Surge (4 page)

On the main staircase, we have a rope rigged to drop a refrigerator from the second floor, while on the emergency back staircase, we have a similar rigging set up with a washing machine. Now, neither John nor I am geniuses by any means, so it’s a simple pulley design that can be tripped by cutting the rope. Hopefully they function enough to be used as a barrier of protection for our floor, or to at least buy us some time to reach the fire escape.

When we reach the landing for our apartment, Sarah spins and plants her back on the wall to steel herself, yet another one of those cues you pick up from being around someone for so long.

“How long?” Sarah whispers.

I see John’s face light up out of the corner of my eye, he knows what this means, as do I. Sarah, who is one of our biggest opposers; and the only one that counts to John or I in making our decision to move on from the condo, has finally given her consent.

“Soon, we need to gather some supplies,” I answer and do a quick calculation. “We have the water collected in the rain barrels from the recent storms, so that should last us at least a few days. Twenty cans of food we can stretch for about three days if we split them evenly, our main concern is protection.” I look to John to see if he has anything to add, he nods.

“Two days,” he revises. “Jared and I will go out tomorrow to scavenge. You stay here with the others, fill up all the backpacks that we have. Fill them with as many blankets, clothes, food, water and other essentials as you can each carry. Make sure it’s evenly dispersed, we can’t have anyone falling behind because they can’t handle their own pack.” Sarah nods and I see John get a gleam in his eye that can only mean one thing, mischief.

“Oh, and make sure Danny packs lots of his skinny jeans. We wouldn’t want to lose him, I mean his nuthuggers, right Jared?” I couldn’t agree more with John’s sarcasm, one less fuckup for me to keep track of, but Sarah takes offense and retaliates in the way only a sixteen year old girl can.

“They are not nuthuggers!” Sarah screeches at the top of her lungs.

I step aside as 5’7” of pissed off teen; along with a curtain of curly dark brown hair flowing behind her like a cape, lunge and collide with John’s rangy 6’4.” The blur of her flying smacks are really the saddest excuse of an attack I’ve ever seen. Sarah looks like she’s fangirling as opposed to furious, which is really quite laughable in this context, but could be dangerous in a different setting.

In retaliation, John gives her the big brother treatment of a bear hug with one arm along with a noogie to mess up her hair with the other. Glancing at my watch, I figure they’ll be done in about, oh twenty seconds due to Sarah’s knowledge of one of John’s weaknesses, which I see her reaching for right now. Her hand goes between John’s shoulder and neck, wiggling her fingers in the slightest of movements and he immediately jerks his head to try and capture her hand. His failed evasion is his demise. John starts laughing and Sarah brings him to her knees, begging for mercy.

“Alright, alright I give!” John exclaims while struggling for breath. Sarah lets up a little but doesn’t move her hand away yet, she lifts an eyebrow at John, which he rolls his eyes at. “Okay, PITA, they are not nuthuggers.” He gives her his most solemn expression, which I know is complete bull shit, but Sarah relents and moves away. I do a countdown in my head, in three, two and John’s already opening his mouth with a retort on one.

“They’re just ball biters.” I jump between the two before they can start up again, which from years of experience, I know that they will. A little levity is necessary to keep you sane in this world, but we still have plans to make.

“Focus,” I order, shooting them both reprimanding glances. “We have a lot of shit to do and we don’t have a lot of time.” Immediately they sober up. “Now that I have your attention, Sarah, tell that stupid bastard that you unfortunately call a boyfriend
,
that if I see him wear those goddamn pixie tights again, he won’t have to worry about a wheezer catching him because I will personally shoot him in the foot and leave his ass as bait.” She tries to interrupt, but a quelling look her way closes her mouth before I keep going.

“No, I don’t care that they make him look
‘hot
,
’
the only thing that will be hot, are the wheezers that will be hot on our asses
if that fucktard trips and knocks something over again.” Sarah’s eyes widen.

“That’s why they’re all here isn’t it?” Sarah asks and I nod. “Oh Jared, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know.” And I do, because John and I have tried to shield her from this world as much as possible. “But now you do,” I confirm and she nods. “Alright, so John and I will go scavenging tomorrow, and we leave Thursday at first light.” Sarah and John agree with the plan before we enter the apartment.

Now we just have to convince a group full of pigheaded strays.

<~~~<~~~
~~~>~~~>

“What do you mean we’re leaving?”

That’s a whiny voice from the back. I’m pretty sure the owner of that shrill is Kelly, but who can be positive with a dozen others raising their voices over each other to make their own opinions known? We’ve been at this for over an hour, and I’m seriously considering the option of duct taping their mouths shut and throwing them in the back of a van for transport. Actually, I may do that just to shut them the fuck up right now.

Before I can make good on my internal threat, Cory steps forward from his spot behind me. He then places two fingers in his mouth, and emits a whistle that is sure to damage a few eardrums with the echo in here; but I don’t give a fuck the potential damage done, since it works. I nod my thanks to him before John, the Professional Placater, graces us with his presence.

“I know you all want to be heard,” he says. “So, why don’t we all try out this revolutionary concept of a raised hand? Simple really, all have to you do is lift your arm up high in the air and wait to be called on. I heard it worked miracles with the preschool crowd.”

John shines them a dazzling smile, the same one that he uses to lure women into his bed, to soften the insult. Upon closer examination, you can see that even his facade is cracking. A twitch in John’s cheek is his tell, but it’s masked by the false smile and a small price to pay after an hour of non-stop bickering with no decisions being made.

“How about a show of hands?” John requests.

In answer, eleven hands fly up in unison. With John, Cory, Sarah and Danny unified behind my decision to move on, that makes just about two-thirds of the group still opposing the plan. I shrug at John to convey my feelings on the matter; I’m perfectly fine with leaving them behind. The way I see it, moving a group of five will be much easier than sixteen; especially if more than half of them are disgruntled travelers, who will just slow us down with their sulking asses moping along the way. Only problem I see arising would be the division of supplies. Sure, it was mostly a group effort, but this is
my
house and either John or I went to help with every trip made outside the complex, so I think that we deserve our due.

John calls on Leonard first, since he and his grandson Tommy are second only to Cory, as the first of the strays. We found them eight months ago, picking through the looted corner store up the street, and they’ve been with us ever since. Leonard Shue is a retired postman and Vietnam veteran. In his seventies, he does most of the cooking for the group. Thomas Shue, a former ironworker, now splits his time between sentry duty and the gathering of supplies. In his a mid-twenties, he looks like a younger version of his grandfather, with their mirrored brown eyes, strong jaws and Roman noses. As far as I’m concerned, they’re two out of the handful in our group that have actually earned the right to voice their opinions.

“I would just like to thank you first of all for taking us in,” Leonard begins in his age withered baritone. “If you hadn’t opened your home to us and shared your food, Tommy and I would most likely be dead.” Taking a deep breath, he continues. “The problem is my mobility. I know it’s hard to believe, but these old bones just don’t work as good as they used to.”

That earns a few chuckles, since the strong old bastard still hefts around hundred pound rain collectors when he thinks no one’s looking. The few exceptions being when his rheumatoid arthritis acts up, this is quickly becoming a common occurrence, since drug stores raid are turning up empty results for his old prescription.

“I don’t want to slow you down and endanger the group as a whole,” Leonard finishes.

“So, thank you for the offer,” Tommy picks up after Lenny. “But we’re going to stay here and make the best of it.”

“We respect your choice,” John acknowledges. “Just know that the offer remains open if you happen to change your mind by Thursday.” After Leonard and Tommy’s matching nods of agreement, John calls on our next stray.

Mike Williams and his wife Whitney, a bi-racial middle-aged couple, were found by John six months ago. They were holding out in a warehouse that John was raiding for supplies. Mike was a high school math teacher, and Whitney headed the maid service company they owned. Now, they help out with Mike doing supply runs, and Whitney handling the distribution of household chores.

“Whit and I are comfortable here,” Mike states. “We don’t like the idea of starting over again.”

“We know the area,” Whitney says. “We feel secure with the defense system we have in place and would rather stay.” Agreements are muttered by several other survivors before I hold up my hand to shut them up or it will just escalate again.

“Those are good points to make,” I begin carefully. “But keep in mind that some of that very security, to which you are referring, will be leaving in two days.”

“You mean you’d abandon us?” Kelly’s shrill asks.

She steps out from behind the crowd with a pout, which I know for a fact is practiced, since I caught her doing it to her reflection on multiple occasions. How to describe Kelly? She’s the residential bitch, you know every group has one, and she’s the ultimate cliché to boot. Blonde haired, blue-eyed captain of the senior cheering squad, and don’t you dare forget it or you’ll suffer the wrath of her harping.

Unfortunately, I must take blame for this wonderful catch. In my defense, her screeching was attracting a crowd of ass munchers, so it was either take her, or die. I chose to live back then, but now I find myself questioning daily as to if there were a third option available. One where Kelly is bound and gagged, before sacrificing her to the wheezers like a roasted ceremonial pig.

Kelly Randalls has no known survival skills, besides screaming of course, so she’s been with us for miserable five months, and adds no contribution to the group. Well, except for occasionally warming John’s bed. I once asked him how he handles her excessive whining in a shrill voice. In answer, I got his trademark smirk and a,
‘what shrill?’
You don’t need to be have a Ph.D. in sexology to draw conclusions after that.

“We’re not abandoning anyone,” says John the pacifist.

“You can stay here,” I point out, which I’m rooting for. “Or, you can tag along.”

“And are you going, Jared?” Kelly inquires.

She asked that with her come hither smile aimed at me. In response, I want to steal the words of Sarah, and shout,
‘duh! You stupid bitch,’
since the answer is obvious. I mean, didn’t I just propose the plan to begin with? I don’t dignify her with a response to her stupid question, or the inviting smile, because John and I don’t do sloppy seconds,
especially
in her case. Instead, I turn my attention away from her, to call on the next pickup.

Oscar and Carlos Santos, two former Boston P.D. officers and current snipers, step up to state their takes on the situation. Originally from Puerto Rico, the identical twin brothers are in their early thirties, with black hair shaved close to their scalps and dark chocolate eyes. If seeing double didn’t disorient me enough when I ran into them four months back, their creepy twin powers sure as hell did. Like the ones they’re displaying right now.

Steps taken in unison, matching camouflage pants, black boots and green shirts, plus the uncanny ability to complete each other’s sentences. It’s like those freaky dead chicks in
The Shining
demanding to,
‘come and play with them.’
Two words for you, fuck no. Danny’s trike tires would have left burn marks on the carpet if it had been me peddling away.

Carlos taking up the lead says, “We aren’t opposed to leaving per se...”

“It’s that we’re wondering where we’re gonna end up,” Oscar finishes.

John looks to me, but I just shrug, so he continues on to Cory whose no better help. Cory looks like hell would be a welcome option, not that the broody bastard talks much anyway. I’m still racking my brain to make up a destination when I hear John announce one word.

“South.”

“South?” I hiss. “What the fuck is in the south? Toothless wheezers?”

“Now that you mention it...” John trails off and I punch him hard on the shoulder. “What? It would be an added bonus.”