The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Zombie or Post Apocalyptic themed fiction/stories.

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Tinderbox » Mon Mar 03, 2014 2:58 pm

I think when I'm done with the much, much - much - shorter story I'm working on now, I'll go back and revise this one from roughly page 27 onward and post the revision. That way, you can all give it a thumbs up or a thumbs down.

Though, I've said it before, I haven't said it enough. Thanks. Your comments give me laughs as well as food for thought. You're all operating on a cleverness level I've never known. :D :D :D
"...the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire..."

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Redsky » Mon Mar 03, 2014 4:22 pm

[quote="Tinderbox"]I think when I'm done with the much, much - much - shorter story I'm working on now, I'll go back and revise this one from roughly page 27 onward and post the revision. That way, you can all give it a thumbs up or a thumbs down.

Though, I've said it before, I haven't said it enough. Thanks. Your comments give me laughs as well as food for thought. You're all operating on a cleverness level I've never known.

Bah! He's dragging his feet! MOAR!!! WE NEED MOAR!!!! :twisted:

please. :ohdear:

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Gun_Nut_2k1 » Mon Mar 03, 2014 6:00 pm

Next time I won't let you go so soon. Bring David back. :) He can recoup with the little girls, since one is a bad ass. The dudes, both the old guy and boy, are more likely to get in as guards at the abductor's place without the rest tagging along.
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by mariposa » Mon Mar 03, 2014 7:56 pm

I'm opposed to killing off Hya, because she does represent the future. I think the ideal solution for her would be if our friends met some of Hya's relatives (maybe an aunt or uncle she's fond of) and place her with them. I understand that it would be hard to drag her through the PAW, but someone must live to tell and rebuild.

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by caveman » Mon Mar 03, 2014 9:32 pm

Great story!
Very well written.
Thanks for posting it here.
I am looking forward to the next saga.
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Barnabus » Mon Mar 10, 2014 7:00 am

without changing the ending, maybe Michael could follow Mundy and Kat as a ghost , like on BEING HUMAN. Maybe with will power he could effect solid objects, and help the others when in danger. Become their guardian angel ?
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by 91Eunozs » Mon Mar 10, 2014 3:25 pm

Barnabus wrote:without changing the ending, maybe Michael could follow Mundy and Kat as a ghost , like on BEING HUMAN. Maybe with will power he could effect solid objects, and help the others when in danger. Become their guardian angel ?
Now that's just crazy talk... We're talking about REAL people here.

And zombies... :lol:

Like asking who would win a fight between Superman and Mighty Mouse... Superman of course. Because he's a real person!
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by deathstalkertwo » Sat Mar 22, 2014 10:57 pm

I have read some really good stories in here, but this is by far the very best one yet. I kind of figured that micky was going to die, just didn't have a clue how.
You have just got to write about the adventures with the rest of our hero's.
I know you put a lot of hard work into this story for us to enjoy, Thank you for a very enjoyable read.

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by walterde » Sun Mar 23, 2014 8:44 am

WendyPlains wrote:Thank you both for your replies. And thanks for clearing up,where the raiders came from Tinderbox.

I can't seem to find the beginning of Alpha Dog's Journal. It seems to me like it's been taken offline but maybe I just can't navigate the site properly. I was also reading another story called The Other Side of the Apocalypse, which strangely enouh, was very similar to Mom's Journal though this guy had a lot of very annoying religious stuff in it. He used to post long, boring tracts of the Bible after every post. The story wasn't bad but he gave up after something like 32 pages and never finished the dang thing. I hate authors who do that!! I'm also following another ZA story called Diary of a Runner which is well written but, now that I'm caught up, the author takes forever to update. All in all, your story is top of my list at the mo.

PS-Hope it's not innapropriate to refer to other stories on this thread. I don't want to offend anyone because of it.


Bumping this post so I can gk back and loom for the stories me tioned in here. Also get used to stkries being abandoned. It mkre rare to see one actually finished than not.
I gotta go to class.

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by walterde » Thu Apr 03, 2014 9:31 pm

Tinderbox the only bad hing I can say about this story is it ended. I do like that it had an ending though where most on here dont. Thank you for a great ride and ill be looking forward tothe further adventures of Lucas and Mundin.
I gotta go to class.

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by 91Eunozs » Fri Apr 04, 2014 6:47 pm

walterde wrote:Tinderbox the only bad hing I can say about this story is it ended. I do like that it had an ending though where most on here dont. Thank you for a great ride and ill be looking forward to the further adventures of Lucas and Mundi.
This.
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zengunfighter wrote:... you don't want to blow a tranny in the middle of a pursuit...
woodsghost wrote:... A defensive gun without training is basically a talisman. It might ward off evil, but I wouldn't count on it.

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by synergyperf » Thu Jun 12, 2014 2:59 pm

I think I found a pic of Goodnight house.. before it was destroyed. At least this is how I picture it, although this one is way smaller and sans garage.
http://media.boingboing.net/wp-content/ ... -image.jpg

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Halfapint » Thu Jun 12, 2014 5:03 pm

synergyperf wrote:I think I found a pic of Goodnight house.. before it was destroyed. At least this is how I picture it, although this one is way smaller and sans garage.
http://media.boingboing.net/wp-content/ ... -image.jpg

That's amazing almost exactly like what I thiugh of as well.... Good find!

Now TB are you going to continue? I want to hear MOAR adventures of our small plucky group.
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by 91Eunozs » Thu Jun 12, 2014 8:47 pm

synergyperf wrote:I think I found a pic of Goodnight house.. before it was destroyed. At least this is how I picture it, although this one is way smaller and sans garage.
http://media.boingboing.net/wp-content/ ... -image.jpg
Not really how I pictured it but that is friggin' cool!

Great idea for a plan/place I have in mind... Link to the builder by any chance?
Molon Latte...come & take our coffee order
Doctorr Fabulous wrote:... It's fun to play pretend, but this is the internet, and it's time to be serious.
zengunfighter wrote:... you don't want to blow a tranny in the middle of a pursuit...
woodsghost wrote:... A defensive gun without training is basically a talisman. It might ward off evil, but I wouldn't count on it.

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Tinderbox » Thu Jun 12, 2014 10:54 pm

synergyperf wrote:I think I found a pic of Goodnight house.. before it was destroyed. At least this is how I picture it, although this one is way smaller and sans garage.
http://media.boingboing.net/wp-content/ ... -image.jpg
That's exactly the pic that first got me interested in that kind of fire-lookout-tower design. But, like you said, Goodnight House would be a good bit bigger. I guess I just like the idea of a living area raised up above where any creeping critters might come calling. :wink:
"...the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire..."

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Tinderbox » Thu Jun 12, 2014 11:00 pm

Halfapint wrote:
synergyperf wrote:I think I found a pic of Goodnight house.. before it was destroyed. At least this is how I picture it, although this one is way smaller and sans garage.
http://media.boingboing.net/wp-content/ ... -image.jpg

That's amazing almost exactly like what I thiugh of as well.... Good find!

Now TB are you going to continue? I want to hear MOAR adventures of our small plucky group.
Truth be told, I've been neglecting writing for some time, but I'll post a little of what I do have. Sorry to say, I've abandoned the idea of doing an alternate ending to the first part. I still have to go back and rewrite it, but I'm afraid no one's comin' back from the dead. :|
"...the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire..."

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Tinderbox » Thu Jun 12, 2014 11:20 pm

The dead remembered the roads. Operating on the faint echoes of the things they knew when they were alive, they remembered – somehow – that food used them, that the long stretches of cleared ground would often lead to the places where food was concentrated in towns and cities. Unless something drew them off the blacktop – the sight of a living thing, a sound that broke from the natural background noise, sometimes even just the shape of a structure glimpsed through the brush – they trudged the cracked and leaf-littered asphalt, finding their way around fallen trees and year-old car wrecks like debris floating down a slow moving stream. Sometimes they stumbled along alone or in small groups. Sometimes they moved in massive numbers.

Mundy, Katrina and Hyacinth had been trapped for almost the entire day, concealed in the bushes of the median strip, lying flat against the sandy ground in silence, waiting for the herd of corpses to pass on by. The dead were in no hurry. Nothing of late had done much to stimulate their remaining senses and so they moved down the road in their thousands with a lethargic shuffle.

It would be tempting, Mundy thought, for someone who didn’t know better to jump out of hiding and sprint away up the highway, certain that they could outrun the slow moving army of reanimated bodies. He was sure it had happened just that way a million times before. The dead, seeing their one and only remaining desire, live, warm food, exploding from the bushes and darting away, would croak the air out of their lungs and move their limbs a little faster in pursuit. And as the runner left the dead in his or her wake he or she would feel the exhilaration of having escaped death. But it wasn’t a corpse’s pace that overtook its prey, it was its mindless tenacity. The dead didn’t stop to rest. They didn’t notice the heat or the cold. They didn’t feel the soles of their feet rubbed raw or their joints grinding down. Mundy had seen more than a few hobbling along on blunted stumps of legs. The part of their brain that was still operating was only viable enough to hold one thought: food – warm, living food. And that part of their brain would drive them to relentlessly pursue anyone who thought they could outrun them. Eventually, the living runner would have to stop to rest, to sleep, to eat and drink. The shambling dead, however, would keep on, never stopping, moving forward one lifeless step at a time until the distance was closed and the runner woke with a cold spike of panic to hear that dry, rasping croak telling them that death was once again reaching for them.

Mundy recalled watching once as a group of eight corpses chased a man into a disabled tour bus on a roadside just beyond a burning suburb. Three days later they were still there, slumped against the sides of the bus, every so often making a slow circuit of the vehicle and slapping weakly at its sides. When the contents of the cans of food he’d scavenged had been eaten and he felt rested, Mundy slipped unseen from a side window of the small house he’d sheltered in, leaving the man in the bus behind, still trapped by his eight dead guards. Maybe, he thought, something else had eventually grabbed the attention of the corpses and had lured them away. Maybe after a week or so the man inside had worked up the nerve to make a break for it. Or maybe the man never made it out of the bus. Mundy didn’t know. He’d moved on. And at the moment, moving on was what he desperately wanted to do, but not if it meant attracting the attention of thousands of dead people.

He had only risked walking the highway to make better time than they had been making on the weathered and washed out Forest Service roads that meandered through the mountains. Mundy recalled seeing a mountaintop microwave relay station on his way to Destitute Mountain. “Some of them are surrounded by chain link fences,” he’d said to Katrina. “Some even have old equipment shacks or maintenance buildings. A spot like that might be a good place to rest for a while, if it’s not already occupied.” Katrina had looked at him with her clear, blue-gray eyes and he could tell she was thinking over what he’d said. Whether she’d always been so thoughtful and reserved with her responses or if it was just a holdover from the many months she’d spent recovering from shock and not uttering a word, he didn’t know, but as he waited for her reply, he held her gaze. Her eyes, he always thought, were like something he remembered seeing behind the glass counters at jewelry stores; pale aquamarine set in silver.

“And if it is?” she’d finally asked.

“We go in quietly,” he answered with a shrug, “we stay out of sight, we see what’s going on.”

But their travel had been interrupted that morning when they’d encountered the dead coming around a bend in the road. At first, it hadn’t looked like so many of them, so they hid in the green space between the eastbound and westbound lanes. Hours later, the dead were still there.

With a scratchy, dusty blanket he’d found in the back of a tipped-over moving van underneath him, Mundy lay on his belly and watched through the bushes as the herd flowed past on both sides. Next to him, Katrina and Hyacinth shared the top of a hastily unrolled sleeping bag. If the herd didn’t finish passing by soon, he thought, they were going to be spending a cold, uncomfortable night there beneath the bushes. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d slept outside over the past four weeks – far from it. But they wouldn’t be able to risk pulling the tarps from their packs, not with the dead close enough to hear the crinkle of the vinyl. They could only lay still and wait, except for Hyacinth who moved only her hand, carefully, silently decorating the coloring book page on the ground in front of her with her four broken crayons. She worked with the intensity and concentration of an artist, applying the blunted tips of her crayons in slow, precise quarter inch-long strokes. The result was a coloring book outline of a cartoon puppy that looked like it had been filled in by some pointillist master.

Thanks to their wealth of medical supplies and the rich diet they’d enjoyed while at Goodnight House, the grazing bullet wound on his side had healed nicely. The deep cuts across Kat’s face had healed well, too, Mundy thought, all things considered. Her scars were turning out to be nine pink lines on her fair skin, running parallel to each other, slanting down across her forehead, her nose and her cheeks. Not once did he catch her fretting about how her once perfect face had been marred and he loved her all the more for it, though since they’d been travelling as a trio, he’d been keeping his feelings to himself. No sense making her feel even more uncomfortable, he thought.

For twenty five days they’d travelled backcountry trails and dirt roads, moving slowly at first, going from shelter to shelter in small, manageable four or five hour hikes. As they began to recover from their injuries, they increased their travel time, sometimes walking for half the day, with frequent pauses for Hyacinth’s sake. Unable to risk anything but small campfires, they were often cold and wet. Because the forest around them held such potential dangers, they were often short on sleep and worn out. And because Mundy wouldn’t risk adding hunger to that list of ailments, the supply of food that they had packed with them had dwindled quickly.

“Gonna close my eyes for a few minutes,” he whispered and Katrina nodded, acknowledging that she was on watch. With his eyes shut, the noises around him registered clearly in his brain: the hushing sound of the breeze through the pines, the cawing of crows in the distance and the fleshy thrum of thousands of pairs of feet on the highway, passing by their hiding place. It would have been a sick thing to have called it a lullaby, but the effect was the same and soon he was asleep.

***

Lux woke with a gasp from the dream where her mother arrived to pick her up from a preschool Halloween party – one of her earliest memories – only to complain of a stomach ache and then proceed to turn into a zero right in front of her. It was a nightmare she’d had a hundred times since the world ended and the one that bothered her the most. As nightmares went, it wasn’t the bloodfest that some were. What really bothered her about this one was that it mined a perfectly innocent childhood memory – something that the apocalypse had made almost as precious as drinkable water – and dragged it down into the dark.

In the dream, she had been a five year-old dressed as a fairy princess for Halloween. She ran from the monster her mother turned into, only to be grabbed by her glittery fairy wings and pulled backwards toward her dead mother’s gnashing mouth.

Lux lay still as the dream images faded and waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. While she did, she thought about her parents, how they had tried their best to escape the impending chaos. Her parents had been wealthy and wise, but even with all of their advantages, their attempt to find permanent safety had been doomed. She remembered the night her father had packed them into their black Lincoln Navigator. She remembered the drive through the city to the marina where their boat lay docked. The cityscape outside the windows was mostly shadowed and peaceful looking, but every so often Lux would glance down a side street to see the quick whip of emergency vehicle lights: fire trucks, ambulances, police – lots of police. She remembered her parents’ hushed conversation like it had just happened the night before instead of nearly a year before.

“But you believe the things Steven said?” Her mother’s name was Bella Cordis. Lux would always remember her beautiful black hair. “I thought he was one of those government robots you’re always complaining about. And now you’re just taking his word about this thing?”

“Steve is a dyed-in-the-wool ideological robot,” her father had responded. Robert Cordis had been his name – never Bob, always Robert. “If the party line was that night is day and day is night, he’d put out his own eyes so he couldn’t see it was otherwise. That’s why I believe what he said. If things have gotten so bad that Steven Heung is scared enough to contradict his own bosses in the governor’s office – even if it was in private – then things are really bad. Besides,” he had added in a poor attempt to cut through the tension, “you’ve been bugging me for months to take time off for a week or two at the summer house.”

“Not now,” her mother had replied with an unsettling tinge of worry in her voice. “Not in the middle of this…whatever this is.”

“Come on, you don’t hear Lux complaining.” Robert Cordis glanced at his daughter in the rear view mirror. “Right? Lux? Still with us back there?”

“This sucks, Dad.” School had just started, she recalled thinking, and her parents were going to yank her out of her classes for a week or two, all so she could die of boredom on the island? And worse yet, they had taken away her phone so she couldn’t even tell her few friends what was going on. Lux had heard the rumors. She had read what they were posting on the internet. A pandemic. So what? Big deal. Another hyped up bird flu scare that would be big news for a month before everyone forgot that it had ever happened.

“I agree,” her father had replied. “But we’re going to give it a week and see what happens. A week on the island won’t hurt you.”

“Robert…” his wife started to say.

“I see it,” he replied. City workers were busy at certain major intersections erecting red and white striped wooden barricades. “It’s midnight. They’re starting to put up the roadblocks, just like Steve said.”

Lux let the memory of that night slowly fade and thought about all that had happened since. If her parents hadn’t acted when they did, they might not have made it to the island. There they had been insulated from the mass hysteria and panic of a population suddenly deprived of public services. In the weeks after the stores ran out of food and the police stopped responding to calls, after the hospitals stopped accepting patients and the power grid began to falter, people began to realize that they were on their own. People who had weathered things with stoicism and inventiveness, with can-do attitudes held together by the belief that it was all just a temporary interruption in their lives, something they would talk about for years to come after the lights came back on – those people began to crack. But Robert and Bella Cordis, along with their daughter, Lux, had been okay through it all. The twenty-six other people who owned houses on Tumtumnay Island were okay, too. Most had already been through Gwailo Fever. One or two had brought it with them, but none of them died from it or turned nasty. For two months, the people on Tumtumnay sat out the apocalypse. Then one morning the apocalypse found them.

The 33,000 ton cruise ship that usually sailed up and down the coast far to the north, taking tourists to see Alaska’s calving glaciers and frontier-themed towns had strayed too far into the strait and had wound up on the rocks, but it hardly mattered. Its crew was almost all dead and the ship had run out of fuel. Those refugees aboard who remained alive were sick and starving. Some drowned trying to swim ashore, but most survived to ransack every one of the island’s vacation homes.

Lux’s mother received her fatal wound in the first town they visited after fleeing the island. Lux’s father received his only a short time after. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember granting his final wish and pulling the trigger. Not that she really wanted to remember it, but she knew the memory must be in there somewhere, hiding behind some locked, airtight door in her brain. Having something so horrible buried deep inside, she told herself, but not being able to get to it – that was the kind of thing that could really mess someone up.

She had followed a river up into the mountains where there were still dead people roaming about, but where they weren’t nearly as numerous as in and around the cities. She had been on her way…somewhere. She never had decided on exactly where. But along the way she had been offered shelter by a man named Michael who had left behind a perfectly safe house in order to rescue two girls who weren’t even related to him. The guy, she soon discovered, hadn’t even been taking it out in trade with the blond cheerleader chick. Though Lux had kept one in the chamber the whole way up to the mountain house, the guy had turned out to be legit. And Lucas – Lucas Locke – they boy she met there, had turned out to be hers.

Lucas was someone who understood her, or at least didn’t irritate the crap out of her. Someone to share the end of the world with; what more could a girl ask for?

She let herself wonder what Lucas was doing, even though it hurt to do so, because she was probably never going to see him again, because Lucas had no idea where she was. Even she had no idea where she was. It would be up to her, she realized, to get back to him – somehow. However, in the nearly four weeks she’d been in her present location – wherever it was – she hadn’t seen one opening she could squeeze through. There was her room – a bed, a sink, a closet-sized bathroom, a TV that showed nothing but lame two year-old comedies and a fake window that showed nothing but serene nature scenes. There was also the small adjoining room with a table, a chair, an uncomfortable couch and some exercise equipment.

And the cameras. There were always the cameras. Though well concealed, she had spotted them on her first fully conscious day there and had covered their tiny lenses with mashed potatoes from her food tray.

“Lux,” the doctor, a man named Tayo – a psychologist, she figured – had scolded her, “do you know how many people out there have died?”

“Counting my mom and dad?” she’d replied.

Dr. Tayo’s shoulders had stiffened. “We’ve all lost family, Lux.”

“Counting the ones your people blew to pieces from that airplane of yours?” she persisted.

“Dr. Harker’s collection team has a very difficult and dangerous job,” the man replied with a slow blink. “You know, you are the only survivor we’ve taken in who isn’t positively thrilled to be here.”

“If by ‘taken in’ you mean kidnapped…”

“No, by ‘taken in’ I mean we extracted you from a life-threatening environment and brought you into this secure facility where – ”

“Against my will! You forgot to mention that part! I was drugged and kidnapped! And you think I should be happy about that!?”

“Calm yourself,” huffed the doctor, glancing to where one of the freshly cleaned cameras was hidden. “All this talk of kidnapping and ‘against my will’ is…is counterproductive if not” the man sighed “completely meaningless. Here you are in a place where…where millions of people would love to be, where you have food and water and clean clothes and – ” The man’s attention was drawn to the two-way observation mirror on the opposite wall where Lux had used a bar of soap to scrawl a message for him. “I don’t believe,” he sighed as he massaged the bridge of his nose, “that the term ‘shrimp dick’ should be hyphenated.”

***

Fortunately, the dream that unwound from the center of Mundy’s brain hadn’t been one of the nightmares that routinely made him scream himself awake. He woke with a deep breath, the image still in his mind of one of the campsites they’d found while hiking the mountain trails.

By the look of them and the remains of the heavy clothing they wore, the six headless bodies he and Katrina had found looked like they had been there since the winter. The skin on them had the look of the beef jerky that used to line convenience store shelves before the Fall. The six severed heads that belonged to the bodies had been arranged inside the tent set up beneath a rock overhang, three on one side of the corpse lying there and three on the other. The heads had reanimated, but like all such severed heads they could only move their eyes and silently work their mouths. The man inside the tent had cut them off with a twenty inch-long camp axe – before or after death, Mundy didn’t know – and then pulled the trigger of the Glock 19 stuck in his mouth. For the better part of a year those heads had been there, looking at the corpse of the man with the blown-out skull who had severed them from their bodies. In all the time they’d lain there, no animals had scavenged the corpses, not even the body of the suicide. Mundy had dragged the entire tent away through the trees and had used the axe to snuff out the reanimated heads, bludgeoning them through the tent material. He, Katrina and Hyacinth had spent that night camped beneath the rock overhang, their defenses boosted by the Glock 19 and the seventy-nine rounds of 9mm they’d found in the tent as well as the camp axe. The seven dead people didn’t seem to have brought any food or other supplies with them into the mountains, just the tent, the axe and the gun. Maybe, Mundy thought, someone had found the rest of their supplies long ago and had taken them. Unlikely, he figured; no one would have passed up the axe, much less the pistol. He had to consider that maybe they had just come up to the mountains to die.

The campsite hadn’t been the only macabre thing they’d found along the way. There had been the tiny plywood shack with the interior walls spattered with dried blood, the baby doll sitting upright on a rock near a gravel quarry with a note reading “Help” pinned to its clothes and, most recently, the helicopter half submerged in a pond near the highway with four paper white and bloated corpses trapped within, pounding to get out. “Landed on the ice in the winter,” Katrina had speculated upon seeing how the water weeds had enveloped the helicopter, “and broke through.”

Mundy still recalled the notebook Hyacinth had found carefully sealed in a ziplock bag at a campsite near an old mine. He’d read the tale of woe written on its pages, of three families that had set out for the supposed safety of the wilderness and of the tragedies that had, one by one, taken the lives of all sixteen, save for the author.

“So yesterday morning JJ died. He knew drinking that water was what made Nan sick but he was crazy with thirst. Now with Trey gone, what do I do?” the woman named Josepha had written. “What do you do when there’s no one left? There’s nothing – NOTHING – out here. So – GOODBYE. I’m going back."

When they glimpsed the highway through the trees, they were as timid as any deer leaving the cover of the forest. With constant glances behind them, they’d walked the overgrown shoulder of the road, ready to dive for cover if danger appeared. From the front yard of a tiny house they’d taken a two-wheeled garden cart that Mundy pushed ahead of him and in which Hyacinth rode, reclined atop their backpacks, her feet jutting out over the front, the toes of her duct taped shoes tapping together in an aimless rhythm. At a bend in the road, it had been Hyacinth who had sounded the alarm.

“Dead people! Right up there!”

There had been open fields on either side of the highway at that place, leaving only the median strip for them to take cover in. The first half hour had been the worst while they waited to see if any of the dead plodding along had seen them dart into the bushes. After that, the nervous tension settled in around them – a steady electric buzz in their heads – as they waited for the morbid parade to pass.

As luck would have it, one of the parade’s very last marchers stumbled sideways from the crumbling edge of the westbound lane and into the knee-high grass growing there. Nearly losing its balance, the corpse continued on into the median, crunching through the bushes and heading straight at them where they lay. Fully awake in an instant, Mundy rolled off the dirty, scratchy blanket and rose up with it held before him. He threw it over the head of the reanimated corpse before him – the remains of a woman who was fortunately a foot shorter than he was – and tackled it to the ground. The croak that came from the dead woman’s throat was muffled by the blanket, leaving him to hope that the sound of them crashing through the bushes would not draw the attention of any undead stragglers. Katrina pounced upon the corpse’s legs to keep them from thrashing around and Mundy pressed with his thumb, feeling for the dead woman’s eye socket through the blanket. Once found, he placed the tip of his knife in the depression, gripped the handle and put his weight on it until the entire blade disappeared. The body beneath him jerked twice, quivered and was still.

Katrina didn’t move from the dead woman’s filthy, gore stained legs, except to quietly and smoothly draw the pistol at her side. Then they waited, listening for the sound of more corpses that might have been drawn to the commotion in the overgrown median strip. Breathing hard, Mundy glanced at Katrina and saw the brittle fear behind her pale eyes. He looked at Hyacinth and saw how the little girl’s features had gone blank and nearly trance-like. Seeing them both like that, soaked with a terror that had become an everyday thing, he became even more certain that his goal was the right one.

They needed to make better time. That’s why they’d risked traveling the highway. Though it was still only late summer, both he and Katrina knew that an early touch of winter could make a surprise appearance over the mountains and catch them out in the open with scant warning. They needed to find someplace where they could hole up for a time – for the entire winter, if possible. That was the goal they openly discussed. But Mundy had another goal, one he hadn’t talked openly about. Katrina and Hyacinth needed more than just an empty building to hide in. They needed protection, not just shelter. They needed a long-term sanctuary from the specter of death that haunted them daily.

What Mundy really needed was someplace where he could leave them behind. That was his secret goal.

***

Liam Weeks missed pizza. He missed the internet and television and driving. He missed going places. He missed people, even the ones who he used to hate. He missed complaining over the phone to his friend Jordan Nevers that there was nothing to do. There was never anything to do. And now he missed it.

Jordan Nevers was dead. He died thirty-two hours after his sister, Dominique, had turned nasty and vomited in his face. Jordan’s body had gotten up out of bed and trapped his crying mother in a corner, biting her on the side of her head before his father could pull the body away. His father had received a bite on the wrist and had lost a chunk of tattooed flesh from his upper arm before he could wrestle his son’s reanimated remains into the closet beside the front door. His daughter, Dominique, had already been shut in the basement. After pounding frantically at the door for a little over a day, she had gone quiet and had only recently begun to make noise again, slumping sluggishly against the door and clawing at it at every sound. Bleeding badly, Jordan’s father had held the closet door shut while his youngest daughter, Voletta, had brought a hammer and nails. He’d grown lightheaded before he’d nailed closet door shut and Voletta had to finish the job.

Liam Weeks knew all of that because Jordan Nevers’ mother had shown up on his family’s front porch with Voletta in tow. Shouting tearfully through the front door – the front door that Liam’s father refused to open – she had said her husband was very sick. She said she’d even thought for a while that he had died, but that he couldn’t have because, like her son, he had gotten back up. But, she added, he was sick and he kept trying to attack her and Voletta.

“I need…I need help,” she’d pleaded. “I have three sick people at home and all I get when I call nine-one-one is a weird buzzing sound. You’ve got to come back with me. They need help. They need that cure that they were talking about on the news before…before they started in with all this insanity about dead people.”

“That a bite wound on your head, Christine?” Liam’s father had shouted through the door. Christine Nevers responded to the question by touching the blood-matted side of her head, swaying slightly and throwing up over the side of their porch. “Listen, I know the stuff they’re coming out with on the news goes against what they’ve been telling us for the past few weeks, but I think it’s finally the truth. It’s time we trusted our eyes. Your kids, your husband: they’re dead. If you’ve been bitten by one of them, you’re going to die, too. They say it’s one hundred percent.”

“But…but we need help,” insisted the woman. She was very pale and was having a hard time standing. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, even though the air was cool. “They’re very sick.”

“Your girl there,” Liam’s father yelled, “is she sick?”

“No, thank heaven,” cried Christine Nevers. “She had that Gwailo Fever, but she’s perfectly recovered, not…not like her sister.”

“How about bitten? Is she bitten?”

Christine Nevers looked glassy eyed and confused before replying, “No.”

“Why don’t…” Liam’s father said, the conflict and doubt clear in his voice, “…why don’t you leave her here while you…go home and see to your family? She’ll have to stay in the garage, just to be safe, but she’ll…she’ll be fine.”

Jordan’s mother, Christine Nevers, was silent and still for a moment. She stared down at the porch as though weighing the options. With her fever clearly raging, Liam thought the woman might have been having the last lucid thoughts of her life. She turned without a word to Voletta and stumbled from the porch, mumbling and muttering things out loud as she wobbled back down the gravel driveway to the road. Her daughter watched her go and then turned to face the front door with a lost expression.

“What’s her name again?” his father had asked.

“Voletta,” Liam had answered. “I think she’s, like, two grades behind me.”

“Voletta,” his father called out, “I’m sorry. We still don’t know for sure what’s contagious and what’s not. You’re going to have to make do with staying in the garage for a while, just until we figure out for sure what’s going on.” The garage had been located behind and to the left of the house, a structure converted from a stable in the 1930s when Liam’s great grandfather had bought his first automobile. “Go on in and lock the door behind you. I’ll send Liam out after a while with some blankets and something to eat.” His father turned to Liam who stood watching through a tiny gap in the plywood covering the front window. “You put the food and blankets down, you knock and you get right on back here before she opens that door. We’re taking no chances. Not until we hear back from Gary and your brother that the bugout location is safe.”

Liam missed going to school. He missed sitting behind Lisa Graff in math class, especially when she wore something sleeveless and he could watch her hair spill over her shoulders. He missed sugary soft drinks. He missed the assurance that, given enough money, he could buy just about anything he wanted and have it delivered to the front door within a day or two. And he missed not being afraid.

More and more the mood came over him like a gray misty rain: the helplessness, the despair, the feeling that he was being swamped by the enormity of it all. How long, he wondered, could they keep the end of the world at bay? How long could they hide behind their high log walls thinking they could outlast the apocalypse? Sometimes he felt so claustrophobic looking up at those walls looming on all sides. It felt like he was inside some huge coffin waiting for someone to put the lid on and hammer it closed.

So, after once again sneaking out of the compound without anyone knowing, Liam Weeks found himself standing in the middle of the highway, waiting to prove to himself once again that he was still something more than just a corpse in a coffin. He swept the brown pine needles, dry leaves and twigs from the asphalt with his foot and remembered to constantly check behind him. The highway stretched away for a quarter mile in each direction before it disappeared around the bend, but the bushes and trees to either side were just yards away and there was never any guarantee that the dead would announce their presence before they came at him.

***

After finally leaving the bushes of the highway median strip, Mundy, Katrina and Hyacinth needed a place to spend the night. Even though they had spent most of the day lying motionless on their bellies, the tension from being sandwiched between columns of the dead had left them drained. It was too late in the day to do much more walking anyway, Mundy thought.

“Up there,” Katrina said, pointing through the trees to a group of boulders perched on the side of a hill.

“Yeah, okay,” Mundy agreed. Katrina, he’d learned, had a knack for picking good campsites. Camping in an elevated position concealed among the rocks gave them more security, as long as they could remain invisible. It would be another cold camp, he thought. No fire. No hot water. No warm food. He felt depressed at the prospect of waking to another gray, chilly morning with no way to kick start his body into motion but his waning willpower. Katrina and Hyacinth stayed warm by sharing a sleeping bag, but he had no other heat source but himself. “You know, a couple more nights sleeping on nothing but dirt and rock and I’ll be ready to risk going into a town just for the chance to sleep in a nice, soft bed.” If, he told himself, he could find a bed that someone hadn’t died in or a house unoccupied by reanimated corpses. If, for that matter, he could find a town where the streets didn’t fill up with dead people the minute he set foot on Main Street.

An hour later they had threaded their way through the trees and bushes and climbed the side of the hill, unfolded their tarps and made their camp among the boulders. Katrina helped Hyacinth perform her usual ceremony, finding a suitable spot to arrange the small toys they had scavenged for her: a yellow car that unfolded into a robot, a white pony with a rainbow mane and three green army men. Mundy, though, was feeling restless. “We still have about three hours until dark,” he said to Katrina. “Will you two be okay if I go take a quick look around?” She locked her eyes with his and gave a slow nod, the look on her face saying more than just yes. Her blue eyes also told him to be careful and spoke volumes about her fear that one day he wouldn’t return from one of his quick scouting trips. Though he wished her eyes would say something more to him, he appreciated the sentiment and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin as he departed.

He kept to the trees, following a game trail that descended the hill toward highway and the river on the far side of it. He carried his M4 carbine at the ready, though even if he’d had more than seven rounds left in the magazine and one in the chamber he still couldn’t afford to use it except in the direst emergency. Even with the suppressor attached to the end of the barrel, the rifle would still make too much noise – though not nearly as much as his revolvers would – possibly attracting the dead. There was, however, the long, thin bayonet. Though it ruined the balance of the carbine and sometimes got tangled in the branches that overhung the trail, it was a good thing to have handy – just in case.
Mundy crept along for ten yards and then stopped to listen for a moment. Over and over, he repeated the move – ten yards and stop, ten yards and stop. Though the slow pace could be frustrating, it was a wise practice where visibility was limited. Ten yards farther along the game trail brought him to an opening in the trees where he could see a stretch of the highway below. Four figures in a staggered formation slouched their way up the road in his direction, their movements clearly marking them as zeroes. But it was a fifth figure in the road that had him momentarily puzzled. The fifth figure stood on a patch of asphalt that had been swept clear of debris. Mundy put his shoulder against a tree trunk and raised a small pair of binoculars to his eyes.

It was a man – more like a boy, he thought after watching a moment longer – maybe in his late teens. He stood rooted in the road, facing the four approaching corpses. There was a rifle slung across his back, some sort of short, plastic semi-automatic, but the young man’s arms hung at his sides and he made no attempt to shoulder it. If the dead hadn’t been so excited, dragging themselves toward him with outstretched arms as quickly as their slowly rotting bodies could move, Mundy might have thought he was just another zero standing in the road. The young man didn’t budge, he just waited for them to come closer. Only when they had come within six feet of him did he move, suddenly swinging something that looked like a carpenters’ roofing hammer firmly mounted at the end of a two foot long metal pipe. It was almost beautiful, Mundy thought, the way he KT’d the corpses. The kid’s steel battle hammer glinted in the light of the setting sun as he spun the weapon overhead with a martial arts flair and brought it crashing down one by one into the skulls of the four zeroes.

“Someone’s had a lesson or two,” Mundy whispered to himself. As he did, something in the distance registered in his peripheral vision. While the guy stood looking down at the now permanently dead bodies, Mundy swept the binoculars up the highway. It wasn’t at all difficult to tell what he was seeing. He’d seen it before. It was a pack of dogs.

There had been around seventy million dogs in the U.S. before everything collapsed. Even if nine out of ten of them died along with their former owners, that left seven million hungry canines to roam the land and quickly revert to their wolfish ways. And this pack of fifteen or so was coming up fast behind the young man with the flashing war hammer.

Firing a single warning shot was the first thing that came to his mind, something to make the guy look around and see the fast approaching danger. But the dogs were close. They had his scent and there was no time for the kid to reach safety.

Who was this guy to him? Mundy asked himself. Why should he do anything to help? Billions had died. Millions had followed. Thousands joined them every day. What was this kid’s life that he should risk his own?

He didn’t particularly want to see the young man eaten by dogs, but it wasn’t his job to go saving the lives of strangers. He had other concerns, other responsibilities. But, Mundy thought as he launched himself down the game trail toward the highway, from what he could see through the binoculars, the kid wasn’t a beaten down and bedraggled mess. His clothes weren’t ragged which spoke of a certain level of material comfort. His hair was neat and short which meant he had had the luxury of spare time to indulge in personal grooming. He appeared strong and able. That meant he ate well and enjoyed some kind of shelter. And a safe and secure shelter, Mundy reminded himself, was just what he was looking for.

By the time he’d reached the bushes at the edge of the highway he could hear the dog pack barking and yipping and snarling. Mundy flicked the select fire switch from safe to semi and did what he could to emerge from the roadside cover without immediately giving himself away.

Eight rounds, he repeated to himself. Eight rounds in the rifle, twelve rounds in the revolvers before he had to go through the time consuming process of reloading the single action western style guns. There was the bayonet, he thought. But a feral dog wasn’t going to lurch slowly toward him like a reanimated human body, giving him time to stab it.

The only thing reason the young man hadn’t been torn to shreds by the time Mundy reached the edge of the asphalt was the reluctance of the dogs to go too near the KT’d bodies. To a living human, the faint chemical-like smell that a reanimated corpse gave off was noticeable, but to an animal’s senses the odor must be a strobing red danger signal the size of a billboard. The dogs had encircled the kid and were weaving in and around one another, each looking for an opening, growing bolder by the second. The young man spun left and right, trying to keep the most aggressive of the dogs from getting behind him. He had gotten his rifle – a Kel-Tec Sub-2000 – off his back, but hadn’t been able to do more than grip it by the sling before the dogs were there biting at his ankles. One dog would lunge only to meet with a swing from the steel hammer. Then another would try and be met by a swing of the carbine. He was in a tight spot, unable to chance dropping the long handled hammer from his left hand and unable to operate the rifle with only his right. Mundy could see it was just a matter of seconds before one of the dogs would latch on to an arm or a leg. Once that happened, the rest would pile on until one of them found the young man’s throat.

The sound of the suppressed M4 going off was muffled, but the high velocity bullets tearing a hole through the air still resounded with a sharp crack.

He used his remaining ammunition judiciously, taking aim at the swirling pack in places where they were bunched thick, where he was least likely to miss and where his bullets were most likely to pass through one dog and penetrate into another. After pulling the trigger the fourth time, Mundy paused. Six dogs lay on the ground and another was dragging itself away without the use of its rear legs. The pack had broken up. One or two had begun a halting retreat but had stopped to wait for the actions of the rest. Most of the dogs paced in tight, nervous circles, their eyes set on Mundy, waiting for the pack to pick a course of action. That was when the steel battle hammer came down on the head of the largest dog – the alpha – sending it to the leaf-littered blacktop. The young man swung again and the next largest dog gave a sharp yelp and scurried away. Mundy moved toward them and the remaining dogs ran.

Mundy watched them for a second as they loped away and then turned to find himself looking down the barrel of the Kel-Tec. He tried hard to bury his concern with a faint smile and an arched eyebrow. “No need for that,” he said as coolly as possible.

The young man was breathing hard. “Keep your gun…pointed away,” he gasped, “and I…won’t shoot. My way…of saying thanks.”

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate it,” Mundy replied with what he hoped was a total lack of concern in his voice. “But do you think someone who just wasted four rounds saving your life is likely to shoot you?” The young man didn’t reply or lower his carbine. He just began a smooth walk backwards, knees bent, rifle held steady, toward the bushes at the side of the road.

“The dogs are yours…if you want them,” was the last thing he said before disappearing. “But marinate them first. They can…be stringy.”

Mundy waited half a minute before following him. If it wasn’t getting dark, he might expect the kid to stop and watch to see if he was being tailed. But he figured the kid with the steel battle hammer and the blocky little carbine with the green polymer stock had seen enough action for one day and would probably go full speed for safety. The coming dusk did have him concerned, but the whole reason Mundy had saved the young man was to find out where he was living. It took half an hour of picking his way quietly through the undergrowth and beneath low hanging trees to find out, but when he had followed the young man’s tracks along the forest-lined river and came to the edge of a wide clearing, Mundy was left impressed.

There had been a TV show once – something about Europe’s medieval timber forts or wooden castles, he couldn’t remember which. Moving to a nearby rise and looking down, Mundy wished he’d paid more attention to that half-remembered documentary because the structure built below on a flat area above the river looked a lot like one of those large timber forts. Mundy had observed the place through his binoculars for only a few minutes before his breathing started coming faster and a dull ache spread across his chest. Down below in the dying light of day he saw eight armed men outside the first wall. Their cluttered camp was set behind a ditch dug by the backhoe at rest near the edge of the clearing and beside another piece of heavy equipment with a long clawed arm he thought might have been called a log loader. The way the machines seemed to have settled into the earth made him guess they had both been out of fuel and stationary throughout the winter, spring and summer. The excavated dirt had been heaped up on the inner edge of the ditch to form a berm topped with horizontal, outward facing wooden poles sharpened at the end into points. The men inside this first ring of defenses sat around smoky fires and inside thin-looking wooden huts and a few weather-beaten tents. They were the ones on guard that evening, Mundy guessed, because to their backs was a much more formidable eight foot log wall. The shelters within were built adjacent to one another and used the defensive wall as one of their own so that they had the appearance of timber-made apartments rather than separate log cabins. Smaller logs served as both roof and walkway around the top of the wall where two rifle toting sentries kept watch, scanning the edges of the clearing through binoculars, perhaps, he thought, because of the four shots he’d fired.

“C’mon, now,” Mundy said to himself in a voice below a whisper, “you didn’t hear those shots, did you? From way, way back on the highway?”

Stovepipe chimneys protruded from each roof, some emitting wisps of white smoke.

“Homey,” he said, barely moving his mouth, “downright homey.” It was, he thought, like a painting of some frontier settlement. But it was what he could see inside this secondary defensive structure that griped his chest.

Mundy counted six children. They sat beside adults and performed light chores or ran playfully, though silently, from one doorway to another. The men and women carried water or stacked firewood. One man was using the fading daylight to retie an upended rope bed. Another man worked with a butcher knife to cut up the carcass of a small doe. One woman inspected a drying rack hung with a few fish from the river, telling Mundy that they had enough food to preserve the extra for winter. Despite the walls and the defensive spikes, Mundy was looking at families – mothers and fathers and their children. The sight made him happy and hopeful and fearful all at the same time.

The innermost defensive structure sat behind an even higher log wall and was the most impressive. Mundy thought it must serve as the fort’s redoubt – the place where everyone could retreat to in an emergency. Within those twelve foot high walls sat two camper trailers and a small RV along with four well-built cabins. At the dead center was a tall log tower with a covered observation deck at the top. On conspicuous display were the protruding barrels of three heavier than average weapons and four longer barreled weapons with a distinct .50 caliber look.

As he did every once in a while, he took a moment – just a brief moment – and dared to hope. He hoped that he’d found a place where Hyacinth and Katrina might be safe. More to the point, he hoped he’d found a place where he could leave them behind with some assurance that they’d be protected.

He watched the scene below as one of the men in the middle compound finished stacking a wheelbarrow with split firewood and guided it to the gate to the inner compound. When the man reached the gate he left the wheelbarrow there and retreated a few yards under watch from a man on the wall above who held an AK-47 in a relaxed manner. The gate opened and another man emerged to take the wheelbarrow inside the inner wall. He dumped it and returned it empty. Only when the gate was again closed did the first man step forward to reclaim the empty wheelbarrow. The whole thing happened as though it was part of a daily routine, making Mundy wonder if there was some sort of hierarchy in play within those impressive log walls.

The presence of families was a good sign, he thought, but he was going to have to watch them for a bit longer before he decided whether or not it was a suitable place for Hyacinth and Katrina. He had promised once to die before he let anything happen to the girls of their group. That was before he’d let Lux get kidnapped right in front of him. It hadn’t been the first time he’d proved himself a miserable failure at keeping promises, but he did hope it was the last.

Before he took the binoculars from his eyes, Mundy saw a figure appear at the wall of the innermost compound and recognized it as the young man from the road. The kid was scanning the direction he’d traveled to the fort, looking intently at the treeline.

“Looking for me?” Mundy breathed. Even at such a distance, Mundy could pick up on the nervousness of the young man. “Didn’t tell anyone about me, did you?” In fact, Mundy thought, the kid had appeared without any accompanying fuss or excitement from the others behind the log walls. “No one even knew you were out here, did they, you sneaky little booger?”

The sun had set and it was getting dark as he reached the highway. The dog carcasses were still where he had left them, though he guessed it wouldn’t be long before the pack returned for a late dinner. By the time he had returned to the campsite, the world had been cast in deep blues and grays. He gave a trio of quick “psst” sounds as he approached – the signal he always gave in hopes that he would avoid being mistakenly shot on his return.

“I thought I heard shots.”

Mundy looked up and found Katrina perched halfway up one of the largest boulders, M4 in hand, disapproval on her face. “Good ears,” he replied, trying to put her at ease. “That was me. It’s no problem. I refilled the bottles at the river. We need make a fire pit to boil it. I know we’re a little too visible from the road for a fire, but – ”

“Gunshots are always a problem,” she interrupted, “even suppressed.”

“Yeah. Is Hya asleep already?”

“Out like a light,” she answered, but she wouldn’t be diverted from the subject of noise. “You never know who’s within earshot.” She handed down her carbine and then jumped to the ground.

“Yeah,” he replied, “about that – we have neighbors.”

The news made her freeze. “Alive or dead?”

“There’s always the dead ones, little girl,” he replied, “but the ones I’m talking about are definitely alive.” He told her what he’d seen, but left out the part about the kid with the war hammer. He wanted her to think he’d gotten away unobserved so she’d be at ease and agree to stick around to observe them some more.

“Just because they have children with them doesn’t mean they’re going to be friendly,” Katrina said when he had finished. “What if they’re not?”

He shrugged. “We go in quietly, we stay out of sight, we see what kind of people they are.”

She stared at him for a moment, though the dark had turned them both to shadows. “No chances, not with Hyacinth.”

“’Course not.”

“So,” she said as she dug the cook pot out of her backpack, “if you weren’t shooting at them and they weren’t shooting at you, what were those four shots?”

Mundy plopped down a plastic grocery store bag, the kind he always carried wadded up in his pocket in case he came across edible berries or an abandoned garden. Inside were four hunks of meat. “Do you,” he asked slowly, “know how to make a marinade?”
Last edited by Tinderbox on Wed Dec 17, 2014 10:40 am, edited 1 time in total.
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And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire..."

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by akraven » Fri Jun 13, 2014 1:29 am

Great to have an update Tinderbox. Excellent writing as always. Good to her about the group again. Hope you can get back in the swing of things and write some more. Thank you!!!

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Murphman » Fri Jun 13, 2014 9:39 am

Huzzah!

Made my weekend with that new post! Thanks TB!
"If you are prepped for pandemic flu, you are more than prepped for Ebola. And pandemic flu is hella more likely, that's the one that scares me, personally." - Duodecima...and she's a freaking doctor. What are you?

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by BreAnna » Fri Jun 13, 2014 9:53 am

YAY! :mrgreen: That was awesome! So glad you're back to working on this TB! Can't wait for the next update!
"It is not the strongest or the most intelligent who will survive but those who can best manage change" - Charles Darwin

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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Sheriff McClelland » Fri Jun 13, 2014 10:40 am

He's back in the saddle again , ...

Gene Autry of course :wink:

Thanks for adding to your story Tb !
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Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by Spazzy » Fri Jun 13, 2014 11:17 am

Very cool followup!
Overheard at my USN retirement ceremony....
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"You mean Spazz...? Hes not even a fan of the team."

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Posts: 2075
Joined: Sat Dec 31, 2011 8:16 am
Favorite Zombie Movies: All of them!
Location: Hill Country, Texas

Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by 91Eunozs » Fri Jun 13, 2014 1:04 pm

:clap:

GREAT to have you back TB... Awesome continuation to a truly incredible, and exceptionally well told tale!

Please publish this...
Molon Latte...come & take our coffee order
Doctorr Fabulous wrote:... It's fun to play pretend, but this is the internet, and it's time to be serious.
zengunfighter wrote:... you don't want to blow a tranny in the middle of a pursuit...
woodsghost wrote:... A defensive gun without training is basically a talisman. It might ward off evil, but I wouldn't count on it.

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91Eunozs
ZS Lifetime Member
ZS Lifetime Member
Posts: 2075
Joined: Sat Dec 31, 2011 8:16 am
Favorite Zombie Movies: All of them!
Location: Hill Country, Texas

Re: The Dead at Destitute Mountain

Post by 91Eunozs » Fri Jun 13, 2014 1:09 pm

Does Mundy perhaps have a new partner in the making?

Maybe Liam will volunteer to leave the compound and seek "adventure" (or maybe just meaning to his life) in exchange for the girls?

TB: I love how you've written this story so damn well that I'm not only emotionally invested in the characters, I'm actively thinking about what they'll do (or what I think they should do) next. Great job...
Molon Latte...come & take our coffee order
Doctorr Fabulous wrote:... It's fun to play pretend, but this is the internet, and it's time to be serious.
zengunfighter wrote:... you don't want to blow a tranny in the middle of a pursuit...
woodsghost wrote:... A defensive gun without training is basically a talisman. It might ward off evil, but I wouldn't count on it.

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