“It is real, and I wish I could convince you of it. There’s no time for coffee and talk. It’s time for action. I should have left weeks ago, but I’m leaving now. Good luck to both of you. When you shoot one, remember only a head shot will stop them. You have to destroy its brain. Don’t waste bullets on center mass shots, or they’ll overwhelm you. Sam hugged both friends tightly, then stepped back and turned toward the door. “Good luck. I wish you the best, but you’re putting yourselves in unthinkable danger by procrastinating.”
With tears in his eyes, Sam shook his head dejectedly as he left the house. If they didn’t move immediately, he suspected the couple would join the undead before the next day was over. Charlie had always been stubborn and slow to react. But dawdling now could cost the couple their lives. As he started the truck, he chastised himself for procrastinating and not leaving before the zombies invaded his home turf. He was going to have to ‘man up’ to making decisions faster or he, too, would be doomed.
At the rented garage he currently called home, Sam noted it was a few minutes past three p.m. He attached the sixteen-foot enclosed dual axel trailer to the truck and connected the wiring harness. The Kubota four wheeler and trailer went in first, then the 500cc Yamaha dirt bike. Both were tightly secured. His elderly landlady waved through a living room window. She was a good, likable person, and he hated to leave her. But she could never survive the ordeal ahead and would be a terrible burden. She, like most others, had laughed at his foolishness when he told her of the impending zombie danger.
He loaded food from a refrigerator and a large chest type freezer in the garage into four large coolers, then loaded cases of canned meats and vegetables, toiletries, and hand tools. Finally everything else he owned was stowed inside the compact slide in camper unit or inside the trailer. Despite being tired and sweaty from the constant exertion in the elevated temperature, he tied or strapped it all securely. He hastily checked the ten by ten foot office attached to the garage where he’d lived the past months since selling his house. A single size bed, two chairs, a small table, and a desk holding a computer, a TV, and a microwave were his possessions. He didn’t bother taking the TV, microwave, or window air conditioner but did take his laptop computer; he guessed it might be useful for a week or so. He was sure the internet would fail soon if the zombies continued to devastate the country as they had all others. Seven books on wilderness survival and treatment of nonfatal injuries and three books on hand-to-hand fighting were the last items he stuffed in a cardboard box before closing the door. He stifled a strong urge to drive by the childhood home he’d sold and take one last look. With a harsh mental pinch, he discounted the unnecessary side trip as an emotional waste of time and plowed ahead. Time was against him, and he needed to stay focused and move fast instead of dillydallying like a weak minded wimp.
JR Johns left work at seven that evening. Business was brisk at the Sav-Mart grocery store on the north side of Lawton where she clerked. A fellow clerk had reported off, so the manager asked her to stay over four hours. She wasn’t surprised because Marcella had a reputation for calling in sick most Saturday nights when scheduled to work. The store was even busier than normal. Several customers were stocking up as if a hurricane was blowing in. Some looked frightened and talked about undead monsters coming. She was a fan of The Living Dead TV show but was smart enough to know that crap wasn’t real, even though there’d been all those rumors escalating for the past month. The whole idea was funny if you stopped to think about it. Basically, the zombies were just a catalyst to cause good and evil actions among the apocalypse survivors. She wanted to say, “Get a grip people, act like you’re not brain dead.” She frowned but knew she’d be reprimanded or fired for saying something so brash to a paying customer. The store was three miles west of her apartment and a mile and a half from her parents’ house where she had been expected for supper with her family. She knew how her mom cooked and was sure there’d be plenty of delicious, piping hot leftovers when she arrived later than originally expected.
In the employee’s lunchroom, she removed her stained apron, grabbed her backpack, and left the store with her friend Molly. At their cars, Molly said, “See you later at The Dance Hall for some serious boot scootin and flirtin.” JR laughed and said, “I bet Marcella will be recovered from her sick spell and join us there.” She waved as she got in her clunker. She was the third daughter to inherit the old beater. She was expected to soon buy her own car and pass the Malibu on. The heat was unbearable after leaving the air conditioned store, which was always kept too cold. She left the windows down because the AC compressor had shot craps two weeks earlier, and she didn’t have the money for a new one. That was the main reason she’d agreed to work the extra four hours. After next week’s paycheck was cashed, she and her dad could install a new compressor.
While driving east on Cache Road, a traffic jam
