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The Road to Good Intentions

TEDD ROBERTS

“TURN THAT OFF.” Sally Metzger reached over and turned off the radio before the preacher got fully warmed up in his warnings about the apocalypse and end times.

Leonard Morris barely managed to keep from slapping her hand away from the dial. The mood in the house was tense enough as it was, with the reports coming in about folks going nuts and biting people. The President had made some announcement about a new viral disease, but none of that made sense.

“Sweetie, we should keep it on for the news. I don’t want to listen to that stuff either. I can turn it to another station.”

Len turned the radio back on, volume low at first, then louder as he started hunting for other stations.

The emergency radio could bring in multiple bands, and could even be operated by a hand crank in the event of electrical failure. He had deliberately stocked the “mountain retreat” with low-technology items—both to compensate for being up in the mountains, and as a deliberate respite from their usual habits. There were still stations that didn’t carry constant news reports, so he selected one playing classical music in hopes that it would calm the tension.

“I still don’t understand. Why can’t we just go online? At least I could Skype with my friends,” his wife Sally pouted.

She hadn’t been too pleased about their sudden departure from the city, nor the prospect of an extended stay in their “weekend getaway cabin.” Len knew that he would lose the argument, no matter what his justification, and frankly, he didn’t want to argue with her. She started warming to her usual litany of complaints: “When you said you wanted a mountain home, I figured you meant one like you see on cable—sweeping vistas, hardwood floors, and a hot tub on the deck! I am so bored of seeing nothing but trees and cooking on a wood stove!”

That wasn’t entirely fair, he thought. He’d bought the house to get away from the city, and had selected a lot with a decent slope and elevation. It was just that Sally had been set on one of the much more expensive homes and vistas up on the Blue Ridge. In truth, the house had central heating and a satellite dish for TV and computer—it was just that Len liked getting away from the electronic intrusions that ruined his normal working day. A log fire and lanterns were much more relaxing. Speaking of which, this would be a good time to go chop more wood; it would give him something to do that would get him out of the house and he could just take the radio outside with him. Sally had her phone and could text all her friends about what an idiot he was. She’d be happy and he’d be able to stop thinking and just lose himself in the exertion.

After an hour of chopping and stacking cordwood, he heard sounds of a vehicle on the road beyond his driveway. There was a gate at the end of the drive, but it was downhill and around a bend so that it was out of view from the house. Unfortunately, that also meant that he couldn’t see the road from his current location.

Now he heard the sound of breaking glass and bending metal. That could not be good. Hmm, he needed a better view. He hurried down the drive and around the slight bend. Right, there it was, opposite side of the road, bumper crunched against a tree.

Is that…the driver, slumped over the wheel? There’s blood…is he dead?

Len still had the axe in hand, his subconscious thinking that he might need it to break a window or pry open a door. There was a locked metal bar across the driveway, but a smaller gate was located to one side. He opened the gate and went across to the car to check on the driver. The window was down, but he hesitated to touch the driver, even to see if he was alive. There was a lot of blood, and many cuts around his face and neck. That doesn’t make sense, he thought, there’s not that much broken glass or metal. The man wasn’t moving, so Len finally steeled himself to check him for a pulse—there was none.

The passenger door was open, and Len started around to check beside the car for another injured person when he heard rustling in the trees to his right; he spun, axe in hand to confront a woman struggling through the brush. She was naked, scratched and bloody; there was a large gash on her forehead. Len’s first thought was that she had also been hurt in the accident—that is, until she snarled and lunged at him.

For a moment, Len froze.

This isn’t real. She’s dazed, injured, and maybe amnesiac.

He’d heard the news reports, seen the videos, but it was all far away. After news of the airplane crash in Pennsylvania last week, he’d packed up and brought Sally to the cabin, but that still didn’t quite make it real.

She’s…she’s one of the INFECTED, finally registered in his brain.

He was numb, his brain sluggish, despite the self-defense training when he was younger and bi-monthly trips to the gun range the past few years. Time slowed, and he felt like he was moving in slow motion as he raised the axe, gripping it with a hand at each end of the wooden handle—it was all that he could think to do in his sluggish state.

The woman came at him, growling, and working her jaw as if to bite him. One arm was torn and bloody, the other hung at an odd angle, so she didn’t try to grab him, just lunge and bite. He managed to keep the axe handle in her face, practically in her jaws, but she kept pushing, and he could feel himself losing his balance. The world was still in slow motion, and he saw her finally raise the bloody arm to reach for him at the same time he felt an obstruction behind his left foot. He was going down, and she would be on him immediately.

As he lost his balance and began to fall backward, there was a shot from behind him and to the side. The woman was knocked back, and turned to look at the shooter, but quickly turned back to Len despite the new hole and spurt of blood from her chest. The first shot hadn’t stopped her, but the next shot took her in the forehead and knocked her back and away from Len. He lay on the ground a moment, feeling dirt, gravel and rocks around and under him, but nothing appeared to be broken or lacerated. He looked up as the approaching man slung a shotgun across his back.

“You get any blood on you?”

Len looked down at his hands, arms, and torso. “No…no, I don’t think so.”

He looked up at Donald Collingsworth, his next door neighbor—“next door” being a relative term in an area where the houses were a half mile apart.

Don reached out a hand to help him up. “Good, I won’t have to shoot you, too.”

He wasn’t joking, Len realized. Suspicions were high in this small community; there had already been rumors of folks shooting strangers.

“Don,” Len said, “Thanks, I don’t know what I’d…well…I don’t know.” He looked down at the axe he’d dropped in the brief encounter; picked it up, swung it a few times. “I never even thought to use this, just didn’t seem like enough time.”

“‘Ya train and train, but ya never kin train for surprise.’ It’s like huntin’, when a big ol’ buck jumps out of the brush smack dab at you and you just sit there.” Don’s hill country accent was usually pretty thick when he tried not to show his own nerves. He pointed to Len’s belt, then to the holster on his own. “You need to carry, Len. Open carry is legal up here, and ’tween the bears, snakes and the Zees, you need t’be able to react fast and pump out lead.”

“I know, but Sally hates it.” He stopped and worked his jaw a few times. “Damn, now I’ve got drymouth something fierce. Come up to the house for some iced tea?” He cocked his head in the direction of the driveway, and Don nodded agreement.

The two passed through the small gate, and Len swung it closed without latching it. “Best lock that, and you might want to add some fencing to the driveway instead of that bar, too.” Len looked quizzically at Don’s remark, and Don answered. “You and me kin climb fences; I hear tell Zees can’t.”

“You coming from the ‘city’?” Len asked as they walked up the driveway. The small town of Lowgap was about two miles away in straight distance, but double that following the mountain lanes. Don grinned in return, it was a common joke between them—the recently incorporated “City of Lowgap” claimed a bare ten thousand residents, mostly due to extending the city limits five miles out from town to include the Cumberland Knob area of the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Boy Scout camp just south of town. They’d met at the university where they both worked, and Don was one of the reasons he’d bought this land and built the cabin. Don had lived up here most of his life, while Len was a relative newcomer, despite spending many summers at the camp, and spring-fall weekends at the hunting club to the west.

Don looked grim in response. “It’s getting bad in town. Refugees from the cities. I guess we’re lucky that few of them know we’re here. Oh, and Pastor Garber has been asking for you.”

Len made a face at that. Pastor Dwight Garber of the New Covenant Church of Lowgap, had somehow gotten it stuck in his head that Len was an electrical engineer. It was well known in town that the pastor wanted to extend the reach of his radio program.

“Aw, come on, I don’t have time for his nonsense. Can’t someone convince him I’m not that kind of engineer?” He shook his head. “You know Sally doesn’t care for him, so I’ve tried to avoid him as much as I can.”

Len was most comfortable with religion at arm’s length. The…zeal of the local preacher was just a bit too much for him. “Changing the subject, what else is going on?”

“Well, word is, Mount Airy’s had some trouble with gangs,” Don continued. “Chief Griffith has instituted a curfew there and put up roadblocks. Folks in town are talking about blasting State Road 89 and putting our own roadblock on Hidden Valley.” The state highway was the main road into town; with State Road 1338—Hidden Valley Road—it was the only way into town that didn’t involve the mountain lanes.

“Oh, crap.” They’d reached the house by now. “Come on in and sit, we need to talk about this. Where are they planning on putting the roadblock?” It was a question that was quite relevant to both Len and Don, since Hidden Valley was also their own route into town. If there was going to be a roadblock, it would affect them and their immediate neighbors.

They went into the house and Len waved Don over to sit at the kitchen table while he grabbed a couple of glasses, a few ice cubes, and poured them both some iced tea, the standard drink for this part of North Carolina. The glasses had been another argument with Sally and their sons when they visited. Len had insisted that they use—and wash—dishes and glasses, instead of plastic cups and paper plates. There was no sign of Sally, so that probably meant she had gone back to the bedroom with a “headache.” Len knew there was a big argument coming, but he’d deal with that when he had to. Right now, he and Don needed to discuss the roadblock.

Sitting down at his own chair, Len returned to the previous conversation.

“So, just where are they planning to block the roads? Clearly if they want a roadblock on Hidden Valley, they’re not blocking 89 that close to town.”

“Jesse Branch was talking about dropping trees and bulldozing the embankment at the Buck Mountain trail and dropping the bridge at Camp Branch Creek with a roadblock across the road between Mt. Vernon Baptist Church and Skull Camp Fire Station.”

Don pulled a map out of his backpack and pointed to a spot about a mile from a point where the road cut a pass through the hills surrounding the town. He took a sip of the sweet beverage.

“They both figure that anyone caught on the other side will know the mountain trails.”

“Like the camp road?” Len asked. He and hundreds, even thousands, of youth had spent one or more weeks of their summer each year at the Scout camp. It was a well-known and marked road, although it would still be a fair distance to town via that round-about routing.

“There was talk of a roadblock on Old Lowgap Road and another at the Hidden Valley crossroads, just below the camp entrance. Clay Davis says we can use granite blocks from the quarry over in Mount Airy and block ’em good and solid.”

Those two roads were the only other paved roads into town. Aside from the camp access, there would be no reason for anyone to travel those roads if they didn’t live in the area. Even refugees would be unlikely to find their way to the narrow, hilly roads by accident. “For the crossroads, they’re talking about setting up right at that hairpin turn on Eagle Point Camp Road. The corner is pretty blind, and they can set up a roadblock with clear line of sight from there to the camp entrance. With control of the bridge and crossroads, they can shunt people into the camp or turn them away back to the Interstate.”

Actually, that wasn’t a bad plan…except for one detail.

“What about the kids? Aren’t the Scouts supposed to start arriving on Sunday?” With the end of the school year across most of the state last week, the summer camp should be starting up soon.

“There’s a few boys here already, but Dave says the camp is considering sending them home.” David Wright was one of the year-round camp staffers, and lived on the other side of Don’s property from Len. Don would have gotten his information from Dave, who got it directly from the camp administration.

“With the news and the tone of the President’s weekly radio speech, I hear tell the staff’s mighty nervous about having an incident in a camp full of teenage boys. You heard about that airliner crash—where was that, Beaufort?”

“Bellefonte. Little town in Pennsylvania, practically a suburb of State College and Penn State.” Len made a face.

“You know the place?” Don was surprised.

“Yeah, my grandparents used to live there. Nice town, but small and pretty bad economy for a while. I still have an aunt there.”

“Any word from her?”

“No, I talked to Mom a couple of days ago. No word, and she’s pretty worried. She’s been calling the town hall, county seat, state police, and even tried to get my cousin to drive there from Philly.” Len got rather quiet, and looked down at his tea for several minutes before standing up.

“Y’know, I think I need something stronger.”

He went to the cabinet for another glass as Don continued.

“Well, anyway, Dave says they’re still going to enforce a strict ‘no firearms’ policy in the camp proper, but the camp staff and adults in town are expected to carry at all times.” Don caught Len’s eye and made a stern face. “That means you too. If you don’t have a good holster, I’m taking some guys on a run into Mount Airy for supplies, and I can get you one. Also, you need something with a substantial magazine, not that six-shot hand cannon you favor.”

Len turned away and was reaching under the counter for a bottle. “It has stopping power and is accurate.”

“It’s a hundred-year-old design that only gives you six shots, seven if you carry it loaded—which you should, anyway. But if you hadn’t noticed earlier, center of mass shots don’t stop Zees. Head shots only…and under stress, you tend to miss…a lot. So get something you can shoot a lot, and keep shooting. Oh, and you don’t want to be fumbling with safeties or clothing. Get a belt holster, not one of those tucked-in ones.”

“Yes, Mother.” Don laughed in response to his comment, but now Len was starting to remember the woman at the road. His hands started to shake as he poured whiskey into a glass. He gulped the first drink as they stared to hear thumping sounds from the back of the house. “Oh great, now Sally’s packing. That means she’s planning to head back home. I don’t need this argument right now.”

He started to pour another drink as a howl and scream sounded from the bedroom. He dropped bottle and glass in the sink, and barely noticed the sounds of breaking glass and the pain in his hand as he heard Sally’s scream “No, get it off, get them off of me! Ahhh!”

Len barely registered that Don was reaching for his pistol as Sally ran out of the bedroom, eyes wild, clothes ripped and falling off. With a scream that sounded more like an animal than a human, she lunged toward Len, mouth open, teeth bared. Don raised his pistol as Len put his hands up defensively. “No! Stop! Sally! Don, no! Don’t do it!”

The pistol shot was loud inside the house. Len’s ears were ringing as Sally crashed into his outstretched hands. He couldn’t hear Don shout “No, don’t touch her!” All he could see was Sally falling toward him, and Don shoving him out of the way such that she crashed into the floor.

Len whirled on Don. “Why did you do that? You didn’t have to!” He put out his fists to pound some sense into his friend, but Don backed away, now pointing the gun at Len.

“Step back, Len, you’ve got blood on you.” The cold voice shocked Len, and he looked down at his left hand, cut by the broken glass, and covered with blood…his own and Sally’s.

“Oh, shit.”

* * *

He dreamed of light and noise. There was a struggle, shouting and loud arguments. Sally was there, so were Garrett and Sean even though they should have both been away. He was in pain and his hand was burning. Fire, he needed fire. Fire would burn it all away.

He dreamed of fire—felt the heat and the smell of sulfur. In the fire was the face of a preacher he’d seen as a child, laughing at him and telling him that he was one of the damned. Now it was Sally’s face and she blamed him for taking her to the mountains and away from their home where it was safe. Now his sons stood accusing, pointing at him, telling him that he would burn.

Burning. He was burning up. Cleansing fire.

* * *

It was dark and damp. Len felt like he hurt all over. The darkness was because his eyed felt glued shut. He tried to raise his left hand to wipe his eyes and felt some sort of resistance. Aside from that, he couldn’t feel his hand at all. He tried to raise his right hand—after all, he could feel that one—but it seemed to be tied down.

“Easy there, Brother Leonard.”

The voice came from the side of the bed. A hand reached out with a damp cloth and wiped his face. Opening his eyes, he could see a low ceiling of the type of tiles often seen in classrooms and public buildings. Turning his head, he saw that the room was rather large and filled with cots. Only about half the cots were occupied, but all appeared to be equipped with ropes to tie down the patients. He started to protest, but his mouth was dry and easily as stuck as his eyelids had been.

“Be calm, my son.”

There still wasn’t a face to go with the voice, but someone held up a cup and straw. They first dribbled some water on his lips, then put the straw in his mouth.

“Moderation, Brother Leonard. Just a few sips at first.”

Len recognized the voice now, and turned his head—wincing at a tender spot on his scalp. Nevertheless, it was enough to see a smooth, round face with twinkling blue eyes. From what he knew, the man had to be over seventy, but you would never know it to look at his face.

“Pastor…” Len paused and coughed. “Pastor Garber.” More coughing, and he was in danger of either spitting up the water, or choking on it. “Sir,” he managed, “May I sit up?”

The cleric nodded and motioned to someone out of sight. Someone Len couldn’t quite see came over and untied the straps holding his arms. Pastor Garber helped him sit up and placed some pillows behind his back for support. Len tried to reach for the water cup, but the motion made him dizzy, and he almost knocked it out of the pastor’s hand.

The slight motion made his head spin, and the older man gently pushed the hand away and held the cup up for Len to drink, all while supporting his back with the other hand.

“How? How long?” Len managed without coughing this time, although his voice was low and hoarse.

“You’ve been very sick, my son. You have had a fever and convulsions for almost a week. There were fears that you would be Lost and go to the Other Side.”

The pastor’s gentle tone and manner surprised him. He didn’t know Garber well, being only a part-time resident despite the years he’d been coming to the area. Once or twice he had tuned past the low-power radio program for the outlying mountain communities. For Len, that all added up to the type of hellfire-and-brimstone radio preacher that Sally had been complaining about. This aspect of the man didn’t seem to fit the image.

Sally. Tears came to Len’s eyes, and he started to cough again.

“Easy, my son, you had the fever, but you came through. The doctor says perhaps one in one hundred survive the fever. You are the first, here in town, although he has had two patients over at the camp. I call that a miracle.”

Garber helped Len into a better sitting position and allowed him to hold the cup. As Len continued to sip…and think…the pastor retrieved the damp cloth and went back to wiping Len’s face, neck and arms.

Len looked down at the mass of bandages on his left arm. It didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t feel anything, either. That son-of-a-bitch shot my wife then cut my hand off. Probably used my own axe to do it! It didn’t matter that the action might have saved his life, all Len could remember was seeing the hole in Sally’s head and her blood on his hands.

Garber must have noticed the grimace. He certainly couldn’t have missed Len staring at the bandages. It didn’t take much to figure out the direction of his thoughts.

“No, it wasn’t amputated. You still have your hand, but it was badly cut. Brother Donald says you poured most of a bottle of whisky over it right away. He had to stop you from trying to cut it off or burn it.”

Huh. I don’t remember any of that. Why don’t I remember? People aren’t supposed to get sick that fast. Len turned to Garber and finally asked the question. “What happened?”

“You broke a glass and cut your hand. Your wife was Lost, and Brother Donald had to deliver the Final Grace. Her blood got on your hand and you panicked, started trying to clean the blood off, then insisted that you needed to amputate your hand. You were making the cuts worse, so Brother Donald hit you over the head with the flat of your axe.”

Ouch. Perhaps that explained the tender spot on his head.

“He wanted to take you to the hospital, but the sheriff has been blocking roads into Mount Airy. There was a large disturbance that day, and they were overloaded from an explosion south of town. He took you to the camp instead. Fortunately, the doctor had already come in for the summer. This is the New Covenant Fellowship Hall, by the way. You were treated at the camp, stitched and bandaged. Since you are a resident, we moved you back here when the fever took hold.”

“So.” Len coughed again, but his throat was beginning to feel the effects of the water. “So, you tie people up in case they…turn?”

“Regrettably, yes. Most die when the fever peaks. A few become…something else. Lost. But you are a miracle, young man, A Rainbow After The Flood. God has not forgotten us…or you.” The conversation made Len uncomfortable.

“I’d like to go home.” Len put the cup aside and tried to rise, discovering that his legs were still secured to the cot.

“Alas, my son, that is unwise. Here, I’ll untie those.” Garber reached down and quickly released the bonds. It was a simple slip knot, but Len supposed it was more skill than an…infected would have. “You are still weak, and your house is a bit of a mess. You were quite—adamant—about injuring yourself, and fought with Brother Donald. He would be pleased to see you, by the way, now that you are awake.”

“No. I…can’t. I can’t see him. He shot…no, I realize he had to, but I just can’t.”

“You must forgive him, my son. He administered Grace, nothing more. Your wife was already Lost. At any rate, because he brought you for medical care and you have been at the camp or here, no one went back to your house for several days. It is not pleasant.” Len started to protest, but Garber held firm. “We will have someone fetch what you need, but you should not go back there, at least until you are much better recovered. There is a guest room in the parsonage and you should stay there. Now rest, my son, we will all need our strength in the days to come.”

* * *

Len was moved out of the “ward” and into one of the parsonage guest rooms the evening after his fever broke. The doctor had come by and changed the bandages and checked his temperature, heart, lungs and reflexes. Len was the third patient in the small community that had survived the disease so far, although the other two were still coming out of the fever and their long-term survival was not guaranteed.

New Covenant was typical of small country churches, with a sanctuary upstairs, large hall downstairs and a two-story parsonage next door. Built to serve the needs of the Church as well as the pastor, in the parsonage the family rooms were upstairs, with two guest rooms downstairs to serve visiting clergy, church administrators or persons in need of temporary shelter. Len had one of those rooms and shared a bathroom with the other guest—Tracey Harris, a local woman who had grown up in the town before leaving to become a missionary to Indonesia. She had surprised the townsfolk when she arrived inquiring about friends and family after having walked all the way from Charlotte.

It took several days to regain his strength, but once Len was able to move around on his own, Pastor Garber insisted that he come visit the patients in the makeshift ward in the church basement. Just seeing a survivor seemed to give some hope, but Len noticed that he was still eyed with some suspicion by the large men with rifles and pistols that stood guard around the room. Each afternoon, the pastor and Tracey would travel out to the other homes, farms, checkpoints and roadblocks. Len would accompany them for as long as he had the stamina, and the more he saw, the more he realized that Garber played an important role in encouraging and uniting the community.

In the evening, the three residents would sit in the parsonage and listen to the radio news. The minister had insisted that Len call him Dwight, or even Brother Dwight, but Len could not bring himself to do so. He still struggled with the reality of the kind, concerned clergyman compared to the mental image of the Bible-thumper that Len could still not quite shake.

There was no longer any coherent programing on the television. Some satellite stations still had prerecorded broadcasts, but gradually they were all being replaced by static. The pastor had a ham radio that had belonged to his son, but it hadn’t been used since before that young man had failed to return from Afghanistan. Tracey had tinkered with it, but the base station’s aerial had been damaged several winters ago. One of the locals had brought Len’s multiband radio from his house—along with clothes, toiletries and other personal items—so the three sat at the kitchen table each evening to listen to reports from the outside world:

A science fiction convention in Charlotte had dissolved in chaos when locals shot and killed several attendees who’d dressed in “zombie” costumes.

A nuclear power plant in South Carolina had to shut down when one of the operators “turned” on her shift in the control room. Protesters at the gates had been severely injured when several of the infected fell upon the crowd.

A free concert in New York had ended in hundreds of deaths when they were attacked by infected drawn to the light and sound.

All airline flights were grounded, passenger trains were cancelled, and countless thousands were dying in the ongoing panic to evacuate the larger cities.

Cellular and wired telephone services were failing as the ground stations and control centers no longer had anyone to service and maintain the systems.

Every night, Len tried to reach three phone numbers: his sons, Garrett and Sean, and his mother. His parents lived in Ohio, and there had been no word from them since before Sally…turned. Garrett lived near Washington, D.C. and worked for a federal agency as an analyst. He seldom spoke of his work, but in their last phone call he confided that he was working with a team trying to trace the source of the “Z-disease.” Sean was a student in Wilmington, and was supposed to have come up to the mountain cabin, but after hearing about his mother, had announced intentions to get on a boat and head offshore. The last contact with any of his family had been early June, but he tried nonetheless.

One week later, the lights went out.

* * *

The town had been prepared for the loss of power. Most households had candles, lanterns, and wood stoves as well as emergency generators. There was water from wells, but also from spring-fed cisterns up in the mountains. Lowgap received its power from a fuel-oil-fired power plant near Dobson, but in recent years, the county electric co-op had been encouraging the installation of windmills and solar panels. As families fell sick and homes were abandoned, the townspeople, under Pastor Garber’s encouragement, began to salvage individual installations and move or connect them to key buildings in town. A several-acre solar-cell test facility had been installed at a state agricultural facility between Lowgap and Mount Airy. It, too, was salvaged and installed on a south-facing hillside near the Scout camp. The power had to be severely rationed and at times it was barely enough to keep the lights on at the church. More severe shortages were certain to come.

The night was dark and cloudy. Len considered the fact that in the past, such low clouds would have reflected light from Mount Airy to the north, and more distant Winston-Salem to the south. Now the dark night was lit only by the lanterns the small group had brought with them.

It was a risk coming so close to the highway, but one of the Lowgap residents had driven for the company for several years and convinced Pastor Garber that it would be worth it if they could salvage some of the tanks and one or more of the propane-fueled company vehicles. Having fuel to cook and run the occasional generator meant that they could save gasoline and diesel for the vehicles. Preserving the ability to transport food and supplies could be the difference between life and death for Lowgap.

Len sat behind the wheel of a pickup truck that had carried men and women to the job, frustrated that lingering weakness and stiffness in his left arm consigned him to be driver and lookout. Should the Zees appear, it would be his job to draw them away from the site with lights and noise—and hopefully get away himself. Blackened trucks and buildings told the tale of an explosion some weeks ago. Fear of leakage and damaged propane tanks scattered over the fifty-acre facility had kept scavengers away, but he could see the dim red lights of his fellows over next to a building that looked mostly intact.

The CB radio crackled with static. “Pete, we got something here. Three tanker trucks, doesn’t look like the fire got here.”

More voices joined the conversation.

“Pete, I’ve got a truck of them little tanks you see at the gas stations.”

“There’s lots of the big tanks, but they’re all empty.”

“There’s a few cars and a pickup over here. How do I tell if they run on propane?”

“This tanker’s almost empty, that one’s better than half full, the other is full.”

“Listen up, every one.” That was Pete Long, the person responsible for this salvage party. “The little tanks are good, we can use them for cooking if they are full. Pick them up, it they weigh more than five pounds, they’re probably fresh—shine a light on the tank, if it looks freshly painted, it should be full. Take only full tanks, we can refill what we’ve got but don’t need any empties.

“Forget the empty tanker, same reason. We’ll take what we’ve got, it’s not worth turning on the transfer compressors and attracting the Zees. As for or the vehicles—look at the gas filler cap—if it looks funny, it’s for propane, not gasoline. Take the pickup, but we’re only interested in a car if it has high clearance or four-wheel drive.”

“How about a station wagon?” asked the voice that had inquired about the vehicles.

“Sure, good. We can use it to haul stuff.”

Len waited for the click that meant Pete had released his microphone. “Pete, it’s Len. What if you pumped propane until any Zees show up, then you shut down, I draw them off, and y’all go the other way back to town?”

“Too risky, we have no idea how many will show up and there’s no guarantee you can draw enough off.”

Len was preparing a retort when Pastor Garber opened the passenger door and slid into the pickup. “No, he’s right. I know you want to contribute, but your time will come. You are our miracle, and just being here gives us hope.” The dome lights had been switched off so that they didn’t turn on when a door was opened, and attract…unwanted visitors. Len could see the pastor’s face, and it was obvious from his words that the pastor could see Len’s. “I know you don’t believe in miracles, but these people need to believe. It may be the only thing that keeps them together.”

The two waited in silence, until they heard low engine sounds and six vehicles approached out of the dark—two propane tankers, a stake-bed truck filled with cylinders, a pickup and a car that looked like a cross between an SUV and a station wagon. The sixth vehicle, Len would later learn, was a half-full fuel truck that had been delivering diesel and gasoline for operating the compressors and delivery fleet.

The drive back to Lowgap was harrowing. The direct way back would have been I-74 to NC 89, then the detour through the Hidden Valley checkpoint. Unfortunately, the interstate was blocked by wrecked and abandoned cars, and it ran too close to Mount Airy for comfort. The back roads would take them through Ararat and around Dobson, turning a thirty minute trip into nearly three hours at night with no lights. The older boys that had come early and been stuck at the Scout camp had been put to work hiking around the small towns and back roads throughout the region to gather information on the neighboring communities. Dobson was large enough to have a sizeable population of Infected, but the Scout reports said that the old Prison Camp Road would skirt the city and avoid most of the Zees.

The convoy mostly encountered isolated Zees on the road, easily outrun, or dispatched by men armed with hunting rifles that rode in the back of the pickups. Maneuvering trucks along the twisting country roads was a constant worry, but the only incident occurred around the half-way point near Dobson. The back road joined Old US-601 at an acute angle, and the fuel truck nearly jack-knifed on the turn. The lights and noise necessary to get the truck unstuck attracted a mob of Zees out of the town of White Plains. Len had to drive his truck—with most of the shooters—closer to the mob to keep them away from the men struggling with the tanker. By the time the word came over the radio that the convoy was ready to move, Zees were grabbing onto the tailgate. Fortunately, they had about three miles of good road on 601 to get up to speed and lose the Zees before turning on the Prison Camp Road toward home.

The sky was beginning to lighten as the convoy returned to Lowgap. The propane, like the food supplies that had been obtained in other “salvaging” expeditions (Pastor Garber refused to allow them to be called “raids”) was delivered to the Lowgap Grocery where they had a tank that could be filled from the trucks and a compressor for refilling the small cylinders. Last night’s haul should suffice until winter, and surely the disease would run its course and allow recovery efforts by then.

* * *

He dreamed that night that he was back on the road. Len was driving the truck and being chased by Zees. He tried to step on the gas, but the truck just wouldn’t go any faster. The Zees were gaining on them while Pastor Garber and Don Collingsworth stood in the bed of the pickup throwing things at the approaching mob.

The pastor was throwing some sort of liquid that burned the Zees when it touched. Garber turned and grinned at him. “Holy water,” he said, “They need to be cleansed…”

“…with fire,” said Don, throwing propane canisters at the crowd and shooting them with a rifle to make them explode.

The truck was still moving, slowly, but now Len was standing in the back holding a flame thrower. The approaching mob was engulfed in flames. He could see Sally, Garret, and Sean in the mob, mouths red with blood, eyes dead, festering sores all over their bodies. They were zombies and needed to be cleansed.

Cleansed with fire.

* * *

Running out of ammunition was an unknown concept to a mountain community. Unfortunately, few of the residents had thought to stock enough ammo for a Zombie Apocalypse. The “salvage runs” had become even more risky since the trip to the propane facility. There were ammunition stores in Mount Airy, Elkin to the south, and Galax to the north up over the Blue Ridge. For that matter, there were National Guard Armories in Winston-Salem and Charlotte, but they might as well have been across the ocean for all the good it did the increasingly isolated community.

The church now served double duty as a de facto Town Hall, with the basement converted to storage of essential supplies now that the initial spread of the disease had run its course. Len sat quietly as Don and Pete Long argued the pros and cons of sending a salvage team to the gun shops in Elkin and Rural Hall.

“It’s too far, and too risky!” argued Don.

“What of it?” countered Pete, “Compared to the risk of running out of ammo and having the Zees overrun us?”

“The camp has ammo, right, Dave?” Don looked over at his neighbor Dave Wright, who was one of the year-round staff members at Eagle Point Camp.

“Well sure, we’ve got a conex full—” Dave began before being cut off by Pete.

“It’s bird shot, Dave, Don. You know that won’t do a damn bit of good against the Zees!”

Who would have ever thought that a Boy Scout camp would have a shipping container’s worth of ammo? Len thought to himself. Well, maybe the same folks who think that it’s still not enough.

He continued to listen with only half of his attention as Don started to argue with Pete about converting the shells by recasting the lead shot and reloading the shotgun ammo; meanwhile Pete argued for the need to gather additional powder, bullets and brass casings.

“Damned risky!” both Don and Pete yelled at each other until Pastor Garber finally stepped in to calm the men down before the argument got worse.

“Brother Leonard, you have been awfully quiet,” the pastor said, sitting down next to him as the two former combatants retreated to opposite sides of the sanctuary, each surrounded by friends trying to either reinforce or dissuade them from their stated positions.

Len sighed.

“I don’t know. I just don’t understand how we’re going to make it at all, Pastor. If we’re not fighting Infected, we’re fighting each other.”

“Yes, my son, I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about the radio. I know you don’t want to hear it, but the people in this surrounding areas need to know that we alive, we’re surviving, and there is Hope. God has a plan, for you, for me, for all of Mankind. We are here to be his Witness—”

“That’s it! Witness Hill!”

Len’s sudden outburst silenced the room. He realized belatedly that he’d jumped up and much to his chagrin, had hit the pastor in the jaw at the same time. By the time he’d sat back down, apologized and checked Pastor Garber for injury, the rest of the men had gathered around.

“Witness Hill is a myth. An urban legend,” said an unidentified person in the room.

“No, it’s real,” said Don. Pete and Dave both nodded agreement. He continued, “My cousin did some home renovation work up there. One of the houses even had an elevator down to a cave outfitted as a safe room.”

Witness Hill was the local nickname for an unnamed gated neighborhood high up on Fisher’s Peak, northeast of town. The town rumor mill had decided that the antisocial residents of those homes were either in the Witness Protection program or retired spies—or even crime lords. The fact that the residents were never seen in town coupled to the fact that it was a gated community in an area where the mountains and sparse roads made gates unnecessary, served to further the rumors. Whatever the truth of these mysterious neighbors, the few facts that were known suggested that they had very good security. In the mountains of North Carolina, security meant guns, and guns meant stocks of ammunition.

As the conversation turned to plans to “search for survivors and supplies” on Witness Hill, Len became aware that Pastor Garber was still waiting attentively at his side. With a sigh, he turned back to the minister. “Pastor, I’ve told you repeatedly, I’m not that type of engineer.”

“Nevertheless, Brother Leonard, you have a greater appreciation of electronics than anyone else since Sister Tracey left us.”

“You still don’t have an antenna!”

“Ah, but we do. The Good Lord has provided.”

* * *

Just two miles northwest of town, but nearly a thousand feet up on the Blue Ridge, was Fisher’s Peak, one of the many peaks and ridges comprising the Blue Ridge and the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway National Park. Parks and community facilities along the ridge received power from a grid that included hydroelectric, solar, nuclear and fossil fuel power plants throughout North Carolina, Virginia, and Tennessee. Lowgap residents could look up the mountain and see that the navigation lights were still lit at the four television and radio broadcast antennas on Fisher’s Peak. Occasionally a car would slowly make its way down the switchbacks on NC 89 and tell of mountain farms and communities that remained relatively free of Zees.

Pete Long prepared a group of residents to raid Witness Hill, while Pastor Garber and Len planned for a smaller group to attempt a more difficult sortie up Fisher’s Peak. Ordinarily, repair crews serviced the antennas via a long access road originating on the north side of the Blue Ridge. Even though Lowgap and the transmission antennas of Fisher’s peak were both south of the Blue Ridge Parkway, there was no direct road to the facility. There was, however, a steep, narrow trail running from the top of Witness Hill to the end of Fisher’s Peak Road about three-quarters of a mile away and five hundred feet uphill. The trail was barely navigable by four-wheel all-terrain vehicles uphill to the gravel road, but would likely be too steep for the downhill return. Therefore Len, Don and two other men would accompany the larger group to Witness Hill, then begin the climb to Fisher’s Peak. Once their task was completed, they would decide whether to risk the downhill trail, abandon the ATVs and climb down on foot, or take the greater risk of following the access road through areas with uncertain conditions and suspicious residents.

“I still don’t understand how the ham radio is supposed to connect to the transmitter.”

Len was going over final plans with Don, Pete Long, and Pastor Garber. Pete was primarily in charge of the team that would inspect and salvage ammo and supplies from the fortified homes on Witness Hill, but he was in overall charge until Len, Don, and the rest of their team started up the trail. For once, Pastor Garber had been overruled and would be staying behind; the elderly minister had developed a deep cough the past few weeks, and all of the residents feared for his health.

Garber tapped a dusty, leather bound book on the table in front of him.

“Sister Tracey found my son’s radio log. In it he talks of the Ham Club repeater installed at the Channel 12 antenna. With our tall aerial broken, the radio will only reach a few miles and is affected by the mountains. The club installed the relay to assist members with limited funds and low power. Once you make certain that the repeater is on and powered, set the frequency, and we will be able to broadcast and listen from here.”

The minister began to cough again, and Len excused himself to assist the pastor back to the parsonage. After seeing him to bed, Len returned to the planning session.

Pete had changed the plan to one pickup truck and one ATV. Many of the vehicles that had been occupied by refugees remained parked at the camp due to the fuel shortages and missing ignition keys when the owners became Infected. However, there was a small pickup that had been configured as an off-road monster truck with high clearance, four-wheel drive, and oversized off-road tires. While the chromed crash bars, lights, and winch were intended for show, they were fully functional. The new plan was to carry one ATV in the bed of the truck and make good use of the 4WD and winch to navigate the steep trail as much as possible. The good news was that the truck would allow them to carry more tools, supplies and arms.

The day of the raid dawned clear, but with a hint of Autumn chill. Len’s team would support the larger team as they quickly checked houses lower on the hill, clearing the path to the trailhead near the highest and largest house in the gated community. There was no movement, nor survivors at the first house they encountered. Pete had divided the townsfolk into smaller teams tasked with defense, clearance or salvage. One of the salvage teams would return to check for salvage on their way back down, but they were not hopeful, as a quick survey suggested that the house already had been stripped of useful items.

Shots rang out as a minivan carrying one of the clearance teams approached the second home. The van ran off the driveway into a ditch. The riders bailed out and took cover as the shooter continued to target the van. Len heard Pete on the radio advising the other teams to bypass the house until they knew what else they would encounter in this neighborhood. The van had to be temporarily abandoned, and Len ended up with two additional riders in the bed of the pickup along with the ATV. There were no further incidents by the time they reached the trailhead near the furthest end of the development. There was one more house just past the next bend, but Len’s party would part ways and head up to the transmitters from here.

They were between the first and second switchback on the trail, a quarter mile from the trailhead, and still a half mile from Fisher’s Peak Road, when the truck began to slip. Clay Davis was driving the truck and Don was on the ATV; everyone else was on foot. Don had unreeled the steel cable from the winch and was headed uphill to tie it off to stabilize the truck. The grade was about thirty degrees, and without the line, the truck was in real danger of tipping.

Len called out, “Don! Stop!” but the ATV was too far away. He keyed the radio that they had borrowed from the Scout camp. “Don! The truck is slipping, release the cable!”

There was slack in the winch line, so Don had it looped it over the tie-down rack on the back of the ATV and was holding the end in his hand. The truck began to slide, and Len could see the slack rapidly disappearing. If Don didn’t release it, it could flip the ATV over—or worse.

Clay was working the steering back and forth to try to get traction for the truck without turning sideways to the slope. It didn’t seem to be working, though, and the truck continued sliding toward the drop-off at the edge of the first switchback. Don felt a sharp pain from his hand and tension in the cable, so he turned to look over his shoulder but didn’t release his hold on the steel cable. The continued motion of the ATV caused three things to happen in rapid succession: First the steel cable dug into the flesh of Don’s hand, drawing blood. Second, the tension on the ATV caused the front wheels to lift from the ground. Third, the combination of forces on Don caused him to be pulled off the ATV as that vehicle flipped end-for-end.

The sliding truck came to a stop partially against a large rock at the edge of the switchback. One tire was hanging out in midair and the rear axle was firmly wedged against the rock. A trickle of dark liquid started to leak out onto the rock.

Clay got out to check the truck while Len and the others hurried uphill as fast as they could. Don was lying unconscious in the trail, bleeding from hand and head with one leg caught under the overturned ATV. Frances Matthewes, the fourth member of the team, righted the ATV while Len tended to Don.

“Rear differential’s cracked,” said Clay as he approached. “We could disconnect the driveshaft and just use the front wheels to drive it, but that requires tools we don’t have here.”

“Doesn’t matter, now.” Len said, pointing at Don’s lacerations and the purple coloration of his leg. “We need to get Don back to the doc. Can you two get him down the hill?”

Clay was a big man, the caricature of a mountain man now that his beard had grown out, but Frances was the slim runner type. Her looks were deceptive, though, since she used to help her husband install home air-conditioning units before he became Infected. She nodded, as did Clay. “We’ll rig a sling. I can carry him on my back, and Frances can belay me with the ropes in the truck. What are you thinking?”

“Pastor’s right, we need the radio. It looks like the ATV’s not too bad. I’ll lash the tools to the rack and head on up myself. If the worst comes, I’ll walk.” Putting actions to words, Len checked the ATV to make sure it would function.

“Pete’s not going to be too happy—you off on your own.” Frances pointed out. “Besides, I’m not sure we should move Don.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll deal with Pete when I get back.” Len stopped, and considered his friend’s injury. “You’re probably right. Someone will have to stay here, and the other one can go get help.”

“I’ll go,” said Frances. “I can run faster than Clay and I’m used to cross-country.”

“Good. Clay, watch Don, but don’t move him unless you absolutely have to.”

“Got it. Good Luck.”

Len strapped some tools, a shotgun and spare ammo to the ATV while Frances headed back down the trail. Soon he was past the switchback and climbing the mountain with the roar of the engine in his ears. He never heard the sounds of disturbance coming from the trail behind him.

* * *

He slept fitfully on the bare concrete floor. In his dream he was back on the pickup running from the crowd. He saw too many familiar faces behind him, twisted by disease and hatred. Sally, Sean, Garrett, Pete, Don, Frances, Clay, his parents. They were reaching for him and they were gaining. The truck was just not fast enough.

“You must give them Grace,” said Pastor Garber, suddenly looking up at him from beside the pickup. “Cleanse them, they are impure.”

Now Len was standing at the door to the transmitter, he was looking in the direction of the town, but all he could see was columns of smoke rising from somewhere in that direction. He looked down at his hands, there was a flame-thrower, but he didn’t recall picking it up or where it came from. He heard Garber’s voice. “It is the only way.”

* * *

Len had seen no one since the roadblock at the switchback of NC 89 coming down off the Blue Ridge. The semi-tractor trailer truck loaded with granite blocks and gravel had been overturned right at the point where vehicles descending the road would have to slow down for the tight turn. Don had told him that they didn’t want to risk anyone picking up speed on the downhill and ramming the roadblock on the north end of town.

He had expected more than just a single guard, and a barely past teenage boy at that. It wasn’t someone that Len recognized, and the young man wasn’t too talkative, just waved him on after he showed identification. It was still two miles into town, and Len had been gone for five days. It was only ten miles by road from the transmitters, but he’d only been on the road for the last mile. The Parkway was a dangerous place these days.

The town was quiet. There were a few people out, but they avoided him. Considering his torn clothes, dried blood and limp, he was surprised he wasn’t greeted with gunfire. He limped on, carrying only a long branch that he’d had to use as both cane and club.

With approaching dusk, he saw no movement or light in the parsonage, with pale candlelight coming from the lower level of the church. As he opened the door, he was assaulted by the smell—blood, vomit, feces and antiseptics. He stopped and stared at the row of cots filled with broken and bandaged bodies. A woman he barely knew from town meetings came up and guided him to a chair next to Pete Long’s cot.

“Len. You made it.”

Pete’s head, chest, and arms were bandaged, one eye was also covered.

“Well, you may be figuring out now that it was a trap. We lost …” Pete coughed. He raised a bandaged hand to wipe his mouth. The bandages were red with blood, whether from his wound or coughing, Len couldn’t tell. Pete coughed several more times, and the familiar-looking woman sat him up to give him water from a hard plastic cup.

“The houses were booby-trapped. There was still someone living in one—you saw that one—but the others had mines. We tripped them when we started to search.”

“What about Don? Frances? Clay?” Len started looking around the room for other familiar faces.

Pete was grimacing with pain. Len was getting a stern look from the woman. She was Pete’s wife, he remembered, now. He’d only been introduced to her when he first bought the property. She and Sally hadn’t gotten along—not that that meant anything now.

“We never saw her. Frances. Clay came back into town the next day, carrying Don.” More coughing. There were tears coming from the unbandaged eye. “He was too far gone, he never woke up. Clay stayed all night, and when Frances didn’t return, he carried Don back down the mountain. It was too late, though.”

His eye closed and he lay back down. Pete’s wife started to make her patient comfortable, then turned and gave Len a look that told him it was time to leave.

Clay met him on his way across to the parsonage. “They told me you were back. Please tell me you were successful.” He sat down on the steps to the back door of the building, effectively blocking Len’s entrance to the residence.

“I did it. I have the access frequency to the transponder, and it’s powered…for now.” Len sat on the step beside Clay. “But the Blue Ridge is dangerous. There’s gangs up there on the Parkway. It took me days to work my way around them.” He paused a moment. “And you? Tell me what happened.”

Clay sighed. “Don didn’t make it. I waited all day and all night. I didn’t move him, I kept him warm, but he never woke up. When Frances didn’t come back I knew something was wrong. I saw what looked like a brush fire, so I knew I had to move. I put Don in a fireman’s carry and headed down the mountain, right into the aftermath of Pete’s raid. Apparently Frances ran right into it as it was happening. We didn’t find her body for another two days.” He put his head in his hands. “It’s been bad. We lost too many people. I don’t know whether we’ll make it.”

Len hung his head. Don had been a good friend and neighbor. Len had never quite come to terms with the fact that he still hated Don for Sally even once he understood the necessity. They had worked together these last months, but it was never the same. Still, now that he was gone, Len felt an empty place inside.

He stood and moved toward the door. “Pastor will know what to do. I need to tell him about the transmitter.”

Clay put a hand on Len’s arm to restrain him. “Len, wait.” Clay’s face showed more pain and emotion. “He’s…not well. This has been hard on him, and his age is catching up. He should be happy to see you though; he was very worried when you didn’t return.”

Len entered the parsonage. The back door led into the kitchen. It had gotten completely dark, so he navigated to a drawer by memory, pulled out a candle and matches, lit the candle and placed it in a disk on the counter. He moved over to the radio further down the counter, lifted the box controlling the relay and set the transponder code to match the one he had seen in the small concrete room at the transmitter tower. He switched on the radio, and got the usual static, then turned the tuning dial. More static, but then music and a voice: “This is the voice of Free Texas…”

It worked. He hoped it was worth it.

Taking the candle, he made his way through the darkened main level to the stairway. He could see the dim flicker of candlelight coming from the pastor’s room. Garber was propped up in the bed, reading. He put down the book, looked up and smiled at Len’s approach. “These are dark days, my son. It is a blessing to see you again. Does the radio work?”

“Yes, Pastor. At least it receives. I checked it a few minutes ago.” Len sat down in the chair by the bed. It would break the pastor’s heart to hear the rest of his story. “The transmitter still has power, so as long as that lasts, it will work. There is a generator, but someone had stolen the fuel.”

“It lifts this old heart to hear your news, Brother Leonard, but you seem troubled. Surely as long as the power is on, we can send messages…and with your return, we know that it is possible to go up and back. We should be able to take fuel to the generator if needed.”

“No, Pastor, I am afraid it is not that simple.” Len had trouble meeting the elderly minister’s gaze, and when he did look up, it was to see a worried look in his eyes. “There are bandits, Pastor Garber. When I found that the generator tank was empty, I went out on the Parkway to see if I could siphon fuel from some of the abandoned cars. I had to hide from armed men several times. I saw them do…bad things, and I fear that if we draw their attention, especially after what happened…”

Garber’s expression faded, and with it most of the color in his face. It was clear that the confidence and energy he had held in reserve was failing. The pastor looked old…showing his age and then some. He leaned back into the pillows and whispered. “Brother Leonard, you must! People need to know that God has a plan, they need to know that they can come here and be safe.”

His voice grew faint.

“You are our blessing.” His eyes closed and his breathing stilled.

* * *

People at the church heard the anguished screams and the sound of breakage. Clay had briefly gone inside the parsonage, then come back out to keep the others away.

As Len’s rage was spent, he fell to the kitchen floor and wept. “WHY GOD? Why? How can I fulfill the pastor’s wishes and still keep the town safe?” He stared at the radio with its red power LED and yellow-lit indicators, but all he could see were images from his own dreams.

Cleansing fire.

* * *

“THESE ARE THE END TIMES! IT IS GOD’S JUDGEMENT! THE WRATH OF GOD UPON THE WORLD FOR ITS SINS! THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN TAKEN ARE THE SINNERS OF THE WORLD AND THE RIGHTEOUS HAVE BEEN SPARED…”


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