They trudged along Interstate 80, scrounging for canned and dry food in the abandoned vehicles along the way. Thousands of small earthquakes rattled the ground, causing them to stop and wait until the shaking passed before continuing on. They remained on guard at all times lest the chain broke and the runners pounced on them. Once night fell they looked for a bus or truck to sleep in, always making sure that one of them stood guard at all times.
The horde ceased to exist in its old form. These new zombies travelled alone and tended to act in unpredictable and bizarre ways. Very often a runner would bolt out of a pileup and inadvertently break the human chain, causing the runner to stop and gaze back hungrily until they quickly rejoined hands. Other times the dead would stand perfectly still like statues, and then break into a sprint for no apparent reason.
Gritz and Dar carried a heavy load. Invariably, one of them would need to step up and decapitate a runner who'd come too close to the group. Gritz did more than his share, carrying President Roberts on his shoulders for miles on end. Every so often they came across a couple of the old, slow zombies, who for whatever reason had not yet mutated. Gritz and Dar made sure they didn't last long.
None of the vehicles along the interstate started up. They'd been idle for so long that the batteries had long gone dormant. They did, however, manage to find canned goods in many of the cars and trucks along the way. Protein had been of high value and whenever they came across canned meat they grabbed it. On one occasion, they came across a truck filled with cans of beer, but they walked on, fearing that one slight error in judgment might cause the loss of life. It didn't much matter. Except for Annabelle, who was now clean and sober, none of them had been heavy drinkers in their former lives. Tony, in particular, abhorred alcohol because of its detrimental effects on Native Americans. He'd seen too many of his relatives and tribal members succumb to the terrible addiction.
By the time they reached the flat plains of South Dakota, the snow began to fall. The temperature dropped below freezing, especially at night. Afraid to veer off the interstate for fear of the unknown, Dar decided that they would stay on track and take refuge in whatever vehicle they could find. They scrounged for warm clothes and blankets. The further they went the more the snow began to pile up, making the going torturously slow. The runners, however, never let up and ran through the snow as if they were hurdlers. They never tired or wavered, and sometimes they'd stop and watch them pass, a faraway look in their glazed-over eyes.
The sight of them standing in the snow angered Dar, and she often stepped out of the chain and put the ax to their heads. The runners were incredibly fast, but Dar remained one step ahead of them, her reflexes honed by years of intense practice. But even she had to admit that her skills were no match against their sheer numbers. A second runner could pounce out of nowhere and be on her before she even realized what had happened.
It didn't take long for them to realize that this trip would be physically and emotionally draining. They began to talk of the Black Hills as if it were the Promised Land. The reservation as a safe haven began to take on a whole new meaning, and despite Tony's warning not to set their expectations too high, they were so desperate to stop running and settle down that it eventually took on mythic proportions. They took Tony literally when he claimed that the Black Hills was sacred ground.
The cold arctic air blew down from Canada and seemed to pass through their bones. The flat plains on either side of them appeared endless and barren, with the only sign of activity being the occasional runner darting across the landscape. The cold and snow proved no obstacle to the horde's wellbeing. They looked as if they could survive any temperature, hot or cold, and suffer no consequences. The accumulation of snow slowed their progress, though not their avidity, forcing them to high step over the heavy white blanket.
By the time the group made it halfway across the state, the snowfall had become such an obstacle that travel became nearly impossible and they realized they would have to find a place to hunker down for the winter. The came across a singular grove of trees out of the bleak, flat landscape. Tony recognized the location as being one of the many small towns that dotted the interstate and provided food and fuel for the cross-country truck drivers. Watching Gritz humping President Roberts through the snow, Dar decided that they would stay here for the winter.
It took them three hours to travel the one-mile into town. The snow began to fall fast and furious, whiting out ten feet in front of them. It fell sideways and they had to stop every few minutes in order to switch hands so that they wouldn't become frost bitten. The dead lurked close by, climbing over the snow banks and sometimes walking side-by-side, which required that their hand-switch be quick and coordinated. For most of the journey Styx rode atop Dar's shoulders and never cried or complained. Despite the food shortages, he seemed to be growing taller each day, having inherited his redneck father's gene for height.
By the time they reached the small town, they were frozen, hungry and exhausted. They climbed down off the blanketed interstate and struggled across a set of railroad tracks until they stood at the town's main thoroughfare, a two-lane road that ran parallel to the wheat fields on either side. The town was composed of eight streets fashioned in a grid pattern, all of which sat under denuded oaks and maples. The first building at the intersection was an old, rundown bar with a sign that said Sully's Tavern.
Dar reached out with her stiff, frozen hand and pulled on the locked door, her entire body shaking from the bitter cold. She handed Styx off to Annabelle and swung the ax until the padlock broke. The others quickly rushed inside, shutting the door behind them. Upon entering, she noticed three runners rising up from behind the bar as if they'd just woken up. The others stood back up against the wall and looked on as she and Gritz lifted their weapons. The runners jumped up and began to sprint over. The first two collapsed to the floor after being struck, but the third zombie managed to slip through their guard. It jumped on Dar and tackled her to the wood floor, pinning her arms down and causing her to drop the ax. Styx ran over and climbed on the runner's back and began to hit it with his ax. The runner was just about to take a bite out of her shoulder when Gritz splattered its brain along the far wall.
They stood staring down at the dead zombies, shivering, the temperature inside only slightly higher than the outside.
“What now?” President Roberts asked in a quavering voice, limping over to the boarded up window and peering through the slats. “There's a whole bunch of them Jesse Owen's out there waiting to get at us, and they now know we're holed up in here.”
“Look over there, a wood stove off in the corner. Secure the door, Gritz. The first thing we're going to do is start a fire,” Dar said.
“But where will we get the wood?” Rachael asked.
“The bar,” Gritz replied. “None of us'll be saddling up to it anytime soon, and with Dar's ax we can chop it up into pieces.”
“Of all the places we could have stopped to camp out,” Annabelle said. “I haven’t been inside a bar in ages. A few years ago you couldn’t get me out of one.”
“Should have been with me fighting in the Middle East. There’s no alchol in any of those Muslim countries,” Gritz said.
“Unfortunately, I don’t look good in a head scarf.”
Dar moved stiffly over to the bar, raised the ax, and began to cut away the top layer. The old, rickety bar came away easily. Tony found a spindle and began to roll it in his palms against a two-by-four until a flame jumped off the end. He took the wood chips and various splintered pieces and constructed it in a way to build a vigorous fire. In less than twenty minutes flames began rise up and the small bar filled with heat. The group huddled around the stove, luxuriating in the warmth.
Gritz walked over to the bar and examined the shelves. He pulled down a bottle of Southern Comfort, hoisted a shot glass from the back bar, and poured himself two fingers.
“Cheers!”
He downed the entire tumbler of whiskey. Once he'd finished it, he slammed the shot glass back down onto the back bar, placed the bottle back up on the shelf, and returned to the group. No one spoke or uttered a word. Holding their hands out to absorb the fire's warmth, a momentary sense of contentment came over them.
* * *
Townsend realized something profound after a few minutes inside the tank. These Chinese bastards were more scared and confused than he was. Making matters worse was the fact that they were totally out of their element. America confounded them. They didn't fully understand the topography or terrain, and because their GPS systems had been disabled by the horde's debilitating brain signals, they had to rely on their antiquated road maps. The highway signs perplexed them and they had no way of understanding distance, as their computational standards were completely different.
Only one of them spoke and understood English, and he spoke in fragments and mixed tenses, struggling to communicate as best he could. They were lost, cold, hungry and in need of direction. Everywhere they looked, the horde roamed, not allowing them to leave their claustrophobic quarters. Rather than look down on him as an enemy combatant, Townsend realized that these Chinese soldiers were in awe of his rank, bowing to him in such a deferential manner that he felt humbled.
Rather than losing all hope, he realized that this was an opportunity to assert his control and once again take charge. He didn't care what troops he had under him now. America in its current form had been taken over by the horde and there'd be no chance any charges would be brought up against him for conspiring with the enemy. America was up for grabs and open to anyone who could take control of it. He knew his chances were slim, but at least he had hope now that these Chinese soldiers were treating him as if he were some kind of god.
They needed a safe place to regroup before the onset of winter. Although his injury was not serious, a mere flesh wound, he needed to recover his strength before he could fully prepare to lead them to victory. He knew of only one place where they could find respite for the winter and that was the Amish camp. The destruction of the Army base had been a miscalculation. He hoped that by destroying it he might keep the Chinese from using it as a base, which was why the Amish compound was their only hope
He ordered them to stop the tank. The crew of three young soldiers looked up at him subserviently, waiting for his next command.
“You Chinese bastards are alright for being commies,” he said, smiling.
“Bastards?” the English speaking one asked.
“Yeah, you lousy bastards. No wonder you gooks were taking over the world. You bitches know how to take an order and execute it without complaining.”
“Yes, bitches,” the man said, smiling and shaking his head along with the others. “We want bitches, General.”
Townsend laughed at the misinterpretation of his words, watching the other men smile at the faulty translation.
“Forget about getting laid, boys, you'll get your bitches once we take back this country. In fact I'll make sure you wear those Chinese peckers of yours out once we're done. You'll be screwing so many bitches your peckers will feel like rice noodles.”
And the first bitch I'll sic them on will be that bitch with the ax!
He climbed up out of the hatch, wincing from the flesh wound, and stared out at the landscape. Thousands of zombies milled about like depressed teens at a mall, waiting for an opportunity to feed. He glanced back and saw the four other tanks following behind them, trailed by the two oil tankers. Hopefully they contained enough fuel to get them to Pennsylvania and beyond. He didn't know enough about these shitty Chinese tanks or how they performed on the battlefield, but he could tell right off that they were shit compared to the American versions.
A Chinese soldier popped out of the Stryker behind him. Townsend waved his arm, signaling for the rest of the caravan to follow. Climbing back into the compartment, he gave the three Chinese soldiers a thumbs-up sign, pointing at the shiny star on his lapel.
“Okay, boys, I'm the big kahuna now. Let's get this party rolling.”
The crew leader barked a series of orders in Chinese to his underlings and they began to manipulate the controls and move forward.
Townsend pulled out one of the map books, which was dotted with Chinese characters, and traced his finger along Interstate 80 east. The Chinese crew leader shook his head excitedly, happy to be given directions from a knowledgeable source. Once the man understood where to go, Townsend climbed back up out of the hatch and watched as the tank moved forward. In a matter of seconds, members of the horde began to get sucked under the wheels of the metallic gauntlet. Their numbers had grown so large now that they couldn't move out of the way fast enough.
The sound of them getting mashed underneath the Chinese tank caused his military heart to flutter. Their rotting bones crunched, snapped and crackled like his favorite breakfast cereal. Exhaust filled his nostrils as the bumpy ride jostled him up and down.
Townsend felt like an emperor reclaiming his land. He couldn't believe his good fortune, and chalked it up to the fact that God had been watching over him. What else could it be? All the other men under his command had either died or gone missing. The Chinese stood no chance on their own against the cannibalistic mobs roaming the country. He took it as a divine sign. Maybe God had delivered these communist bastards to him for a reason. As patriotic as he was, people were people, and it was the American dream for foreigners to become red-blooded Americans. That would be his goal throughout the winter months. He would force these commie gooks to learn English and conform to the American way.