A Bible For the Zombie Apocalypse

Chapter 7: Rescue

Did I mention that nothing young survives?

What was I thinking?  All that crap about wanting to be nice to the ravaged kid-wriggler?  Wanting a pet zombie?  An decrepit, eight-year-old zombie in a wheelchair would be a hundred times easier to keep than a puppy!

Two puppies?  Don't kid yourself.  It's more than twice as hard as one! 

I am an idiot.

For one thing they are noisy.  They don't know better than to whine and cry whenever they feel like it--which is what got us into this mess in the first place!  And they eat a ton.  You would think such little things would only need a little bit of food.  But no.  They eat and eat and never stop whining for more. 

Here's a harsh (but true) fact of life in the zombie apocalypse:  a normal survivor would butcher these pups and enjoy the fresh meat!

Why am I so weird?

Why would I risk my life to keep them alive?

Sure, maybe someday--if by some miracle they manage to survive the next few months--they might come in handy.  Maybe I could train them to hunt, or to be guard dogs?  Maybe they could learn to flush out the hiding, smart zombies and keep them from sneaking up on me?

It all sounds great until you consider how unlikely it is that they will make it through the week--that I will make it through the week, if I'm dumb enough to try keeping them alive.  If I'm dumb enough to try keeping them, period.

I have them in one of the pouches of my tactical equipment vest, which I normally use for carrying grenades.  The pouch has been empty the last few months, which makes me wonder about the grenade launcher I continue to lug around.  Grenades are getting harder to find.  The M203 I carry is a single-shot, 40mm, under-barrel grenade launcher that attaches to my M4.  It's pretty compact, considering what it can do.  It only weighs 3 pounds, but every pound counts when you carry your whole life on your back.

Still, if I end up coming across more grenades, I'd really regret not having it. 

Remember what I was saying about ditching equipment that weighed more than it was worth in survival value?  How I'd hide it and mark the place on my map so I could go back and retrieve it if I decided I needed it after all?  That tactic works, but it's definitely a big hassle to backtrack.  The problem is the sneaky, hiding zombies.  It's basically impossible to clean them all out from behind you.  They tend to build up number-wise until something--like the cry of a weak, vulnerable pup--draws them out.

Why they don't always come out after me is a mystery.  Talking to myself draws the dumb ones out, but the smart ones slink behind me, staying in the shadows until the shooting stops and I turn around, so my back is to them.  That's why I've learned to scope my surroundings after clearing out the dumb ones.  If any of the smart ones start slinking toward me, I take them out. 

The interesting thing is they hardly ever do that anymore.  Which means they've learned something.  They've learned not to approach me when my rifle is up. 

Gunfire normally draws the average, dumb zombies out.  They know it means food and they don't understand risk.  Remember?  The dumb ones want meat more than life.  But the sneaky, smarter ones seem to have a survival instinct.  They seem to understand the danger associated with my gun being up in the firing position.  Are they learning?

All I know for sure is, whatever ends up drawing the sneaky slinkers out has to be really tempting.  You know?  Like really weak and really alive.  Or else, once my gun is going off, they'll slink back to their hiding places.

My count after rescuing the two pups:  47 slinkers.  It took almost 200 rounds from my dwindling supply of 5.56 to put them all down, mostly because once the lead zombie started tearing into the slowest pup, it caused a feeding frenzy, which always happens when there is fresh, warm blood in the air.  Even the slinkers can't control themselves.  No matter how many go down all around them, the blood draws them on, in spite of the danger.  No amount of shooting from me will scare them away.

I had to switch from single-shot, to burst mode, where one pull of the trigger fires 3 rounds.  There were just too many of them to take them out more precisely and methodically, with single, well-aimed shots.

Did I mention the sneaky, hiding zombies are all fast?

"No excuses!" the voice in my head says.  Not an imaginary voice--it's the voice of this guy who trained me in survival.  He said it--no, he shouted it--so many times, the echo is still in there, reminding me to be better.  Smarter.  Stronger. 

"You'll never survive if you keep wasting ammo like that!" 

I don't even want to think about what he'd say if he knew I did it to rescue a family of feral dogs.  Ugh!  What if he found out I kept the pups?

I wouldn't even try to defend my actions to him.  I'd just shrug and say, "Looks like we're gonna need more ammo."

A low chuckle escapes me as I imagine the look on his face.  Then I wipe off the silly grin.  I am going to need more ammo.  All my 9mm is gone.  I have a two full magazines of 5.56mm--that's 40 rounds--plus the magazine already loaded in the M4, which is down to 7.

Lucky number 7.  Crap!  30 empty mags.  Definitely makes the pack lighter, but...well, I guess now is as good a time as any to backtrack, since I just cleaned up the slinkers that have building up under cover behind me for the last few weeks.

I pull out the two pups and hold them up a few inches in front of my face.  "At least one good thing has come out of this stupid situation," I tell them.  "The road back should be clear of zombies for at least a few days." I still have some caches of ammo buried back there.  And some MRE's.  No grenades...but there is a place I might be able to find some.

I put the pups back in their pouch and begin retracing my steps.

I wonder if he's still there?