High Ground: House of Adair

[Zimmy]

Great stuff!

Now he needs a torch for that safe! Zombie writing tradition means there are 5 MP5SDs and 20k rounds of ammo in there

I hope the old guy doesnt have powder and ammo in the safe like I do in one of my older safes as a deterent for repeat offenders

[FlashDaddy]

Great installment!

Thanks.

[URBAN ASSAULT]

Great stuff!

Now he needs a torch for that safe! Zombie writing tradition means there are 5 MP5SDs and 20k rounds of ammo in there

I hope the old guy doesn't have powder and ammo in the safe like I do in one of my older safes as a deterrent for repeat offenders

Just because you brought this up, when the safe is finally opened it will be filled with antique Hummel figurines! Or snowglobes, 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' DVD's, or something else that will NOT be any use/fun whatsoever in destroying the Zed infestation.



This is why we can't have nice things during story-time.

-urban

[Zimmy]

Great stuff!

Now he needs a torch for that safe! Zombie writing tradition means there are 5 MP5SDs and 20k rounds of ammo in there

I hope the old guy doesn't have powder and ammo in the safe like I do in one of my older safes as a deterrent for repeat offenders

Just because you brought this up, when the safe is finally opened it will be filled with antique Hummel figurines! Or snowglobes, 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' DVD's, or something else that will NOT be any use/fun whatsoever in destroying the Zed infestation.



This is why we can't have nice things during story-time.

-urban

I ain't skeered.

Dogbane is NOT writing the traditional carbon copy story. If it is opened up, it will be something in his style (which I was complimenting)

[Nancy1340]

This is such a great story. Thanks

[maldon007]

If it is opened up, it will be something in his style (which I was complimenting)

A fuckin zombie someone locked in there, real hungry & pissed off

[dogbane]

Thanks for the encouragement! As for the safe, cracking it is outside James' skillset. He has other resources, though, if he chooses to return to it. Due to its size and shape, it is clearly a gun safe. But the gardener was no mall ninja or special operator as far as we can tell, so the odds of much beyond a shotgun and a thirty-ought-six--and maybe a handgun or two-- are pretty slim. I love the speculation, though, and also the fact that many of you are focusing on that detail.

If James gets into the safe, it will be because he is clever and understands how other people think.

Right now, James has to get out of that neighborhood, finish shopping and get back to the house and inside the fence.

Rob is due back any day now. His story still needs to be told somehow. When we left him, we were still a couple of days before James' arrival. Remember that we had to go back to his departure from "Adairville" four days earlier to recount his story, and we only got to his second day, although I'm thinking about stretching his cross-town slog out to multiple days, with the ZS crew showing up more around the fourth day than the second. I have no idea whether Rob will come back successful in his objective or not.

[223shootersc]

really like this story

[dogbane]

Great stuff!

Now he needs a torch for that safe! Zombie writing tradition means there are 5 MP5SDs and 20k rounds of ammo in there

I hope the old guy doesn't have powder and ammo in the safe like I do in one of my older safes as a deterrent for repeat offenders

Just because you brought this up, when the safe is finally opened it will be filled with antique Hummel figurines! Or snowglobes, 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' DVD's, or something else that will NOT be any use/fun whatsoever in destroying the Zed infestation.



This is why we can't have nice things during story-time.

-urban

A friend of mine was an advisor for a movie about a guy who gets stranded on a desert island. The production team sent him a lot of crazy, useless things that would be ridiculous on a desert island: chiffon dress; VHS tapes; ice skates. He came up with something useful for just about everything. There was even a volleyball.

[URBAN ASSAULT]

RIP. you were a good friend.

(BTW, I'm friggin' loving the Photobucket add-on for Firefox, makes saving pics so much faster, I really should have downloaded it sooner)

-urban

[dogbane]

Chapter 10 (An Interlude in which we wait for Mr. James Adair II to return from his unplanned foray further afield)

Cindy made a lunch of pinto beans and cream corn. Robby drank the whole can of evaporated milk. She fed the children, but her mind was on the torn canvas grocery bag that she pulled over the edge of the bluff, the ringing shatter from below. Dishes! Why dishes? He has all that French china. But that must be it. He must have wanted “everyday” dishes. He doesn’t want to eat his meals on fine china.

And they poured through that fence. She could see them coming from a cul-de-sac and through a yard with a rancid green swimming pool, then through some spot she couldn’t see behind the cedars. As soon as she saw him get over the fence, she ran. Should she have stayed longer? There were dozens coming. She didn’t want to attract them to the hilltop. So she ran. From the hilltop, she heard and saw the fence go down, saw him drive away. She hoped they were led away. She hoped they would just stay down there. She hoped they couldn’t learn to climb.

Caleb had found two books on the patio table, a memoir by Ernest Thompson Seton and a book about Indian scoutcraft. The flyleaf of each was inscribed to Caleb from James. There was a dogeared page in the second book. It described how to make and use bolas to hunt for birds. In the margin was inscribed: Lots of doves on this hill—your mom will know how to cook them. Go get ‘em!

Now he was eager to try making some bolas. She didn’t want to let the kids out of her sight. She didn’t want to leave the patio. She didn’t want to leave the presence of the henge. But Caleb was now intent on this project, and that he had to do it right away.

She decided that the front steps would be a good place to sit and wait, and she could let the kids run a bit on the street and in the neighbors’ yards. Caleb could work on his project out there, and she could think about what to do next.
Janey still lugged the two big books around. She had actually found some of the courtyard plants in the book and had pressed the flowers and leaves on the pages. Now she was examining flowers in front of the house and bringing them back for study. Caleb was diligently knotting some paracord to some rocks he had found. Cindy picked up the book that inspired Caleb. She looked at the illustration of the boy whirling the bolas over his head.

“Caleb,” she called. “You let me check your knots before you go spinning that thing around.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“I mean it. No spinning until I’m satisfied it won’t kill one of us.”

“Yes, Mama. I promise.

“And you have to go way over there to try it.”

“That’s what I’m going to do, mama,” he replied. “I’m gonna go dove hunting.”

“Well, just be careful,” she said, which Caleb knew meant she was done talking.

Caleb made his bolas and Cindy tested his knots. She had to give her kid credit for tying some decent knots. She made him go down the steps and into the street to try it out. He spun them and they wrapped around his wrist. He tried again but when he let go they flew behind him. The next time, he glanced himself in the head. He tried again and again until he was throwing it generally the same way and in the direction he intended each time.

Before long, Caleb was stalking doves in the tall grass. He suffered through several disappointments and admirably resisted the urge to hurl his new weapon at the birds as they settled on the defunct wires overhead. The sun was hot and cicadas whirred all around. Robby had grown cranky so Cindy made a shaded cushion fort for him on a broad step and he promptly fell asleep.

Janey also grew tired and curled up with her books in the shade of an old dogwood on a bed of liriope.

Caleb worked his way down the street, hurling his tethered stones at coveys of doves. Cindy was about to call him back when she heard him yelling excitedly. She stood and began to walk down the steps.

“I got ‘em! I got ‘em!” He ran to the yard where he had thrown his bolos and stopped abruptly. Cindy wondered what made him stop.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“What do I do with them now?” Caleb asked.

“Are they dead?” Cindy asked.

“I think so. I got two at one time. They were flying together!"

Cindy bent to see and there were indeed two plump mourning doves tangled in Caleb’s contraption. They were motionless.

"Yep, you got them all right. You want me to pick them up?”

Caleb nodded, seeming uneasy. Cindy watched his expression brighten and cloud in rapid succession. She could see the conflict on his brow, his pride locked in battle with his remorse.

“Do you think you could get more?” Cindy asked hopefully. Caleb nodded seriously. "Yes, Mama, I can."

Through luck or persistence, or from all the time playing catch and perfecting his throw under his father’s coaching, Caleb bagged four squabs in all. Cindy wished she could roast them. Maybe they could be pan-fried.

She wondered whether James would be back soon and whether she could wait down by the gate to open it for him. In the silence of the valley, she would hear a horn two miles away, easily. She noted that she had heard no more gunfire since the incident in the hollow below the bluff. Wherever James was, he wasn’t shooting.

The afternoon was tipping toward evening. Cindy did not want to do anything but wait. Robby and Janey slept. Caleb and Cindy plucked and cleaned the birds and sat on the steps with the sun over their shoulders. They waited.

(Edit to Add: I've hit 100 manuscript pages. Past 28k words.)

[DAVE KI]

Pan fried with pepper and a few other spices, mmm good.

[Nancy1340]

Four doves = four bites of bird.

Thanks for the new chapter.

[dogbane]

Four doves = four bites of bird.

Thanks for the new chapter.

Yeah, they'd be lucky to get eight ounces of meat from that. I wasn't doing my homework. Filler shapter not so filling.

[Nancy1340]

Hey, at least it would be four very good bites. Quality not quanity.

[Zimmy]

Meat protien in even small amounts can make a happy tummy

[DAVE KI]

Or...or, four very good chapters. LOL.

[dogbane]

Next part is going to take a little time. I have to get it as close to right as possible. New character coming.

[dustycanuck]

AAAGGGGGHHHHH - SPOILER!!!!

Take all the time you need, Wordsmith, we humbly await your bounty.

[maldon007]

Take all the time you need, Wordsmith...

But DO hurry!

[Nancy1340]

Take all the time you need but anytime in the next hour or so would be great!

[dogbane]

Not there yet. I haven't had enough time to write and I lost some momentum. I have been writing, though. As I said there is/are [a] new character[s], and I have to believe in their voices and actions before I post the next part. I can't say more without giving away too much.

[wee drop o' bush]

Looking forward to it DB

[dogbane]

Chapter 11

The boy ran from the shopping center parking lot down the bum path, which was strewn with bottles, trash, soiled garments, and scraps of cardboard. He carried a compound bow, youth model, in one hand. A quiver of arrows slapped against his leg and a pack bounced on his back. The path led into a wooded hollow and forked, and he ran unhesitatingly to the left and up a hill through the trees to a power line right of way overgrown with sumac and dogbane. The power line paralleled a plank fence. He crept through the sumac to a particular spot on that fence, scaled it, and dropped into the yard beyond. The yard had a boat on a trailer next to a garage with a second story on it. The boy climbed onto the boat, onto the cabin roof and disappeared through an open second floor window. The sash slid shut.

The garage apartment contained shabby bachelor furniture. An inert but expensive entertainment center lined one wall. A refrigerator stood silent, its compressor idle for some time. A girl of about fifteen sat cross-legged on a cracked leather couch. On a scarred coffee table in front of her rested a short-barreled revolver.

“Whadja get?” she asked.

He shucked his pack and opened it. He pulled out a can of corned beef hash.

“That’s good!” she said. “I like that.”

The boy brightened. “There’s more,” he said. He produced a six-pack of ramen noodles, two canned soft drinks, and an unopened bag of ginger snaps.

The girl shrugged but didn’t disapprove. She opened the bag of cookies and bit one.

“I wish we had ice,” she said.

“You and me both!” said the boy with forced good humor. She girl didn’t know how his heart raced, not only from the run, but from what he had run from. And what he had run to.

He had run from a shamble of zombies at the Winn Dixie. The shelves had been mostly empty there, and he had run in, grabbed what he could lay his hands on, and run out. The automatic doors were wide open, glass smashed anyway. Zombies roamed the aisles.

The boy—Nate was his name—was a fast runner with stamina. This is the main reason he survived. He was also talented in archery, having already placed in his age class in several competitions. But he was reluctant to use arrows on them. So he ran. Flight instead of fight worked for Nate most of the time.

He had run to a house. The house was his—or his mom and dad’s. The second floor garage apartment was his father’s “man-cave,” where he and his dad had spent many a Sunday evening watching old movies like Jeremiah Johnson and Last of the Mohicans. His mom and dad never came home, and he almost hadn’t. Had he not slipped away from his school group, he would not have.

The girl was the girl next door. She hadn’t lived here as long as Nate had. Her name was Chloe and she had curly dark hair and brown eyes. She liked to swim in her backyard pool. She, like Nate, was now orphaned. But unlike Nate, Chloe knew the fate of her parents. They were still next door, still likely bumbling about in the basement where she had locked them.

Chloe acted cranky and tried to boss Nate. Sometimes grudgingly, he tried to find ways to make her happy, risking his neck in the process. She stayed and guarded the man-cave with her father’s thirty-eight.

And now she sat and smiled as she drank a soft drink and ate ginger snaps. Nate opened the can of hash and spooned it out into his mess kit skillet. It smelled like cat food, which really wasn’t that bad. He used an alcohol marine stove to cook it, and it smelled delicious.

This was not the first time he had gone to the store to get food. But he never had a problem sticking to twelve items or less. For one, there wasn’t much on the shelves. For another thing, he always had to keep running the whole time. Oh, he could take his time getting there—at least until he got to the edge of the woods. Even the bum path (his dad’s name for it—for his father had placed his own names on his mental map of the landscape: Bum Path, Troll Hollow, Crackerbox Village), once a place where scary men once lurked, was now unoccupied by the living or the dead.

The second-floor garage apartment (from which vantage point he used to watch Chloe swim) felt safe. The fence around the yard was built plank-by-plank—no fence panels from the big box hardware store was good enough for his dad, oh no. “Good fences make good neighbors,” his dad had said to him, “And this fence is going to be the best neighbor we can have, Nate!” Nate had helped and built up his right arm swinging a hammer all summer. And his dad hadn’t stopped at the fence. He was on a roll and before the first frost Nate had a multi-tiered tree fort with trapdoors and retractable ladders.

He could see it from the second-floor window of the garage apartment.

He got water from Chloe’s swimming pool. It was starting to turn green, but he showed her how you could filter water with some cloth and some sand, and then boil it or treat it with a little unscented bleach and let it sit. He had what he considered a bright idea of taking the undersink filter out of the kitchen in his old house—the house with the family photos and the nice furniture and bookcases and his toys and the occasional thing he had to run and find: a knife, a ball of twine, or a pair of socks—and somehow running water through it.

But he hadn’t tried it yet, and the sink was in the kitchen at the front of the house, and he was afraid that noisily messing with plumbing would attract zombies. He could see them walking up and down the street, sometimes alone and sometimes in groups, and sometimes something would draw their attention and they would go this way or that. And always they pass without stopping by his house, his house with its strong fence and solid gate, and the second story fortress and tree house annex and the reservoir next door. If he kept himself and Chloe fed, they could stay here as long as they wanted.

His own family had not had a lot of food in the pantry. He remembered a time when there was, but then his mom lost her job last year and got sick soon afterward, and they had eaten up most of what his dad had called their “rainy day food”. Chloe said her family ate out all the time and all they had in their kitchen were condiments, cocktail ingredients, and spices in fancy bottles in a decorative rack.

Nate felt uneasy about going into the homes of neighbors and taking their things. He was surprised at how little storable food was in many people’s houses, anyway. He did find pasta and sauces and some canned food, and was building up decent pantry. But he worried he wouldn’t find enough, or that some house would have a rotten surprise hiding within. And he had unnamed worries, worries he did not understand, some of which revolved around the girl from next door. The girl eating ginger cookies before lunch.

And then they heard gunshots coming from the direction of the hill with the big house on it, the hill his dad had called Mt. Rare-air.