Life Among The Dead (Book 3): A Bittersweet Victory (32 page)

“Brass has decided to evacuate to SBL, sir,”
Brock says. “You’ll be seeing your family as soon as tomorrow.”

“We’re leaving Rubicon?”

“What’s on its way is too big to take a stand
against,” Brock tells him. “For the good of all your people and
ours, we need to unite.”

The citizens of Rubicon work into the night.
They make bullets until they run out of places to store them, then
they load trucks with food and supplies. Animals are corralled onto
trucks and into trailers. The compact community transforms into a
gypsy caravan and no one questions it, figuring there is a reason
for the pack out. Brass asked his people not to go into detail,
since a panic would just be counterproductive. Only those who
refused to leave were told the whole truth.

Abby enters the armory behind the store and
finds it weird to walk through the space of bare concrete that just
hours ago was stocked to the rafters with munitions. Even the
reloading equipment has been packed up. He looks for Brass, but all
he finds is a train of matchbox cars set up to mirror their
departure.

The line is end capped with small tanks,
disproportionately smaller than the cars and buses. Mack trucks and
Peterbilts flank the school buses that will contain the
non-combatants. Armed vehicles will travel along the outside, like
sheep dogs protecting a flock. In the rear, just before the heavily
armored caboose of artillery, is the double decker to oversee the
exodus.

Staring down at the toys, Abby doesn’t hear
Brass approach from behind. “How’s it look?”

“Shit, Brass! You startled me. Why are you
sneaking around all creepily?”

“I’m not sneaking around. I went to grab more
coffee. Is creepily even a word?”

“Yes, it is, as a matter of fact.”

“Sounds made up.”

“Since when are you a gramburglar?”

“I’m not a… Stop making up words!” Brass
jokes. “It’s not like I’m correcting you, like when folks point out
you forgot the first ‘R’ in February though no one ever pronounces
it.”

“It’s Feb-ru-ary? Really?” Abby says.

“So, how does it look?”

“Good. Do you think we’ll make it down there
before those things catch up?”

“I have no idea. No telling how long ago that
footage was taken, or how long the choppers have been leading the
super dead this way. Perhaps the things will get distracted, bank
left, and run into the ocean like lemmings.”

“I’ve been wondering why the military doesn’t
just bomb them.”

“Maybe that’s the next step. Bolster their
food and firepower first, then eradicate the menace. All I care
about is everyone getting there safely. Of course, the neighbors
will talk. A movement of this size will either scare them too much
to try anything, or it’ll be too tempting not to hit.”

Abby hadn’t thought of the living threat
along the road beyond Harrington. Once they leave their
jurisdiction, anything can happen. Something in Brass’s demeanor
this evening strikes him as odd. “What’s up? You aren’t acting like
yourself anymore.”

“Who am I being?”

“Normal. Usually your mood is all over the
place, from one moment to the next. It’s weird to see you on an
even keel.”

“Stress,” Brass offers as an explanation for
his normality. “There comes a point when a man is under so much
pressure that he just stops worrying. There’s nothing he hasn’t
already contemplated, so he becomes numb.”

“And you’re numb now?”

“I’m done worrying. Whatever happens will
happen. All we can do is wait and see.” Brass points at the double
decker. “You’ll be on the Gunship. Civies will be on the buses,
each with an armed driver and an extra soldier. Truckers will be
armed. The whole show will be escorted by the bulls.” He indicates
the tanks.

“We won’t be able to go any faster than 45
miles per hour with the bulls in the lead,” Abby says.

“Once the train hits no-man’s land, they may
be needed to plow through obstructions and ward off any raiders
desperate enough to take a shot at it. Keep that Oz and Carla with
you. Maybe they can suggest the clearest routes since they made it
here all right. It’ll have to stay tight. If anyone lags behind
they’ll have to stay behind. I don’t want the whole population
jeopardized for a few.”

“That seems wrong.”

“It’s logical. Get them to Florida. Once
behind the walls of that magical kingdom, stragglers can be picked
up easier than halting the whole precession.”

“I take it you’ll be riding in your old ass
Riviera,” Abby says.

“Yeah, I’ll be in my Riv,” Brass’s voice
lowers. “I don’t want anyone dying on the road collecting shells.
Once the train leaves the station, forget the brass.”

Three hours before dawn, folks make final
preparations for departure, running off of what little restless
sleep they got. The line stretches from the motor pool to the
encampment’s winding entrance. Fuel tanks have been filled, and
small tankers of gasoline will feed the machines on the run.
Drivers await order to move out, refueling their bleary eyed selves
with steaming cups of coffee.

They have already pulled out of the power
station, allowing the rising sun to light the remaining
preparations. One of the outposts to the north has lost contact
with Ruby. They’re uncertain if the new dead wiped them out, but
they won’t be taking that chance.

“Pull the others in. Tell them to catch up on
the road,” Brass says. “It’s time to go.”

“Rubies, start your engines! 5,6,7,8!” Abby
says. The responding rumble of horsepower shakes the ground beneath
his feet. About to head onto the Gunship as planned, Brass calls
him over to the black Riviera.

Lady Luck will radio the order to start
rolling once Abby is onboard. For now, everyone idles. Vida watches
with Carla and Oz as Brass and Abby talk for a few minutes. After
adjourning their secret meeting, they just walk to their respective
rides.

“What was that about?” Lady Luck asks, but
Abby changes the subject.

“Let’s roll.”

The long snake of steel slowly gains momentum
as the leaders of the pack enter the ruins of their beloved town
and head to the highway going south. They say goodbye to the camp
that has cradled them since its formation, kept them safe and
provided them with so much. Many wish they could take it all with
them, from the asphalt plane that formed their yards, to the rubble
walls that surrounded them like a mother’s embrace.

The Gunship and the Riviera are the last to
leave the corridor. Brass’s car takes an unexpected right instead
of following the rest, and his place is taken by a pair of
tanks.

“Where’s he going?” Vida asks.

Abby can’t answer her right away. He looks to
the black rubber floor of the top deck, unable to bring himself to
meet her eyes. “Home… He’s going home.”

###

Simon Brass pulls up to the wall that hides
his former life. A street that had been declared off-limits almost
a year ago. Many would say he was born at a disadvantage, being a
little person, though his parents taught him to be proud of who he
is. Some would say he was a pushover in the world before, a man
that hated to make waves, but once the plague struck he became
caught in the swell. The world had changed, and so did he.

He was the first into work that day, as
usual, at the grocery store that almost didn’t hire him when he
first applied as a teen. His application garnered a phone interview
that made it sound as if they were not interested, and it wasn’t
until he had gone there with his mom to shop and accidentally met
the manager that he was given a job. He often wondered if his
mother had arranged it, shown them his condition and made them
reconsider. Simon became their best employee. From bagboy to stock
boy, soon he was proudly standing on a stool ringing sales as a
cashier. Then he became assistant manager, then the full time
manager. Though the store was operating on borrowed time and set to
be closed, he still arrived early to greet his employees and what
few customers who showed up.

With the holidays and low liquidation prices
of the store’s wares, the market had been busy. It wasn’t enough to
stop the closing, and the owners already had bulldozers on standby,
plus a wall erected around the lot to contain the debris once it
all came down. That day, no one arrived to shop. No employees
showed up on time. He expected his people to be late, for they took
advantage of his naturally easygoing nature and the fact the store
would soon be no more. Many took off during their shifts to fill
out applications elsewhere, and a few had filled them out while on
the clock. The closer the store came to its final day of business
the more liberties they took. Start and end time of shifts became
suggestions, breaks became unlimited.

But there stood Simon Brass, at the door
ready to say ‘hello’ to whoever walked through. He waited with
unwavering hope, but no one appeared. On the main road that ran
through town, a few people were out running, and a car sped well
over the posted limit.

After an hour, he switched off the shop’s
infinite stream of music via the local radio station and sat down
behind one of the registers. It felt odd to sit down at work, it
felt wrong. The speakers above him crackled with static and dead
air until a loud tone startled him from his seat.

Impossible words came after the alert,
telling him the dead were walking. He thought it a joke at first.
Such an absurd thing to hear in real life. That’s when his first
employee showed up. From across the lot, a young man by the name of
Gavin came running.

The lazy bagger was uncharacteristically
quick that morning. He sprinted over the asphalt, cradling his left
arm. He hurried to the front door, too fast for the automatic arm
to open it for him. Gavin hit the glass and fell backwards onto the
sensor mat, leaving streaks of blood on the door.

The old pneumatic arm jerkily unlocked the
entrance and Gavin crawled in. “Mister Brass!” the boy yelled. “My
mom! My mom!”

Simon tried to calm his worker, encouraging
him to take slow breaths. He had never seen such a mask of horror
on anyone. This young man typically wore the serene, squinting
expression of being constantly high. Sweat made his flushed face
glistened under the white glare of the store’s lighting. A wound on
Gavin’s arm bled profusely, soaking through his clothes and pooling
on the floor beneath him. Attempts at controlling his breathing
became a hyperventilating wheeze.

While waiting for the boy to calm himself,
Simon listened to the radio’s report. “…advised to remain indoors.
Do not venture out to reach loved ones…”

“My mom bit me,” Gavin said.

“…stay away from windows, lock your doors,
and avoid contact with anyone who has been bitten…”

“Everyone is going nuts.”

Simon’s posture stiffened. Gavin had been
bitten.
Why
should
I
avoid
him
?
“Nuts how, Gavin?”

“They’re trying to eat me!” he said. “I slept
in my car last night. I figured my mom would be pissed if I came in
late. When I snuck in this morning, she bit me! I ran out, but I
left my keys on the counter. I just ran here. Folks on the street
tried to get me.”

From across the lot, figures shambled toward
the store, more than would have likely shopped there that day.
Simon was sure they had been following his bagboy, and he was sure
he knew what they wanted. He turned off the automatic arm and
locked the glass doors. The impossible was happening. Walking dead
were on their way and all he could think about was getting home to
his wife and daughter. The radio announcer had advised against
going out, but he had also advised against contact with the bitten,
he had to choose which to adhere to.

As manager, Simon always parked behind the
store so he could turn on the lights from the breaker when he
arrived and turn them off again at night when he left. He had
inherited the duties of both opening and closing after his
assistant manager decided to take a job elsewhere. “Gavin, I’m
going to the back to turn out the lights.” He slowly backed away
from his dying employee. “And then I have to run home to check on
my family. I’ll be--”

“Don’t leave me!” Gavin squealed, latching
onto his boss’s shirt.

Simon freed himself without apology and left
the boy crying on the linoleum floor. Gavin’s cries for him to stay
went unanswered as Simon put the lights out. The bagboy would at
least be safe from the lumbering menaces at the glass.

Now Brass walks along the road he had sped
down that day. It’s been a long time since he last visited. He
arrives at his home, the home he remodeled to accommodate the
‘mixed marriage’ he and his wife had. All of the fixtures,
cabinets, and appliances, even the furniture, is slightly shorter
than in the average home. He still had to reach up for things as
his average heighted wife had to bend down a little, but they were
equals.

He walks around the house across the
overgrown lawn to enter through the back door. He entered through
the back that day he came home early, yet he was too late.

Back then, hoping to hide his arrival from
the zombies shambling along Main Street, Simon ran over his wife’s
prized flower bed and parked on the concrete slab that was their
patio. He reached in the house through a broken pane in their back
door window and unfastened the hook lock.

The house was oddly quiet, with the lights
still off, just as he had left them when he went to work that
morning. Rachael, his wife, and Emily, their one year old daughter,
should have been up by then. Little Emily woke up not long after
her daddy left for work, and some days he’d hear her chattering to
herself as he walked out the door.