mistake of sending a small party out to make a run at me. All men - no women, no kids, just a collection of mean. I hate killing the living, but......from what I overheard when I stole into their camp, they HAD to go.

When you come back in, I'm going back out. I think I might be able to find us more than a few suppressors - big advantage for longer shots without calling the deadheads to dinner. We'll catch up.

Whip, if you didn't know it, was watching over you like a mother hawk with a blood on. She's getting NASTY with that rifle. Just thought you'd like to know.

Use this for kindling ASAP after you read it, we need to talk about what I saw out there before smaller rumors get out and get twisted.

Take the tags.

Semper Fi,
TAW

Click to expand...

Crouched in the cornfield, the rifle on the ground behind me and the Glock pointing straight out in front of me, I can hear every beat of my heart. Drops of sweat make noises as they splash down in the dirt that are so loud that I can hear them. Our windmill makes squealing rounds that are easily heard from 150 yards away. Insects go about their business making sounds that are louder than helicopters in flight.

A whisper of wind from the south carries the faint scent of something metallic to my nose. Could be blood.

Hairs on my forearms stand up suddenly dancing to a tune made up of fear and premonition. The heart that burns inside my chest turns to ice as determination forces action.

The gunshot that came from the bunker struck somewhere to my left and then there was a sound of something wounded attempting to escape. I move forward. Pushing between rows of corn and attempting to move silently...and failing...I approach the area where the bullet struck.

All I find are footprints. Evidence that someone walked carefully between the rows, stood here for a while, was struck by the bullet, fell, got up, and moved off and away from the bunker as quickly as he or she could. A small blood trail shows in the light of the small flashlight. I'm not following that tonight; too dangerous.

As I am about to retreat, I see something else. There is a wadded up ball of burlap, like from a feed sack, lying at the root of a corn stalk. I look around, assess the area for more threats, and move to pick up the brown fabric. Unfolded, there is a face drawn on it with faded magic marker and pieces of straw fall out of it.

"What's your game, Scarecrow?" I ask of nobody in particular.

Resigning myself to not solving the mystery this night, I carefully begin to move back towards the bunker, a warm shower, and a drink or two at the Nightly Naked Dance Party where I can enjoy the comfort and camaraderie of friends.

In the new light of day, I give in to the urge, drawing me inexorably away from the safety of the bunker and into the cold clarity of the hunt. I stretch, warming muscles and loosening sinew, then dress. I equip, choosing carefully depending not on how I perceive today's prey, but on how I wish to take it.

Today will be up close and personal. I'm in a mood. Matching Les Baer 1911's, the extended machete I forged on my own so many months and bodies ago, the ever-present Benchmade Nimravus which has never failed me, and no long gun. Sensing this will be more than a day trip, I make a stop at the kitchen and slice off a half-pound of jerky and grab some extra iodine pills.

I move to the motor pool, and look around, considering. I see a Honda XR250 in good condition, and give it a kick. It's as quiet as I remember this line being, and I nod in satisfaction, stepping it down into gear and heading out into the land outside the bunker.

MY hunting ground.

I don't look back. Always forward. Always moving. I may come back, I may not. There are good people here, and if my activities keep them safer, all the better. If I find myself in the horns of a dilemma, however...I won't let emotional ties cloud my mind. If I never come back I hold good memories, and that's enough.

Time to ride.

A long day later, my right shoulder aching slightly from the weight of the haul I've gathered, I am moving steadily without getting too anxious, the bike purring and begging for more throttle, my discipline defeating its (and, let's be honest, my own) urges to twist and roar. My eyes scanning constantly, I am despite that surprised by the stationary figure in the middle of the road, maybe two hundred yards out.

Definitely human. Maybe an inch shy of six feet, fit. Alive, or deadhead? I slow down and continue, eyes now scanning the periphery more carefully, alert for signs of ambush. The figure ahead of me remains erect but motionless......and for some reason I decide "human" based on the feel alone. One more scan tells me the figure is alone; the terrain does not support an ambush.

I roll up slowly, recognizing the stance at 50 yards, my heart sinking. I stop at 30, shutting the bike down and stepping off slowly, my eyes never leaving the man standing still, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I notice he's equipped himself well, most strikingly with what appear to be twin katana worn crossed across his back.

After an eternity of eye contact, I break the silence.

"Connor. Been awhile." I never knew if that was his first or last name. Never needed to care. He smiles, inclining his head in greeting, and calls me by my Christian name. I jerk a bit in surprise - I haven't heard or thought that name for a good decade before the happening.

"You look well," I say, keeping my stance ready and arms loose. This man is more dangerous than any I've ever known, maybe more dangerous than I am. I always had the sense he wanted to find out - I was never interested in that knowledge.

"As do you. You look positively.....domestic," he answers with a smirk. "Been living the good life, have you? A clean bike, clean clothes, oiled and fully loaded weapons......you've found community." He speaks the words as fact, as if my denying it would be an insult to the obvious.

"As do you, though I suspect its your own attention to detail. You always did prefer to ride alone, didn't you, Connor?"

A simple, single nod, acknowledging both my question and my dodge of his unspoken question.

"Connor, am I going to have a problem with you? I am hunting, and moving. We both know we should put some space between us...there aren't enough deadheads in Texas to keep us both occupied, let alone this skinny peninsula," I say, gesturing outward, indicating with my words and my arm the whole of Florida.

His barking laugh in answer surprises and startles me again. I had forgotten, somehow, the dichotomy of his laugh. Considering the pure killing machine it emanated from, his laugh was always.....boyishly pure. That laugh, more than anything I saw him do in our time together, was what always frightened me the most. It was as if he had the same bright-eyed delight in taking lives as a child did at seeing a new bike on Christmas morning.....and I always suspected every kill felt like that to him.

"Oh, my brother, I know that. I'll be moving north. We're all alive, you know - ALL of us. We've spread out, I think unconsciously. It's like we enter an area and recognize the signs of another apex predator. I've seen some of your.....leavings. You haven't slipped, I give you that. I also give you this.....I've been saving it for you."

With his words, he very slowly reaches up and draws one of the katana, the one over his left shoulder. He lowers the blade, drawing it along the pavement in a slow semicircle, the symbolism unmistakable with the North to his back. I nod once, and sit cross-legged in the center of the road, silently assenting to his departure. He smiles again, mockingly, and walks off, throwing one last sentence over his shoulder when he's just far enough that my answer won't be heard or regarded....

"We'll meet again. All of us. I'm guessing Wyoming. Until then, XXXXXX"

God damn him. Used my given name twice in a day. That's twice more than I've heard it in over twenty years.

I ride back into the perimeter, hoping in some deep part of my brain the people manning it are more together than I am at the moment. Pulling back into the motor pool, I kill the bike's engine with a silent nod to the generosity of the fates, or the skill and discretion of whoever is manning the defenses. I make my way back to my room, stopping to drop off the sack of suppressors I'd originally set out to gather in the armory.

I make two more stops. First, to the control room, to crank up the sensitivity on all of the sensors, knowing if Connor comes they'd do no good but still driven to try. I wasn't followed - even Connor isn't good enough if I don't want my whereabouts known and in this instance I have more motivation than I may have ever had. All the same, better safe than sorry.

My second stop is the bar. I select a bottle of Jameson, and head for my room and the cold comfort of dreamless sleep, or at least dreams I won't remember thanks to the whiskey.

I toast vaguely upward with my first drink. "Here's to you, Connor. Here's to the rest of you too, all of you magnificent machines. I hope I don't have to kill all of you."

I get drunk, very quickly and very deliberately, finally falling back across my mattress, a pistol in the hand across my chest and another nasty surprise in the hand hidden by the sheets. My last thought as I fade is wondering whether I've secured my own internal door......

After reading the note and burning it, I had moved out in search of the blood trail. I spent twelve hours in the heat and direct sunlight, following the blood trail through the corn, across a shallow depression of a long-unused railroad track, and into some woods.

In Florida, our woods are full of palms, scrub pine, live oak, fetid water, and deep loam from hundreds of years of rotting vegetation. It's not a kind place to attempt to traverse. As a friend of mine used to say, "it is sharp, angry looking, and screams, 'welcome to Florida; now go away.'"

Poor guy, his wife ate him alive when he was alive. And she ate him alive after she turned. I expected no less for him, since he was so devoted to her and wouldn't leave her side even though she was clearly bitten and going to become a danger. That shrew was on his case twenty four seven. The only thing that stopped her from bitching at him was when she knocked him down and started chewing on his left arm. I shot him out of mercy. I shot her out of spite.



In any case, the note burned completely; I agreed with him. The others must not know of the danger to them. It can...be handled.

On the trail of the blood from the wounded "scarecrow", I came upon a place I had not thought about in a while. It's the School for Girls that I visited back in January. A group of "lady boys" were sheltering here back then. Mutually, we decided that they would attempt to live separately from the people of the bunker. (We just didn't love each other "that way." LOL)


The trail lead inside one of the well fortified buildings. They had been busy building up the strong defenses that I saw. But, the smell of death was everywhere. I didn't need to enter the building to know that there was nothing inside but corpses. Hopefully, they didn't suffer.


An older model Ford pickup sat outside the buildings and I figured it would be a good way to return to the bunker. Its battery however, couldn't turn it over and I wondered just how long it had sat there, non-running and neglected. I put the dented truck into neutral and gave it a push toward the hill of the school's driveway. Once rolling, I jumped in and rode along, picking up speed, placing the truck into second gear, and hoping...

When I let out the clutch, the truck shuddered, coughed up a bunch of smoke, and actually fired up. The odometer showed 342,989.3 miles....and below a quarter tank of gas. And that gas had surely gone bad by now. In any case, the well-used truck made it ten miles before crapping out and I decided to hoof it back home. The mystery of the stalking scare crows would remain unsolved.

Within site of the bunker, I could see that all was quiet. I stood in the treeline as dusk gathered, casting longer and longer shadows, watching for movement. The fields were productive, the tall tower on the bunker was manned, and no zombies were anywhere near to disturb my transit. I held my pistol over my head and stepped out of the treeline, a precaution that I hoped would signal the watcher on the tower that I was alive (and not undead) and non-threatening. A wave indicated that I'd been seen through the binoculars and I moved across the expanse of fields, water troughs, and berms. The defenses were all in good shape; small booby traps interspersed amongst the crops and bare ground that were meant to protect from the uncaring dead and the unfamiliar living. I moved to make a quick crossing of the causeway over the moat and step inside the big steel doors.

My sign, hung all those months ago still warned the living of the dangers of touching the metal without invitation and of trying to enter unbidden. At the bottom was my afterthought, painted in bright red and now faded by exposure: "Be nice, or go away."

I could hear music and laughter inside and knew that the Nightly Naked Dance Party was in full swing. As I closed the heavy door behind me, I saw movement and turned quickly towards it. Out in the field behind me--where I'd just come from--was a scarecrow, grinning mutely from atop its wooden post. Had that been there before? How did I not see it?

I slam the big door and turn the power back on. I'm convinced I'm losing it. I've got to find Whip and warn her that there might be something wrong with me. She'll know what to do.

Unable to process what I've seen (or think I've seen), I spend the day in the multi purpose room, watching old movies and drinking bourbon.

I'm quite drunk. I just want this to go away.

Late that evening, after a fantastic dinner prepared by Ella, I creep into the MPR, my curiosity piqued by the strains of Oklahoma! trickling from under the door. Inside, much to my surprise, sits Dave, surrounded by mostly-empty booze bottles.

He's naked to the waist, dirty and smelling of dust. He doesn't seem to have noticed me yet, so I approach and lightly set a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

WhipLuvr said:

"Are you alright?"

Click to expand...

"I don't know. My confidence is shaken.

You may have to take over...until I'm better."

Chaingun said:

"I don't know. My confidence is shaken.

You may have to take over...until I'm better."

Click to expand...

Oh honey, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for all this scarecrow stuff.

I sit down beside him and open my arms. Dave's really shaken..... And if whatever's out there can shake Dave, what about me?

"How do you guys feel about controlled fires across the cornfield this time of year?" asks ella, after her fourth drink of the evening.....

Ellafun said:

"How do you guys feel about controlled fires across the cornfield this time of year?" asks ella, after her fourth drink of the evening.....

Click to expand...

It may become...necessary.


Sorry all. I have spent the last several days in the bottle. I needed to think and also to not think.

I hope you're all ok. We'll figure this out soon. We'll get to the bottom of what is going on.

*wanders away down the long hallways towards his quarters, weaving back and forth, and carrying a bottle.*