Enjoying The Apocalypse Tyler

He awoke disoriented, as he always did - these days, almost everything was disorienting. It took him a minute to shake off the nightmares, come back to awareness and sit up in bed, groaning softly to himself. He took his time getting up - there really wasn't any hurry anymore. No school, no job, no friends to see or dates to keep. Living in post-apocalyptic times was, with the occasional terrifying burst of activity, pretty boring, overall.

He got out of bed, reaching over in the absolute darkness and, working by feel, found the full box of matches he always kept there. Striking one, he lit the small oil lamp there and turned it to a medium setting. After a moment of sitting on the edge of his bed and shaking off the sleep, he carryied it over to the small sink across the room and set it on the edge of the basin, reaching down to peel away the gauze he had taped over his ribs. Wincing slightly, Tyler lifted his arm up over his head, inspecting the four deep scraches etched into the fair skin along his ribs, then turned up the intensity of the lamp, brightening the room, the flickering light dancing over the crates and boxes of supplies he'd stockpiled during his time in isolation.

The scratches were sore, but they didn't seem inflamed. He breathed a soft sigh of relief, letting his head drop. "So far, so good," he said to no one, and picked up a digital thermometer, slipping it under his tongue. While he waited for the result, he opened a sealed bottle of water, using it, along with a rough sponge and a bottle of surgical-grade soap to clean the wound thoroughly. With a soft hiss, he spread some Betadine over the scratches, and taped a fresh square of gauze along his ribs.

The thermometer beeped, and he lifted it up, eyeing the result. 98.3 degrees. Nodding in satisfaction, he exhaled a breath through pursed lips. "Two full days. Guess I'm not going to turn." He replaced all his medical supplies in their proper places - he'd long since come to the realization that disorganization could spell disaster. Everything needed to be in the place you knew it would be when you needed it, when you were the only person around, running for your life from fast-moving, hungry bipedal predators who had no compunctions about swarming you and tearing you apart with filthy fingernails and teeth.

He brushed his teeth, then used a combination of soap, water and wet-wipes to scrub up. Baths were a luxury, since hot water was difficult to come by without a big metal tub and a huge fire - which was almost sure to bring at least a couple runners to investigate the bright light and smell of smoke. Lighting a fire indoors was a recipe for disaster.

Hygeine seen to, he dressed - practical clothes, always, a pair of military BDU pants, a tank top, a light jacket and nicely broken-in running shoes. Under his jacket, he added a police-grade Kevlar armor vest, and over his thighs and forearms he strapped metal armor plates fashioned out of road signs bent to the shape of his limbs.

Today was a water day - he had a supply of clean water, about three dozen sealed bottles, salvaged from various houses in the neighborhood, but he never wanted to be caught without, and the local neighborhood was pretty much tapped out. Food, he had, but since the local water pumps were off-line, the taps, at best, produced the merest dribble, and the quality of that water was potentially suspect. He much preferred the safety of sealed, pre-purified sources, at least until he got his rain-collectors set up.

Shouldering a rifle on its carry-strap, Tyler strapped a holster containing a 9 millimeter pistol to his thigh and stuffed his pockets with extra magazines, two extra for each weapon. After strapping a hachet to the right side of his belt, he picked up a large camping frame-backpack, slipping it on and making sure everything was within easy reach and accessible within a fraction of a second.

He paused at the entrance of his shelter, making a mark on the calender he kept there - day 95. Over three full months of living in hiding, running from the dangers, ducking and dodging and managing to survive. He racked up the makeshift periscope he had drilled through the hatch of his hideout, leaning in to peer through it, taking a full couple minutes to turn the scope in a full 360 degree circle. No movement. So he did another turn. And a third. Once he was convinced nothing awaited him above, he lowered the scope and climbed the short ladder up to the hatch, spinning the locking wheel and slowly, carefully opening it, trying to make as little sound as possible.

Popping his head up, he scanned the area with both eyes and binoculars, then clambered out of the shelter. He'd been lucky - his father had been something of a doomsday-preparation enthusiast, as had his father before him, and when the plague had hit, Tyler had been able to hide out in the 60s-era nuclear bomb shelter sunk into the ground in his home's back yard.

Lowering the hatch, he spun the locking wheel but not to its full lock-position - if he had to bolt into his hole quickly, he didn't want to have to be fiddling with the wheel for more than a few seconds before he could get it open. The runners didn't seem intelligent enough, or motivated enough, to mess with a plain metal circle set into the ground, and in the last three months, the number of living people he had seen he could count on one hand. He checked the air-vents set around the hatch to make sure they were open, to allow fresh air into his shelter so he wouldn't risk suffocating while he slept and then, having done the necessary maintence on his hideout, he set out, rifle in hand, to continue his mission of surviving the zombie apocalypse.

All the houses within a six or seven block radius had been scavenged, each one of them marked in several locations with a sharp black X drawn in Sharpie marker - he certainly didn't want to waste effort in searching a house he'd already exhausted. He was surprised in the beginning to find just how many interesting and useful things he'd been able to find just in his own neighborhood. Bottles and bottles of water, canned food, soap and shampoo, vitamins, aspirin...all the bare necessities needed for survival, all ready and ripe for the picking in his suburban neighborhood. He'd been able to stockpile a good supply of what he needed in the very beginning, leaving him able to set up his fortifications and hidey-hole.

As well, he'd been surprised at some of the things he'd found in his former neighbor's houses - apparently, Mrs. Carter had been rather unsatisfied with her husband's sexual prowess, judging from the sheer amount - and size! - of sex toys he'd found squirreled away in a box in the closet of her bedroom. And Mr. Ferguson had a truly astounding collection of pornography on his hard drive, most of which he still hadn't gone through. He had better things to do with his limited supply of batteries. The magazines and little erotic novels had been nice, though. Those were well-read and thumbed-through.

One of his first mistakes had been to liberate Mr. Keller's big pickup truck from his driveway. It had been nice at first, the carrying capacity allowing him to carry a large amount of supplies to and from his shelter. But the loud sound of the diesel engine drew a decent-sized group, and in the end, he'd managed to get away, leaving the truck battered and half-totalled behind him as he legged it, bleeding from a gash along his calf, back to his hideout. That had been a terrifying moment, treating the gash and wondering when he was going to 'turn'. So far, he'd been caught out three times, the latest resulting in the scratches along his ribs, and he'd come to hope that just maybe he was immune to the virus or bacteria or whatever it was that was turning people into mindless, savage attack-machines that seemed to enjoy the taste of human meat above all else. But he was still careful. One could die as easily from a bleeding scratch wound as they could from being 'turned', and even if he was immune, a regular plain old infection would still spell disaster.

He made his way on foot through the neighborhood, carrying a small hand-drawn map to remind him where he'd been and where he still needed to check. Always on the alert, scanning for movement or listening for the gibbering, mumbling sounds of approaching danger. These weren't the George Romero zombies - these were fast-moving predators, able to sprint at full speed for seemingly forever. They didn't tire like humans did - they seemed to run at 100% of their capacity until their bodies just gave up. He'd seen several of them just bolt, chasing another survivor on a motorcycle until they just fell over, comatose and unmoving, completely spent. He'd tried to help, using his rifle sniper-style to try and take out the ghouls to give the other survivor the best chance of escape. In the end, however, the motorcyclist had been swarmed and pulled of his bike, and Tyler had been awarded the second of his three wounds, a bite-mark at the top of his left shoulder.

That moment had inspired him to build a particular trap for his shelter - a electric motor connected to a mannequin on a 50-yard circular track around his back yard. He'd rigged it to move at a speed around 20 miles per hour, *just* a bit faster than he'd seen the zombies run. It could run constantly, propelled by the small motor, for about thirty minutes. The zombies, so far, hadn't been able to chase the thing for longer than about seventeen minutes before they fell over, their muscles completely fatigued, twitching and barely able to move, allowing him to approach them with relative impunity to finish them off with an axe or sledge hammer. They were fast, and ridiculously strong, but they were severely lacking in intellect - about the level of a rather stupid dog.

He had other traps - a heavy hammer linked to a trip wire that swung down to knock a threat sprawling, a spring-loaded spear launcher, even a pit-trap covered over with rotted, very weak wooden slats. It had taken him days to dig out that pit trap, and after seeing the result, the humanoid figure that might have once been a neighbor writhing around at the bottom of the pit, impaled in a half dozen places on the sharpened rebar spikes he'd set into the dirt, he wasn't in a hurry to dig another. Even stupid, savage dogs deserved better than that. Even if they were trying to kill him.

He checked his map, noting that he was at the border of his already-explored area. It was a bit nerve-wracking, being so far from his shelter. even well-armed and armored. Every gust of wind through the trees, every chirp of a bird made him freeze in place, lifting his rifle in damp hands, scanning the area with intent, his finger resting on the trigger. He knew that if he was caught out and couldn't quickly deal with the threat, he'd go down - he wouldn't be able to make it home before a swarm ganged up on him and make him dinner.

But he pressed on, coming to a fresh house, circling it to peer in the windows. This was the worst part of exploring. Not the danger, not the threat, but not knowing what he would find in a house. In the first weeks, it was not uncommon to find bodies in houses, gnawed and ripped to pieces by slavering, hungry zombies. And some of his neighbors had had...children. Finding adults was bad. Really bad. Finding kids that had been...

He shook off the thought, continuing his circumnavigation of the house. It wasn't so bad lately - the ones that had survived attacks had 'turned', becoming zombies themselves. The ones that hadn't, that had been food for the hordes, had been mostly reduced to bone. Finding a skeleton, or individual, scattered bones, with or without bits of meat still attached, was somehow less jarring and stomach-turning than finding an even semi-recognizable human corpse.

When he could, he dragged bodies out to another pit he'd dug, to incinerate them. It wasn't pure sympathy on his part that led him to it - burning a body was a good way to reduce the threat of infection or contamination, and the smell of cooking flesh often drew zombies to the pyre - which he'd sensibly dug maybe half a mile from his shelter - and away from him. Often, he'd rig traps around the pyre to deal with the hungry predators that came to investigate. Once, he'd even gotten bold and parked out on top of a nearby house, and shot as many as he could with his hunting rifle. That had been a nerve-wracking moment, waiting to be discovered. He'd been lucky that time, though.

The house seemed empty - no movement, no sound from within. He checked the back door, and found it unlocked, slowly opening it and admitting himself into the house's kitchen. He liked kitchens - that was where the food was usually kept. Basements were bad - usually one way in, one way out, and aware that at any moment he could be trapped and backed into a corner with no way out except possibly with gun blazing and hatchet swinging.

He went through the kitchen quickly, opening cabinets, checking the fridge - fridges were hit and miss, really. At the beginning, he'd found fresh fruits and veggies, but now, several months after the start of the outbreak, there was no power, and the fridges had failed, most of the food within unrecoverable and inedible. He still nicked it, though - it was good mulching material, for when he started his garden. He was going to need fresh food eventually. Man cannot survive on canned pasta alone.

This fridge did yield a few cans of soda - he liked soda, but warm, it wasn't the most appetizing thing around, so he left it. He already had several cases of it back at the shelter. Junk food he mostly left, as well. He took all the canned vegetables he could, as well as canned meat, jam, peanut butter and honey. The pantry gave up two gallon jugs of water - both sealed. "Score!" he murmured to himself, tucking the jugs into his pack with the cans. Granola bars, toaster pastries, canned soup and dry pasta, as well as a couple still-sealed jars of red meat sauce. A good haul, indeed!

Silverware and glasses were ignored, of course. After ransacking the kitchen, he closed his pack, and started to hunt around through the rest of the house. The living room was quiet and still, although there were signs of struggle. A chair turned over, the entertainment center pulled over and crashed to the ground. He took a moment, sifting through the books on a bookshelf, tucking a couple into his pack, then moving to climb the stairs to the bedrooms.

Not much to be found there - clothing, most of which he ignored, although he did take a few shirts and pairs of underwear, as well as a pair of jeans that seemed his size. A good pair of hiking boots, and several towels from the bathroom, as well as every roll of toilet paper he could get. Some soap, some shampoo - he no longer bothered with deodorant - and then he happened upon a nice find. Apparently, the owners of the house had believed in home-defense. In what looked like a study, there was a gun cabinet holding three rifles, six pistols and two shotguns behind a locked glass door. He carefully used his hatchet to break the door open, and took all the weapons, wrapping the rifles and shotguns in a large bath towel and tying it closed with shoelaces, then tucking the pistols into his pack. One of them, a large .45 revolver, he kept out, loading it from the ammunition he found in the cabinet. A good revolver was a good find - they were mechanically less complicated than an automatic pistol, and just as effective, and since he wasn't very knowledgeable about guns, simpler was better.

He tucked the heavy gun a bit awkwardly in his holster, replacing the nine-millimeter, which he carefully stowed in his pack. Hunting through the study, another bonus - gun manuals, detailing methods of cleaning and maintaining some of the weapons he'd just discovered. A gun in good condition was a gun that had less of a chance of misfiring when it was needed. Manuals stowed carefully, he moved on. Time to check the basement.

It was almost pitch-dark down there - the single window was covered over by a musty old towel. He pulled it down and wiped some of the dust off the glass, to let more light in, and then turned, his new six-shooter held at the ready, in case there was anything hiding in the darkness. Perspiration trickling down the back of his neck, he scoured the cellar by the faint light and almost danced a jig - today was a good day! The homeowners had not been just gun-enthusiasts - apparently, at least one of them had been a outdoorsman. Or -woman. Camping, hunting and fishing supplies galore were stowed neatly in cabinets. He wasted no time in claiming as much as he could - lamp oil, starter logs, a wood-axe in good condition, all carefully tucked away. More ammunition - always a plus - as well as a camp stove, water-purification tablets, fishing poles and a couple of good hunting knives. Even military rations, which were as close to perfect as one could get. With a rather pleasantly heavy pack, Tyler climbed the stairs out of the basement - scavenging time was over. He'd made a very good haul just from this one house, and it was time to head back to his hideout and restock.

The trip back was uneventful - no movement, no activity at all. He'd cleared out the area's population of zombies in the last few months, and hadn't seen one in at least a week or so. It didn't pay to be incautious, though, when one cough was all it might take to get the attention of something eager to add you to their menu.

He felt good enough about his haul to softly murmur a long-forgotten pop song by a long-forgotten pop star under his breath as he walked, the weight of his pack less a burden and more a promise that he might live another month. Maybe more. He took a meandering route back to his shelter, as he always did - he was pretty sure that the zombies were stupid-dog level of intelligence, but even a stupid dog could learn patterns.

He neared his shelter, and stopped, ducking down behind a hedge. Something was wrong. He shouldered his rifle, and squinted, peering down the scope, scanning the area. Remaining as still as he could, he looked around - he wasn't sure what had triggered his awareness, but he'd long since learned to pay keen attention to his intuition. Better to react to a false positive than to ignore a twinge and end up being eaten.

And well he did - down the scope, he saw four figures, loitering around the entry hatch of his shelter. Slowly swinging the rifle around, he could see the sledgehammer of one of his traps slowly swinging in place like a pendulum, and another figure was lying on the ground, unmoving, its head partly missing. One less for him to worry about, then. He lifted the rifle, peering at the other figures - they seemed to be very interested in the hatch, perhaps having detected his scent on it, but they didn't have the intelligence to figure out how to open it. Three of them were digging at the concrete pad around the hatch, which told him that these weren't living survivors. The fourth was simply meandering around, like a stoner on a three-day weed binge.

He carefully moved around the perimeter of his trap-laden home, keeping his rifle up, ready to be brought into play at any moment. Crouching down, he unslung his pack and laid it flat in the dirt as quietly as he could, then tucked the rifle against his shoulder, sighting down the barrel. He knew that he had only a shot ot two before the zombies zeroed in on his position, so every one had to count. Breathing slowly, steadily, he lined up the crosshairs on the head of the meandering target. Pause. Finger caressing the trigger. Breath held. And...squeeze.

Crack. The wandering zombie's head disintegrated into a pink mist and flying matter, the body taking a single more step and then falling to the ground. No time to evaluate his shot - the others would be onto him soon. He swung the rifle to bring the other three into view, lined up the shot while they were coming to the realization that they might be under attack. Breathe. Squeeze.