The Lancaster Outpost was built in the old Springs Mill Park. Adjacent to the Catawba River and the old hydroelectric dam, they were reporting that they were well set for power and water, but needed medical supplies and foodstuffs. We were well stocked with both, our only shortage being firearms and ammunitions. Blacksburg had cleaned us out of those. I had broken my own rules and extended Roy credit, not only to pay for the supplies he took on, but also to cover any supplies Lancaster needed that they could not cover. But I knew Roy and the Blacksburg Outpost would be good for it.
As we pulled up to the metal gate that blocked the entrance into Springs Park, I could see some of the changes that the survivors had made. They had cut down a lot of the trees and built palisade walls around their outpost, as well as cleared firing lanes. The old World War II fighter, which I had played on as a child, had been pushed back into the woods outside the perimeter. Inside the wall I knew there was the old lodge building and several other structures that had existed before the end.
As we pulled up the road to the palisade, I was having trouble controlling myself. My parents were just on the other side of the gate. When Regina pulled to a stop, I dismounted from the rig through the cab's passenger side door. While I was wearing my Kimbers underneath my vest, I left all my heavy hardware in the rig.
"Hello, the camp!" I yelled as I walked forward towards the gate. I could see movement behind the wall and knew people were scurrying into defensive placements. This always happened with first visits. Not that I could blame the outposts, they did not know us and needed some assurance. Especially since they were looking at a huge armored vehicle sitting on their doorsteps.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Everyone asks the same old questions. You would think that sooner or later someone would ask different ones.
"We are the Travelers. We trade salvaged goods from outpost to outpost. I have been communicating with Thomas Williams, if you would find him for me." I guess I could have used the fact that my parents were living here as a way to get in, but I represented The Travelers now and I knew that I needed to make sure that we were accepted, not just me.
"Hello, James." Well whoever was on the far side of the gate recognized me or knew who I was from our radio contacts. The gate swung wide and I walked through, letting Regina know to come on through. Looking at the platforms on either side of the gate, it was immediately obvious that the outpost had no heavy weapons or at least they had them hidden, which made no sense.
Suddenly I recognized the man standing inside the gate. The red hair and freckles was a dead giveaway, his name was Mike Adams and we had known each other growing up. I stuck my hand out and he grabbed it and shook it heartily. As he led me past the gate, he looked up at the huge armored rig that was pulling in behind us. "Nice ride." He laughed.
"Yeah, it keeps us alive and moving. Looks like you and the rest are getting things together here." While the outpost was obviously new with its defenses and amenities still under construction, they were thriving. As we walked along, Mike and I caught up on things that had happened since the end. Finally Mike led me into the main structure and we sat in a small room talking.
"While we remain fairly safe from the dead out here, not that long ago we were attacked by bandits." Mike shook his head at the memory. "Luckily we had finished building the front wall and were fairly well protected. Anyway, your parents should be here any second so I will leave you alone." After shaking my hand, Mike left the room.
When Mom walked into the room, I ran like a small child to hug her and cry. Dad followed behind her and we all spent a few minutes hugging and shedding tears in silence. The carnage I had seen at the house was the result of an attack by a small group of the dead who had wandered through and were attracted by Dad out in the yard. Luckily, Dad had made it to the house safely and managed to hold the dead off. The surviving neighbors had pitched in and finished off the dead in a vicious crossfire.
Knowing that they could not stay where they were, my parents along with the Williams, the Flacks, and other neighbors had decided to move to this outpost, which had just started forming. The survivors at the outpost were happy to take Mom, Dad, and the rest in. Mom had become the schoolteacher and Dad had helped the outpost build its walls and taught people how to shoot.
We sat and talked until late in the night. After seeing to the rig, Regina joined us and I introduced her to them. I told Mom and Dad that I had found Judy, my wife, and made sure she was giving a decent burial. The next morning, I sat down with the group that ran the outpost and negotiated over supplies. The outpost had very little to offer and were astounded when I told them that the older established Blacksburg Outpost had offered to covered their supplies. However, with both Mom and Dad sitting on the council, I was not able to negotiate very strongly anyway.
Over the past months, we had made it a practice to just about give away supplies if we were well stocked and the outpost was new. I dickered hard with Roy at Blacksburg, but he had well established gardens, hunting parties, and machine shops. We also tended to stay away from hellhole outposts like the quasi-religious military one north of Raleigh.
The next couple of days were spent unloading supplies, using the raw power of The Traveler to help the outpost with some construction, and just visiting. We transported a group into the outskirts of Lancaster and supported them while they raided the old Bass Pro Shop, the Piggly Wiggly and the Food Lion grocery stores. We ran into very few of the dead, and hauled supplies as well as two vehicles back to the outpost. They hoped to get the vehicles running so they could make raids of their own. Finally, I told Mom and Dad that it was time for us to move on and we would be pulling out the next morning. Since I was headed south, I promised that after Columbia we would proceed on to Charleston in hopes of finding my sister.
As we pulled out of the Lancaster Outpost, we turned south on US200. Survivors at the Lancaster Outpost had told us of another outpost located outside of Columbia and we had decided to check it out. US200 was amazingly clear, but as we left Great Falls and approached the Interstate 77 intersection, the road began to become more and more blocked. We slowed down as Regina was forced to push more and more wrecks out of the road so we could get by.
When we finally reached Interstate 77 we pulled into the Flying J truck stop located over the southbound side of Interstate 77. As we pulled in, it was very obvious that someone had already been here. Dead bodies, both the walking dead and the recently, were scattered about. I had Regina bring us to a halt out in the parking lot, with a clear run at the exit. We just sat there, as Maurice and I studied the truck stop and surrounding area with our binoculars.
"Regina, I don't see any signs of movement." I called down. "Let's move over to the diesel fuel tank and start pumping."
"You got it, boss." Regina eased the big rig through the wreckage in the fuel lot and over to where the access ports for the underground fuel tanks were located. When she brought the rig to a halt, Tito and I disembarked through the side door of the forward trailer. We both crouched down, each of us covering a side with our rifles.
"Tito, start pumping fuel." Tito moved to the side of the rig and opened a storage locker just above the rear fuel tank. Unlike when we had first built The Traveler, thanks to Roy we no longer needed to manually pump diesel fuel out of the underground tanks. The storage locker contained the new electric pump driven by the rig's new generator and hoses. Not only did this set up save our muscles, but it allowed us to fill both tanks on one side at a time thereby reducing the amount of time we were exposed. Dropping the long hose through the access port and putting the filler hoses into the tanks of the rig, Tito was ready to start pumping.
"Pumping in 10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... Pumping." With a soft rumble, the pump spun to life and started sucking diesel from the underground tank. I stayed alert as the noise would draw any of the dead who were around, though the firefight signs all around gave me cause to think we might be left alone.
After the two tanks on one side of The Traveler were filled, we shut down the pumps and put things away. Tito went back inside and Phil came out to help me. Regina started pulling away in order to turn the big rig around for the other tanks. As she pulled into the main road to come back in the other entrance, I thought I could hear engines in the distance.
When the vehicles appeared, it was immediately obvious that we were in trouble. I don't know what gets into these idiots, but they must have watched the Mad Max movies too many times. Half of them were driving dune buggies and the rest were in stripped pickup trucks. All of them looked to be dressed in leather and various accessories from the local S&M sex shops; spiked collars and all kinds of studded black leather.
Before they even got close, they began firing on The Traveler. I had known they were idiots, but the guy hanging out of the driver's door of a stripped Jeep, firing a handgun at the big rig gave the word stupidity new benchmarks. Even as big as The Traveler was, I don't think he ever hit it. But a burst from one of the gun port M60s hit his windshield, shattering the glass and blowing him apart. Hopefully, he had never had a chance to procreate and spread his stupidity.
The rest of the vehicles circled around the rig, some of the smarter bandits trying to shoot at the tires. The flexible plates mounted over the tires protected them from the poorly aimed shots of the bandits, but sooner or later someone would get lucky. The crew manning the gun port machine guns was having trouble hitting the fast moving vehicles, but the sustained bursts from the M60s were taking a slow and steady toll on the bandits.
Phil and I kept our heads down and moved to the cover of a church bus that had been abandoned in the parking lot. Climbing up the rear ladder to the cargo rack we both took positions lying on the roof. Phil had brought his scoped M1A1 with him when he came out to help me, so once he got settled he began taking out bandits with single precise shots.
Phil Ramenowski was an ex-Marine and a member of the feared Marine Scout Snipers. We had run into him walking along the side of the road as we were traveling from Raleigh, North Carolina towards Charlotte. The interstate had been a mess and we had moved off onto some of the back roads to get around the wreckage. Lo and behold, there was this gentleman in military fatigues walking down the road with a scoped rifle over his back. So we offered him a ride. Standing 6 foot 2 inches in his combat boots, Phil was a crack shot with his rifle, and not too bad with a pistol either. He had helped us develop some of the techniques we used, adapting his military training to keep us alive. At some time in his life, he had also studied to be a professional chef, so we let him do most of the cooking.
We were finally spotted and two vehicles broke off from circling The Traveler and came towards us. Phil picked off the driver of one of the vehicles and it crashed into a gas pump. While the pump erupted in a fireball, the electricity had long been off so no more gas was available to keep the fire going.
The second vehicle got a bit closer and I stitched a line of 5.56mm rounds across the windshield. My magazine was loaded with mixed civilian 55-grain full metal jackets and military 62-grain SS209 rounds. While the FMJ's starred the windshield without penetrating, the steel penetrator cores of the SS209s passed through, killing the driver and passenger. Unfortunately, the now dead driver's foot remained on the gas and they kept coming at us.
"Phil move!" I yelled as I scrambled towards the rear of the bus. Knowing we had no time, Phil and I both jumped. Landing on a parked car, we rolled to absorb some of the impact. While Phil went forward, I rolled down the rear windshield and off the trunk onto the asphalt. As I hit, I could hear the screech of metal as the bandit's vehicle smashed into the bus we had been on seconds before. Climbing to my feet, I could see the remaining bandits pulling out of the truck stop.
As Regina pulled the rig back to the tank caps where we had been refueling, Phil and I took stock. Both of us were battered from the dive to the ground, but other than bruises and scrapes we were basically uninjured. Tito and Mikey came out to replace us and finish fueling the truck. I staggered into the cab and fell into my seat.
Once we had finished refilling the tanks, we pulled down onto Interstate 77 and continued traveling south. The interstate was a tangle of cars northbound, but the southbound lanes were relatively clear. This did not bode well as this type of traffic was typically an indication of severe infestation in the metropolitan area we were approaching.
As we got closer to Columbia, we began to see small groups of survivors on foot. While this was common just after the end, by now most survivors had settled back down. Most of the groups hid from us, but one group walking north on the south side of Interstate 77 stood and watched as we came closer. Regina pulled us to a stop just short of them, and I stepped down to talk to them.
"Hi, folks." I kept my hands in plain sight, not wanting to scare them. "Where are ya'll headed?"
A tall heavyset man who seemed to be the leader of the twelve or so survivors just stood and watched me for a moment. Finally he spoke. "North, anywhere away from here."
When he did not continue, I knew I was going to have to fish for information. "Something happen in Columbia? We had heard of an outpost on the north side of Columbia and were heading down to trade with them." I watched his face as I spoke and at the mention of a Columbia outpost his expression changed. Either these folks were from there and something had happened, or the outpost had refused these folks shelter as they passed through.
"Ain't there no more," the man said slowly. "The dead overran the walls and just kept coming. Wasn't nothing we could do but run." Even as he spoke, the man sank to the ground.
"Carol, Kim! I need medical assistance out here. And bring these folks some water and some light food, the Saltines maybe." We had found a huge supply of saltine crackers in an abandoned big rig not long ago and I knew that was what these folks needed. When you have not eaten in some time, heavy food tends to make you sick so it's better to eat light for a while. By the time we had revived the man and fed his family, more survivors were straggling up. Finally I just ordered the crew to put up the large awning and we setup an impromptu aid station. I was not about to refuse these people help, but I was also wary. Desperate people do stupid things sometimes. Most of the doors to the rig stayed locked and one of us was always on guard at the side door that we kept open.
As night started to fall, I worried about the situation we found ourselves in. Stopped in the middle of the road, there was no shelter and The Traveler could not accommodate the crowd that had gathered. Luckily we had full fuel tanks so we could easily leave the generators running all night. I gave out orders and started moving the survivors as close to the sides of the rig as possible. Some even bedded down underneath the rear trailer.
After quick discussions we began setting up our defenses as best we could. Mikey and Maurice set out the claymores and flame pots, covering a much wider area than normal. We were worried that someone might get up and wander into the trip wires in the night, but we would just have to take the chance. The survivors were warned and they knew the value of the defenses like ours. Sharing duties with the strongest of the survivors, we setup a walking guard rotation and left the external trailer spotlights turned on so that the guards could see.
The first two watches went smoothly. None of the dead came out of the darkness to attack the crowd of survivors that were huddled around The Traveler. Sometime during the early morning watch, life began to get interesting. At first it was just the odd single dead wandering into the light and being quickly dispatched by the guards.
As the morning watch went on, the guards began to encounter more and more of the dead. They had started appearing one every now and then. Then they began to appear more often or in small groups. By now, everyone was awake and on alert.
"Phil, Tony! You and the other guards pull back. Once all the guards are back under the rig's guns, I want Phil on the roof with his rifle. Hustle everyone, I think we are about to get clobbered!" Even as I shifted personnel to cover our vulnerable spots, I heard one of the claymores trip.
I could hear the screams of children as the dead began to come into the light. The staccato bursts from my crew's M4s where punctuated by the louder crack of the survivors' hunting rifles and the deep boom of shotguns. The dead walked through the hail of gunfire like it was nothing. You could see one drop every now and then as its central nervous system was destroyed, but the rest kept coming. "Head shots!" I yelled out to those survivors who were shooting. "Aim for the head!" After what seemed like an eternity, the shooting ceased as all the dead had been destroyed.
"Let's heave these bodies out away from the camp. But put a round in the head first to make sure they are dead!" The men nodded at my orders and began lugging the bodies to the edge of the light and throwing them into the darkness. From the roof of the front trailer, Mikey fired off a string of flares to give us more light to work by. All this while the crack of single pistol shots could be heard at an almost rhythmic pace.
One of the young men, I did not know his name, was throwing a dead body out into the darkness when he was suddenly attacked by another of the dead. The dead, a woman dressed in a tank top and jeans, lunged out of the darkness and locked her teeth around his neck before anyone could react. Two rifle shots rang out from above my head. The first struck the young man between the eyes, ending his suffering, and the second blew the woman's head apart. An older woman, probably his mother, cried out in horror and tried to rush to him but was held back by other survivors. The man who had been leading the original group we had stopped to help caught my eye with a look of understanding.
We had no more settled down, when the claymores, flares, and flame pots all along one side detonated. In the firelight we could see a large crowd of the dead staggering forward. Almost immediately, two of the M60s mounted on that side of The Traveler opened up. I had the 45 caliber Thompson Submachine Gun I had taken from the Gunshop Express in Belmont slung across my back. I pulled it around and began firing short bursts into the heads of the oncoming dead.
The next 10 or 15 minutes was a blur of screams, shots, and yelled commands. The crew and the survivors held strong, keeping the dead at bay and killing them as fast as possible. At one point the dead managed to get close, coming through a thin spot in the defense near the rear of the rig. The fight there devolved into a melee of hand-to-hand combat. Unlike fighting normal humans, fights with the dead were wild. The dead who was fighting with the guy next to you would suddenly turn and bite you simply because you were there. Axes, machetes, baseball bats, and even one sharpened shovel were brought to bear against the dead. As one of the dead attacked me, I swung cutting off both its hands, yet it kept coming. Ducking under its attempt to bite me, I slammed my machete against the back of its neck. As its head fell, the body stumbled into another of the dead distracting it long enough for me to remove its head as well. In the end, the dead who managed to get close were all destroyed, but four of the refugees were killed or bitten in the process. Those that had been bitten were tied up and left to be dealt with later.
Stopping to take a breath after the last of the dead had been destroyed, I waited for the next shoe to drop. No sooner had I thought that than Phil began to holler from atop the trailer. He could see a large crowd of dead in the morning sunlight and they were coming our way. I knew our ammo had to be running low, after leaving so much of it with Roy in Blacksburg.
Cussing, I started gathering those that had stepped up as leaders among the refugees during the evening. "You have got to get these people moving north. There are more of the dead heading this way. We will do what we can to slow them down. Whatever you do don't stop." If the dead kept pushing north, these people were doomed. The dead did not get tired and would eventually catch up with them. Our best chance was to turn the dead like a herd of cattle and that meant getting their attention. We just did not have the ammo to destroy them all.
"Sir?" It was one of the refugee leaders. "There is a chemical truck full of fertilizer on the south bound side about half a mile back. A little diesel fuel and we could make quite a bomb."
Checking with Phil on the location of the group of the dead he had spotted, we thankfully had a little time. The refugees were moving, but it would be fifteen minutes or more before The Traveler was clear. Phil, Tito, and Jeremy, the refugee leader, left to try and get to the chemical truck. As soon as the refugees were clear, we moved the Traveler forward. I had told Jeremy that we would not be heading north, he just nodded and took off. He definitely had sand.
Phil, Tito, and Jeremy worked to convert the truck into a huge fertilizer bomb by mixing diesel fuel and the fertilizer. Most people don't realize just how powerful an explosive can be made that way, the trick is getting the proportions right. Mikey spotted a wrecked gasoline tanker on the northbound side of the interstate and had a brilliant idea. Since we were low on ammo, we could rig a siphon on the tanker and use it as a flamethrower.
Using a small gas-powered pump and some hosing, Mikey worked to setup the flamethrower. As he worked, the first of the dead began to reach us. Trying to conserve ammo, we made sure that each shot destroyed at least one of the dead. As the number of the dead reaching us began to increase, we heard Mikey give a shout of triumph. Suddenly a huge tongue of flame played across the dead. While the fire did not kill the dead immediately, they began to stumble around aimlessly. The burning dead bumped into other dead and set them afire. The flames would kill the dead in the end, but it would take some time. But at the moment, it was buying us time.
Phil, Tito, and Jeremy came running back across the median. Phil and Tito would shoot any of the dead that got too close, but Jeremy was wielding a firefighter's axe like some barbarian warrior. One of the dead lumbered close to him and Jeremy took its head off cleanly with a swing while never breaking stride. We would not be heading north to catch up with the refugees so he was stuck with us for a while. I thought he would make a good addition to the crew as I watched him split another of the dead from crown to belly button.
We all clamored back into The Traveler with Phil yelling, "Go! Go! The damn fuse is lit!"
Regina slammed the rig into gear and plowed through the milling crowd of the dead. We had just cleared the far side of the crowd when the huge armored rig was pushed to one side by a powerful explosion. Regina never let up and kept us moving south. Looking behind us, a huge fire raged in the center the median, slowly dying as the gasoline and diesel that fueled it burned off. Hopefully the fire would continue to burn for a while and form a barrier to keep the dead from following the refugees.
As we moved further south down Interstate 77, we came upon a second band of refugees, this one only about 12 strong. They had hidden in an overturned bus while the dead were attracted to the larger group that had camped at The Traveler. But they had not escaped unharmed. The woman was holding a young girl, not more than 9 or 10. The child's shoulder was a bloody mess where one of the dead had gnawed on her. The anguish in the mother's face was heart breaking, as she knew what would happen over the next couple of hours.