As I worked, I dwelled on the memory of Emma as I did to get through each day. We'd dated since entering high school, and we married before I joined the Army. While I was gallivanting around the world with Shane doing our male thing in Delta Force, she'd earned a degree in Business Administration. She'd always listed owning a small business as one of her long-term goals. After my military discharge, I worked as a carpenter until I learned the trade, and then I opened my own general construction firm. Emma was instrumental in helping me organize it and get it off the ground. She became the office manager, and we worked together everyday. Life was good, and we expected it to get better. But then the zombie apocalypse descended on us, and our lives suddenly changed course forever.
A hand tapped my shoulder, and I jumped. When I turned, Ed Jarnigan stood there grinning, all six foot three inch, two hundred sixty pounds of him. "Didn't mean to surprise you. Here's the itinerary I mapped out for our run to Chicago. We can stop at nine gun stores, and on the way, we'll check out the homes of two unlicensed gun dealers I knew. This route will take us to the outskirts of Chicago but not into the city proper."
A week later, I checked the inventory sheets in the armory. Our trip to procure more firearms and ammo had been successful, and all new pieces were inventoried and stored. Our weapons and ammunition supplies had increased monthly during the year since the zombie invasion, but I still wasn't satisfied with the amount of ammunition. Mandatory weekly target practice for twenty-three people ate up a lot of rounds, and I felt concerned for the future. At our next leadership meeting I'd speak to Shane, Ed, Andrea, and John about cutting the target shooting back to a bi-weekly or monthly schedule. I looked up from the paperwork and cocked my head as I had another idea concerning target practice. If everyone kept track of how many zombies they put down in a given period, the shooters who reached a given number in a set time frame could be exempted from mandatory practice. Their field proficiency would be better than shooting paper targets.
At ten a.m., I left the armory and headed for an exit go outside and take the weekly gauge readings of the four underground fuel tanks. Faintly in the distance, I heard tractor engines as the mowing crew cut the alfalfa ground cover on the forty acres surrounding our compound. We baled it to feed twenty head of Black Angus cattle, but at its full height before cutting the thick crop effectively slowed the zombies during an attack.
Each tractor carried two shooters riding in two-foot diameter waist-high caged platforms. Their sole job was to watch for zombies. The sounds of the diesel engines diminished as the tractors continued around the field and away from me. Even before leaving the building. the aroma of fresh cut alfalfa wafting in through the ventilation system stirred fond memories of better times only a few years past. Memories that were filled with Emma's love.
I cringed when I heard the sentry in the northwest tower announce, "Look alive, a whole mob of zombies is stumbling out of the woods toward the building. The mowing crews see them and have headed for the big door, but I think the zombies will be here close behind them. There must be at least fifteen of the damn things and a few are still staggering out past the trees." So much for tank gauging.
The emergency alarm sounded its harsh “Ooogah, Ooogah,” for everyone to mobilize. The sound of diesel engines increased as they were revved higher to outrun the hungry horde. Sporadic gunfire rang out sharp and clear as the mowing crew raced past the zombies toward the big sliding equipment entry doors at the north end of the building. Expert marksmen assigned to the second floor gun ports made their way up the nearest of four sets of stairs with their rifles in hand.
Suddenly, the engine noise diminished, and thumps and thuds were heard. I raced past an exit with my M14 as two others left the building. In the distance, one of the tractors was flipped over on its side. Two men stood in uncut alfalfa firing at the advancing zombies. My concern focused on one man I could barely see laying prone in the cut alfalfa. He didn't move and was likely injured. The other tractor stopped, and the three men on it fired multiple rounds at the advancing horde as the undead lumbered toward them. Then their stench reached us on an errant breeze as if guts from a slaughter house poured down on us. I don't believe I'll ever get used to that ghastly odor of rotting flesh, guts, and feces. Four of the undead scum changed direction toward our group and staggered ahead. Two sharpshooters ahead of me knelt to firing positions and quickly decimated the four monsters in their shuffling tracks. Gunfire from the building behind us dropped several more.
As I approached the damaged
