After Regina stopped The Traveler short of the gate, I prepared to dismount when I heard the all too familiar report of a big-bore handgun. Sure enough there was my friend Roy standing in the open gate with his modified stainless steel Blackhawk which he had nicknamed the "Hog Hammer". He had built this gun to hunt wild hogs long before the dead arose, and while he still did hunt with it, the 2 power scope mounted on the top made it a deadly accurate zombie killer out to 100 yards. Strapped to his hip was a 1911 .45 automatic similar to my Kimbers, but he had built this one from parts, all fitted by hand. Roy and I had been good friends and shooting buddies before the disaster, and even then he had been a pretty fair hand both shooting and working on guns. But since coming to this outpost and working with a couple of professional gunsmiths his work was now outstanding.
"You had one hanging off your cow catcher. Looks like you dragged him for quite some distance 'cause he didn't have any feet. I guess you kind of 'de-feet-ed' his purpose," Roy quipped with a smile and a chuckle. Constantly scanning for threats, he replaced the empty case in the cylinder with a loaded cartridge and put the large revolver back into a chest holster.
As I stepped down from the cab I looked at the dead zombie with its head split wide open from the 300-grain lead slug delivered by the "Hammer". Roy and his group never worried much about loud noise out here. There just weren't that many zombies left to worry about. There had been several close calls early on, but the remote location pretty much isolated them from the concentrations of the dead that infested the ruins of larger cities.
Although Roy was the leader, he was never really elected. It was just understood and accepted that he was the leader. He liked to call this outpost a Socialist Democracy under a Monarchy.
"Isn't that a contradiction in terms?" I asked him once.
He smiled and said, "Not in these times, if you know what I mean."
Roy had only two rules that he insisted everyone in the outpost follow to the letter; everyone contributes, and everyone learns how to shoot. Everyone was expected to carry their own weight and contribute to the welfare of the outpost. Everything was community property and shared equally. This was the socialist part of the equation. Anyone who didn't want to contribute and felt the group owed him something was politely asked to leave. But Roy did not expect you to contribute beyond your ability. The old or infirm were welcome members of the community, they did what they could and that was all that was asked.
Even though Roy had absolute authority over every aspect and decision of the outpost, he very rarely exercised that authority. "I guess this is the monarchy part; just don't be giving me a crown or scepter, and frankly my butt hurts too much when I sit on a throne!" That pretty much summed up his feelings about his role, actually his idea of sitting on a throne required privacy and some old gun magazine. He preferred to contribute his gunsmith skills as a regular member and leave the day-to-day running of the outpost to the specialists and committees. When there was a major decision to be made, it was brought up before the entire population where everyone had an equal say and an equal vote. This was the democratic part of the mix.
Everyone in Roy's outpost carried a gun, and was very proficient with it thanks to a rigorous firearms training program. The trend that had started in Florida with concealed carry and spread across the US over liberal cries of blood in the streets had gone from a privilege to a requirement after the dead arose. Here children began training with a gun at age 7 and all new members were required to attend. Ongoing training and competition matches helped maintained proficiency. In fact whenever Roy and I get together we often stage some friendly competition, mostly for bragging rights. Sometimes he wins, sometimes I win, but overall we pretty much come out even. Our matches brought out the gamblers in our respective groups. Although sometimes heavy, the betting was almost always good-natured. Losers did not get angry because they knew they could just as easily turn out as the winners next time.
It didn't matter what type of gun you carried so long as you were proficient with it. One woman in the outpost only carried a semi-auto .22 pistol loaded with high velocity hollow-point bullets. She could pluck the eye out of a zombie at 25 yards. A head shot into the brain with a .22 would drop them just as efficiently as a .44. The .44 just gave you a bit more room for error. Even we sometimes used suppressed .22s for close-in work.
Guns are carried here for survival and protection from the walking dead, not for crime. Crime did not exist in this outpost because there was only one punishment; banishment from the safety, security, and protection of the outpost into the dangerous outside world of the zombies where death was almost certain. Everyone in the outpost had seen or been involved in a zombie attack, which was incentive enough to follow the rules. True, stupid stuff could result in extra guard duty, extra labor in the fields, punishment by parents, but true crime always resulted in banishment.
Whatever Roy was doing here really seemed to be working. This outpost was not only surviving, but also thriving. In our travels we'd seen many different ways to run an outpost, from military dictatorships to forced slavery to outright anarchy where different factions were fighting for power and control. The Blacksburg Outpost was definitely one of the better places to be.
There were a number of reasons we liked stopping here for some rest and relaxation. The outpost offered us protection and other distractions, we all had friends or romantic relationships here, they treated us like family, and Roy and his people provided services we just couldn't get anywhere else. But there was also a reason known only to Roy and a few of his community leaders. We stored a lot of extra trade goods here. Things that were bulky and did not trade well, or needed repairs were stored in the empty buildings of the outpost. Roy always kept detailed inventories and knew his community was welcome to use the goods if they were needed.
Being a former penal farm they had ready-made living quarters, a dining facility, workshops for both wood and metal, and a fully equipped hospital. And of course acres of farmland which provided a large assortment of produce. Everything was heavily guarded, guard duty being mandatory for all members age 16 and above. His people serviced The Traveler in the workshops while the rest of us were serviced in other ways.
Since the rise of the dead, the power grid had failed, faster in some places and slower in others. The old Blacksburg Farm had been an experiment in solar power before the end, a fact that gave the community a much-needed boost. Solar panels were mounted on the roofs of almost every building. Some were photoelectric and produced power directly, and some were designed to heat water used in a steam turbine, as well as providing the community with hot water. Modern windmills out in the fields drove well pumps to move well water to the fields as well as the community.
Roy and his gunsmiths always thoroughly went through our arsenal making repairs and improvements where necessary. They converted many of the semi-automatic rifles we scavenged into selective fire weapons. He never charged for this service; he figured keeping our guns in tip-top condition kept necessary supplies flowing into the outpost. When it came to barter Roy never scrimped. We were always treated fairly and got the freshest produce and meat, but Roy's group always got what they needed as well.
Fresh meat! An interesting side effect of the disaster was the explosion of wildlife. Prior to the end some twenty-odd months ago hunters were an important part of wildlife management; helping to control herd populations. Now that there were no more hunters, and zombies never went after animal flesh, there was no more wildlife management. The smaller animals like rabbits and squirrels were virtually exploding. Roy said it was a constant battle keeping them out of the fields, but it provided great target practice and fresh meat for his growing population.
He figured it would take a few more seasons for the larger animals such as wild pig, deer, and turkey to get out of control because their rut was annual. However, just in the time since the disaster, the larger animals were becoming more plentiful and moving back into lands they had been pushed out of by development. Roy sent out regular hunting parties, which kept the fresh meat coming in.
"Great to see you again, James." Roy said with his ready smile as he pumped my hand. "Come on with me over to the school. Some of my hunters brought in some survivors and I'm going to give them 'the talk'".
Roy and I walked over to the buildings set up with classrooms. Along the way he reminded me of the outpost's policy, "We never turn anyone away who wants to stay, but we want to make it clear we want people to contribute and fit in. There's enough trouble out there without having trouble in here."
Children were already beginning to arrive for school so we filed in with them through a set of double glass doors. Many people before the end would have been shocked to see kids entering a school carrying firearms. Here it was a normal fact of life. As the students were opening lockers and preparing for class we entered the first classroom to our right. Apparently this room was dedicated to the orientation session. I sat down in the back of the room as Roy moved to the front. Without any introduction or preamble Roy began his often-delivered speech.
"We'd like to welcome you to the Blacksburg Outpost. We have only two rules here; everyone works and contributes, and everyone learns how to shoot. If there's anyone here who feels they can't or won't follow these rules please leave now and go back where you came from." His statement was met with blank stares and dead silence.
"Good. No one invited you here and you can leave any time you want. Most folks stay and find helping others and contributing to the group actually helps themselves in the long run. I'm going to pass out a questionnaire that I'd like each of you to fill out to help us decide where to place you. Each of you will also be required to take a complete medical examination before being allowed full access to the compound. You can understand that we can not afford to have any infected newcomers suddenly turn on us."
A middle-aged black man sitting next to me tentatively raised his hand and timidly stated, "Sorry but ah cain't neither read ner write. But please don't send me back out there. I'll do anything you ask so's long as I can stay here!"
"Ok," Roy said, "may I please ask your name?"
"William Jones, but everybody just calls me Willie"
"Nice to meet you, Willie. What can you do?"
"Well, I ain't never had no schooling 'cause my folks were too poh, but me daddy showew me hows to use tools an' such. I's done general construction and repairs, a bit a plumbin' and electric, and if'n I really had to I can work dem fields we saws as we were comin' in."
Roy smiled and went over to shake Willie's hand. "Glad to have you aboard, Willie. We can use a good man like you. You don't have any problems with guns or learning how to shoot, do you?"
The fact that he was being accepted brought a smile to Willie's face. Rumors spread on the CB radios that survivors used to communicate about communities that espoused old hatreds; all black communities that killed whites, all white communities that killed blacks. Roy and I both saw only two types, those with a pulse and those who wanted to eat us and got on with trying to survive. "Heck I'se been huntin' squirrel 'n wabbit since I was big 'nuff to hold my daddy's rifle."
"Great! I know right where to assign you, and we'll get you signed up for some firearm training as we do with everyone. Take this paper outside to Nancy and she'll make sure you get settled in." Roy made some notes on the questionnaire he had taken from Willie's hand and then handed it back to him.
As Willie was walking out the door I saw something I thought I'd never see in these times. One of the newcomers jumped to his feet and exclaimed, "I am not going to be involved with any undertaking that allows such ignorant idiots as that ... person ... to stay and participate!" From the way he spoke, it was apparent that he was an educated man, but apparently he was unclear about the alternatives.
"And you would be?" Roy asked almost nonchalantly.
"Thomas Kennedy Sebastian Wilson III, Professor Emeritus of Political Science from Harvard University. I was teaching a seminar at the University of South Carolina when all this unpleasantness started. I have never seen such ignorance as displayed by these people in all my years and I will not be a part of it. I demand you put me in contact with the closest government official, sir!" The man had his nose so far up in the air you could almost imagine him drowning in the rain.
"Sir," I quipped, trying to keep from laughing at the fool. "Last time I saw anyone I would call a government official, he was running as fast as he could from a pack of hungry dead. Seems they have a taste for that 'blue blooded never worked a day' type."
While the man's face was red with anger at my insolence, Roy's face had turned stone cold as he icily replied to the man's outburst, "That's fine, friend. We wouldn't want to force you to be anywhere you don't want to be." From out of nowhere two burley armed men appeared. "These two men will escort you to the front gate. Please don't come back." He sputtered and cursed very un-Harvard like all the way across the courtyard to the front gate, but he had made his choice. Even now, two years into this horror, some folks just didn't understand the meaning of survival and working together. As harsh as it might have seemed, I could understand Roy's position. He couldn't afford to compromise where the safety and survival of his outpost was concerned. You either worked together so everyone survives, or no one survives.
After speaking with each survivor in turn and reviewing their questionnaires, Roy told me that The Doc wanted to see me. Like Roy, the Doc was one of the reasons that the Blacksburg Outpost thrived. Whatever he had done before the end, he was a gifted man of medicine. The first time we had come through here and found the Outpost, he had spent almost two days operating on me to get a pair of bullets out of my back. The bandits that had put them there had made the mistake of attacking the Blacksburg Outpost after attacking us on the road. Between the armed members of the community and the firepower of The Traveler, the attack had been stopped and the bandits were broken with their leader and most of the members dead.
"What do you know about the cause of the dead walking?" The Doc was not one for small talk. Grumpy, cross, and hiding a huge heart, he reminded me of the old coot that played the doctor on TV's Gunsmoke.
"Not much," I replied. "From what I have seen, it is spread by direct contact with bodily fluids, most often a bite. Higher functions are lost, but those who change alive seem to retain more than those who die. Primal hunger seems to be the only motivating force for the dead. Destroying the brain or higher spine is required to stop them." The Doc seemed happy with my reply as he nodded at each point I made.
"My guess," he started. "And its only a guess, is that someone was playing fast and loose and something got loose." Several times the Doc had made comments that led Roy and I to believe he had been into some type of high-end research, either academic or corporate. But we both felt that what you did before did not matter, only what you could contribute today. "Given what I can tell, with what I have, I would say probably Alzheimer's or Parkinson's research. Anyway, research having something to do with restarting the brain. And that's exactly what it does."
Roy and I waited as the Doc puttered about. This was more than I had heard him say total and I wanted him to continue. "I figure there is about a 1 in 10,000 chance of someone having a natural immunity." The Doc stopped with that statement and looked up at us. "While you are out there," he waved his hand, "keep your eyes and ears open for someone who has been bitten but not changed."
"Doc," I started. "You mean to say that there could be people who did not change?" I was stunned. I had not heard or seen such, but until the last few months I had been more worried about surviving than anything else. Now, the local outposts knew us and traded with us and things were beginning to change from people thinking about surviving to rebuilding.
"Yes." The Doc's tone was that of someone repeating a simple fact for a child. But what the heck, he was entitled so I said nothing. "And if you can bring me such a survivor I might be able to create a vaccine or anti-serum." At the startled look on our faces he continued. "Nothing that would reverse what has happened, but possibly something that would protect you from exposure or combat the effect of a bite if administered immediately thereafter."
The discussion continued for a while, with the Doc trying hard to make sure we understood that he only felt that such things were possible. As we left, I told him to start making a list of equipment he would need. With The Traveler, my crew, and Roy's security teams I felt we could plan and stage a raid on one of the hospitals or universities to get the equipment.
Before I left to head back to The Traveler, Roy told me that they were having a dance the next evening. I told him my crew would be there and on their best behavior. Then I headed off to our assigned barracks for the evening. The barracks were just that. A long low wooden building consisting of one room with cots lined up on either side. A large communal bathroom was located at the far end, things like privacy and body shame took a back seat to surviving. Since the end of things, the survivors here had reinforced the building and cut firing ports into the walls. A close inspection would reveal that every building in this complex was a fortress in and of itself. Like the early days of colonial America or the Wild West, this outpost had to be constantly on the alert for attacks. Since we had been on the road for a while and no one had to stand guard, my crew was all sleeping already. I quickly stripped and found my own cot.
The next morning dawned bright and clear. After breakfast, the crew split up to tend to the various chores we needed to get done. Laundry, maintenance, renewing old friendships, and making new friends were all among the things we set out to do. I went over to the storage shed where Roy stored things we brought in. On a run some months previous, I had found a red strapless dress and a pair of matching high heels in a store we were salvaging. Since they happened to be Regina's size, I had hidden them away. Tonight, she would definitely be the belle of the ball.
The dance was in full swing when Regina and I arrived. When I had presented her with the dress, shoes, and frilly underwear she had been stunned. Then we had to have "You are such a thoughtful man" sex, twice! Then she had showered and fussed with her hair. Then she tried the clothes on and modeled for me. Then she fussed some more. Needless to say, we were running late.
When we walked in, I knew we made quite a sight. I was dressed in a pair of black slacks with a white shirt and red vest that matched her dress. Regina just looked radiant. As the night worn on, she shed the shoes, but even in her bare feet she was marvelous and a much better dancer than I was. I remember getting only get one dance as it seemed that every man in the outpost wanted to dance with her as well. I did not mind because I knew the last dance, and what comes after, were reserved for me. At various times during the evening, I saw the members of my crew and each seemed to be relaxing and having fun.
When we returned to the barracks from the dance, there was a surprise waiting for us. Someone had sectioned off the barracks with curtains so that each couple would have some privacy. I held the curtain aside for Regina and pulled it closed behind us. Once inside, I pulled her close and kissed her hungrily. She returned my kiss with as much hunger and energy. When I reached to undo the dress, she slapped my hands and laughed. Slowly she started unbuttoning my shirt, shooing me every time I reached up to help or to undress her.
That tonight was going to be done her way was obvious. I just hoped I could hold on long enough. The red dress, her china white skin, and fiery red hair had me pretty fired up. Finally I was standing there wearing only my pants and she pushed me back onto the cot. Slowly, she began to sway, dancing to the music that women have danced to for thousands of years. As she began to unzip the dress, I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, everything in me telling me to take what was mine.
When the red dress fell to the floor, it strained my control to not come off the bed after her right then. Underneath it she was wearing a black lace bra, thong panties, stockings and a lacy garter belt. My poor heart was pounding. As the night wore on, Regina proved that my heart could take a lot. She used her mouth, hands, and body to arouse me while torturing me by withholding my release. Finally, we both found our release together.
The next morning I woke early, a side effect of having the morning watch shift day after day when we were on the road. Sliding out from under Regina, I pulled on my pants and shirt and stuffed my feet into my boots. Walking over to the dining hall, I helped myself to a heaped plate of scrambled eggs (they had chicken coops out back) and some type of meat sausage. As I was eating, I saw Roy come in and wander through the dining area speaking with various folks. Watching him, I marveled how each of us had ended up where we could do the most good. I was too fiddle-footed to be tied down, but excelled in the moving, dangerous world of the road. He had not only the weapon skills, but also the administrative skills and patience to make a great outpost leader.
Finally he sat down across from me with a sheaf of papers and a cup of coffee. One of the young ones doing busboy duty stopped by and refilled both our cups with coffee.
"Hell of a dance last night," I said with a grin I had not been able to get off my face.
"Hell of a dress," Roy chuckled. He knew exactly why that grin was there. "But on to business. I have been looking over the inventory list you provided and have marked the items we need or want." When he pushed the papers across the table to me with a frown, I wondered what was going on.
The items he had marked were nothing extraordinary. Canned goods, firearms, ammunition, and medical supplies topped the list. The amount of ammunition he wanted was larger than normal, especially given the reloading that took place at the outpost. Looking through the rest of the items, I still found no reason for the frown.
"Alright Roy, we have been friends a long time and you know good and well that business between us has always been upfront. So, what's the problem? You aren't wearing that frown just because the coffee's cold." I could see that Roy knew I was on the level. Before the end, some businesses would jack up prices knowing the customer was in need. I did not do business that way and neither did Roy. One never knew when I would need a safe place to stop over and screwing one of the outposts would probably take the ability to do so away.
"James, I would take every round of ammo you have if I could." Roy looked thoughtful as he proceeded. "We have been getting hit by bandits, not the dead, but bandits a lot lately. And they seem to be getting better arms from somewhere."
"Roy, there are cases of military 5.56mm in one of the storehouses," I started. "Why haven't you been using it?" The frown on Roy's face deepened. I knew then that not only had he used it, he had used it all. "All of it?" I asked. He only nodded. "If it's that bad, we will unload everything we have."
"We can't afford it," he started.
"Don't worry about it," I replied, cutting him off. "If Blacksburg falls, the best chance this area has for rebuilding falls. And we can't risk that. I will just have to hit some National Guard armories and see if I can rebuild our stockpiles." After that, the rest of the morning was spent dickering. Roy got what he wanted and needed and I ended up with a lot of fresh and home canned vegetables and salted and jerked meats. Salted venison might not be everyone's favorite, but it sure beat SPAM.
"I really appreciate the loan, James. Listen, I've instructed the guys in the shop to install a higher capacity generator in the Traveler. You're gonna need the extra watts to run the energy-efficient refrigerator they're also installing in your living quarters trailer. You certainly could use it to keep your perishable provisions longer. They're also installing an electric pump so you won't have to break your arms cranking that hand pump every time you need to refuel. I figured this would partially pay back the debt."
I was stunned and really didn't know what to say. That was so much like Roy to help out whenever and however he could, even though he was paying a debt. The fridge and pump were items we really did need.
The afternoon was spent doing small chores on The Traveler that needed doing. Roy sent two kids that he was teaching to be gunsmiths over to field strip and clean each of the mounted M60's and our personal M4s. Regina and a couple of folks with experience in big diesels checked and performed routine maintenance on the big rig's engine. Regina also supervised the installation of the new generator, refueling pump and refrigerator. The rest of us cleaned up the inside and stowed gear that had gotten tossed about. Finally, the rig was ready to go and we all broke for supper. We would head out early the next morning.
"Roy, before I leave I want you to have these," I said as I handed him a pair of MP5s the next morning. "These have been with me since New York on the day after the dead arose. But I like the M4 much better." The full auto MP5 submachine guns would give Roy a better chance at surviving. The outpost was a solid fortress, but every fortress can fall and knowing that they were being attacked by well armed bandits made me worry that much more.
"Thanks James. These are much appreciated. If you happen to run across any heavier firepower we could sure use that as well. The full automatic light weapons don't seem to be enough anymore." We once again shook hands and prepared to depart.
With the morning light, we pulled out of the outpost and headed back onto the road. Once back onto Interstate 85, we headed south. At first the travel was slow as we had a lot of wrecks to push out of the way. But as we got further south, the Interstate cleared and we could make good time. Everything was going well, up until the early afternoon.
Not far down the road, I came upon a grisly sight. The jerk that had decided he did not want to live under Roy's rules was crucified up on one of the telephone poles along the road. It was hard to tell from the ground, but his death had not been an easy one. While I knew our own ammo stores were low, I was glad I had given Roy everything we could spare. Even some of the oddball stuff; which he would disassemble and use the components to reload useable ammo.
Suddenly, the windshield starred as a high caliber round impacted against it, but it held. Regina reacted immediately, pulling the lever over her head that dropped the steel covers down over the windshield. You could hear the clang of rounds impacting the armor over the engine as whoever had setup the ambush began to fire small caliber rounds at us.
"Ambush!" Regina yelled over the intercom. Already you could hear the M60's on the left side firing. The crew didn't typically ride sitting at the guns, but they tended to stay close to the guns when we were traveling. Looking out the windshield I could see movement among the wrecks on either side of us. These must be the bandits that Roy had been worried about.
As usual, Mikey used any excuse he could find to fire the big Mk19 grenade launcher. He stitched a line of fire into the wrecks on our right side. The wrecks began to explode as the grenades detonated on impact. Regina used the weight of The Traveler to slam into the wrecks on our left. Almost immediately the amount of fire against us slacked to almost nothing as the bandits tried to deal with the hurting they had been handed.
As soon as we cleared the ambush area, Regina slowed us down from the "pedal to the metal" pace she had used to get clear of the ambush. I got on the radio to Roy back in Blacksburg to tell him that his bandit problem was a good deal smaller than it had been.