afternoon,” Ruth Ann
said.
“We’re built like a commercial building. In fact,
the house is better than most banks. I think we’ll be OK.”
“Two million of those things. Why don’t they
just bomb them into the stone age?”
“The horde coming towards us isn’t the only one
around. I bet every metropolitan area spawned hordes that big. Or even bigger. The
one out of Chicago is what, four million they said? I doubt we have enough men
left, bombs, bullets, or fuel to kill them all.”
“What are we supposed to do,” Ruth Ann looked
deeply at me.
“Us? We button up tight and keep our heads down.
The rest of the country? I have no idea.”
We spent the rest of the day doing chores around
the house. Prewar chores like doing laundry were changed in that we used a
washboard instead of the washer. We had new chores like refilling ammo clips
and making sure anything with a battery was charged during daylight.
We chatted with Ryan a few times but he evaded
our questions about why he left the safety of Door County. We did get an answer
to something we were curious about. Why didn’t the dead that chased him wander
off once he was out of sight on the garage roof? His answer made perfect sense.
“One of them saw me get on the roof and came
over. Once it started banging, more came. Every one that makes a commotion
attracts more. Once they start banging they keep each other excited. That’s how
the hordes start out,” he said.
A critical mass of zombies creates a sustaining
reaction. We realized that even one sufficiently motivated zombie could
potentially snowball into a horde the size of the one heading straight for us.
R uth Ann had fixed an early dinner of vegetarian
chili with some re-hydrated beans and herbs from the roof. We were sitting down
when we heard then felt a return of helicopters. It was unexpectedly loud. They
must have been right outside. The security DVR displayed on the laptop on the
table. Camera two showed a Blackhawk settling down near the back of the house.
We ran up to the roof. We arrived in time to see
a crewman in a flight suit and an enormous helmet jump out of the chopper. He
carried a black hard plastic case wrapped in shrink-wrap. In the distance, we
could see the dead starting to converge on the giant green noise machine. We
couldn’t hear shots but every few seconds a corpse would be rocked backwards by
an expert headshot. The crewman ran up our back deck stairs and placed his
package near the heavy-duty door after kicking away the bodies of the dead
zombies. He looked up at us peering down at him and returned the salute I had
given the helicopter crews the night before. Apparently my gesture had made an
impression. Just like that, he was off back to the Blackhawk.
The bird lifted off but stayed low and slow as
it edged away from us. We realized they were leaving a noise trail heading away
from the house to help draw creatures away from where they landed. A few
hundred yards away they zoomed up and were gone.
We came down from the roof to retrieve the case.
The deck door was a mess of streaks. We both put on nitrile gloves, opened the
door and wiped down the case with disinfectant. I don’t care what the radio said;
I wasn’t taking chances with our lives unnecessarily. We cut off the plastic
wrap. A printed label was taped across the case’s latch.
“By opening this case you acknowledge that it and its
contents remain the property of the Department of Homeland Security and will be
returned immediately upon request. Any unauthorized use of this equipment will
be punished to the fullest extent possible under criminal law including but not
limited to five years imprisonment and fines of not more than $250,000.”
It was good to see our government still had its
sense of humor.
We brought the case inside and locked up the
deck door. We opened the case. Inside was a printed sheet on top of an
instruction manual, which in turn rested on a Motorola tactical radio.
said.
“We’re built like a commercial building. In fact,
the house is better than most banks. I think we’ll be OK.”
“Two million of those things. Why don’t they
just bomb them into the stone age?”
“The horde coming towards us isn’t the only one
around. I bet every metropolitan area spawned hordes that big. Or even bigger. The
one out of Chicago is what, four million they said? I doubt we have enough men
left, bombs, bullets, or fuel to kill them all.”
“What are we supposed to do,” Ruth Ann looked
deeply at me.
“Us? We button up tight and keep our heads down.
The rest of the country? I have no idea.”
We spent the rest of the day doing chores around
the house. Prewar chores like doing laundry were changed in that we used a
washboard instead of the washer. We had new chores like refilling ammo clips
and making sure anything with a battery was charged during daylight.
We chatted with Ryan a few times but he evaded
our questions about why he left the safety of Door County. We did get an answer
to something we were curious about. Why didn’t the dead that chased him wander
off once he was out of sight on the garage roof? His answer made perfect sense.
“One of them saw me get on the roof and came
over. Once it started banging, more came. Every one that makes a commotion
attracts more. Once they start banging they keep each other excited. That’s how
the hordes start out,” he said.
A critical mass of zombies creates a sustaining
reaction. We realized that even one sufficiently motivated zombie could
potentially snowball into a horde the size of the one heading straight for us.
R uth Ann had fixed an early dinner of vegetarian
chili with some re-hydrated beans and herbs from the roof. We were sitting down
when we heard then felt a return of helicopters. It was unexpectedly loud. They
must have been right outside. The security DVR displayed on the laptop on the
table. Camera two showed a Blackhawk settling down near the back of the house.
We ran up to the roof. We arrived in time to see
a crewman in a flight suit and an enormous helmet jump out of the chopper. He
carried a black hard plastic case wrapped in shrink-wrap. In the distance, we
could see the dead starting to converge on the giant green noise machine. We
couldn’t hear shots but every few seconds a corpse would be rocked backwards by
an expert headshot. The crewman ran up our back deck stairs and placed his
package near the heavy-duty door after kicking away the bodies of the dead
zombies. He looked up at us peering down at him and returned the salute I had
given the helicopter crews the night before. Apparently my gesture had made an
impression. Just like that, he was off back to the Blackhawk.
The bird lifted off but stayed low and slow as
it edged away from us. We realized they were leaving a noise trail heading away
from the house to help draw creatures away from where they landed. A few
hundred yards away they zoomed up and were gone.
We came down from the roof to retrieve the case.
The deck door was a mess of streaks. We both put on nitrile gloves, opened the
door and wiped down the case with disinfectant. I don’t care what the radio said;
I wasn’t taking chances with our lives unnecessarily. We cut off the plastic
wrap. A printed label was taped across the case’s latch.
“By opening this case you acknowledge that it and its
contents remain the property of the Department of Homeland Security and will be
returned immediately upon request. Any unauthorized use of this equipment will
be punished to the fullest extent possible under criminal law including but not
limited to five years imprisonment and fines of not more than $250,000.”
It was good to see our government still had its
sense of humor.
We brought the case inside and locked up the
deck door. We opened the case. Inside was a printed sheet on top of an
instruction manual, which in turn rested on a Motorola tactical radio.
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