At least a dozen zombies stood at the hood and fenders pounding and clawing the metal while two attempted to climb up onto the slippery hood in ungainly moves.
I yanked the gearshift lever into drive as I heard a power window lower. A zombie stood at the passenger door furiously banging its eyeless, moldy skull against the glass. I watched the window drop two inches and stop. Kira stuck the barrel of her pistol through the opening and blasted the creature trying to attack her, and then she quickly emptied the magazine at other undead before she raised the glass.
The engine raced as I fed it fuel and the truck and trailer surged through the swarm of undead. The truck lurched as it passed over decaying bodies and I felt the trailer hitch tug against the ball connector when it rolled and jostled over them. Our speed increased until the horde of undead was a block behind us, but still they ran to catch up. The one with its fingers caught in my door was still with us, dragged along beside the truck.
Many blocks from Sportsman's Paradise, I slowed toward a car parked on the opposite side of the street. I swerved hard to the left and brought the truck to a crawl. The front fender was inches from the car as we crept forward. The rotting zombie moaned loudly and clawed at the glass with its left hand. It was caught between the two vehicles. The truck edged forward an inch at a time. The decayed torso and limbs were ripped apart as the truck crawled alongside the car. I stopped and backed up before the trailer's fender hit the car. When we were in a safer area I opened the door and brushed the zombie's remains away from the door and doorframe.
Kira had been reticent since we'd left the store. I glance at her. Tears ran down her flushed cheeks. Her eyes were shut tightly, and her hands fisted.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" I asked urgently.
She sank back into the seat and shook her head. "The last zombie I shot. . . I recognized it. It was James." She closed her eyes and looked away. "Poor James." We rode in silence for several hours until she was able to deal with it and speak with less emotion.
We were anxious to get back. Both of us were well rested, so we agreed to drive through the night. We'd hold the speed to fifty MPH in the dark, so we could avoid debris, and we'd switch drivers every three or four hours as we tired.
It was dark when Kira spoke and punched my shoulder. "Were still in Nebraska. Look." I saw the dash clock. It was ten minutes past midnight. I'd been asleep for two hours and woke groggy. Headlights in the other lane were still a good distance away. She said, "I'll stop and see who it is."
"Slow down to a crawl, but don't stop until we learn who they are." I retrieved a radio from the glove box. It had a two mile range in open areas like we were driving through.
I turned the switch on and keyed the button to transmit. "If you have a radio, identify yourself."
There was a pause, some static, then laughter. "Where the hell have you been, Pal?" It was my buddy Shane.
"Hi, Shane. If you'll go to a turnaround, we'll crawl along until you get here so we can talk."
Marilyn, Ed and Jeff Tanka were with Shane. We told them about our trip and the loss of James Anderson.
Shane said, "We're glad to have you back and safe. We were worried. Let's go home. We'll follow you."
Early the following afternoon, we arrived at the compound.
When we'd settled in, Shane took me aside for an update of events during my absence.
"The committee for naming our compound has picked five names to be voted on at the next weekly meeting. Here's the list they came up with."
I gave the options a cursory look and was satisfied with all, but two stood out as my picks.
Shane continued, "Materials for the fence have been located and a retrieval plan is in place. John completed the excavation and backfill drawings. Albert and Vince went to the Consolidated Materials yard west of here, and they have the equipment we'll need ready to run when it's needed. Albert will stay in the shop working on equipment and Vince will start excavating tomorrow morning. They estimate it'll take three days with Sam Williams and Tony Osmand hauling the dirt away in tandem wheeled dump trucks to that washed out gully past the livestock barn. Tomorrow, I'll get two people to ride shotgun for them.
"Now our problem child, Nate. He complains constantly. He's hungry, the work is too hard, he's a professional manager and shouldn't be forced to grub in the dirt like a peasant. The guy is nothing but a pain in the rear. Nobody wants to work around him."
Nate had become a serious problem and wore on everyone's nerves. Something had to be done with him, but what? Nothing we'd tried to motivate him had worked.
As we stood, I said, "Add one other job to our growing list. We need a grave marker for James Anderson, even if he won't be interred under it, he should be remembered. I'll talk to Sam about making one."
After a good night’s sleep, I still didn't have a solution to the thirty-something-year-old problem child.
At ten that morning all work was stopped, and we gathered at the cemetery. Angela Michaels had been closest to James Anderson because they'd worked together every day. She'd gone to James room and selected several personal items he
