The Fortress

Prologue

Z

Book 1
Z-Vac

Written By
Alan Green

Chapter 1
The Fortress

The setting sun shone bright in Russell Martin's face as he rides the Honda Gold Wing west on U.S. 6 across Nevada, through the New Northern Mojave Desert, toward California, the Pacific, and a new life. Wind whips overgrown blond hair, works its way around sunglasses and stings pale blue eyes. He smiles, loves it out here. No need to weave through a maze of abandoned cars. This far out every scrap of usable material was carted away soon enough. Not like cities where busted vehicles were left in the middle of highways to decay, creating a dangerous obstacle course. In the desert Russell could enjoy riding the way he had in saner times, before the world economy disintegrated, before half the population became disenfranchised, jobless, homeless, insane, or terminally ill with what was popularly called Z-Virus. Before his world, everyone's world, fell to pieces.

The desert had other advantages. An almost complete lack of vegetation made hiding impossible. Anything, threat or otherwise, could be spotted in the distance. Nonetheless, out of habit, he checked the rear-view every few seconds, scanned constantly.

The clock reads four-thirty. It would be dark soon. He needed a safe place to spend the night. The small plateau held promise. There were boulders at the base of these outcroppings behind which one could camp unseen. He didn't look forward to another night outside. It was winter. In the desert the days were warm enough, but nights were brutally cold, though that kept the infected away, which in turn made it easier to sleep. A trade off of sorts. He twists the throttle, within seconds doing more than a hundred. No time to waste.

The sign reads: Food, Water, Shelter. Uninfected only. MAKE SURE NOTHING FOLLOWS YOU!

Welcome surprise. He had seen many like this on his way from the east coast. Makeshift rest stops were tucked away here and there, offering a safe place to sleep, supplies. Their signage usually a mix of heedful welcome and stern admonition. They never failed to amuse.

The price of a night's stay was traded goods. Money had no value outside heavily populated areas. Russell had penicillin, aspirin, even morphine and syringes. All valuable since the collapse.

He parks the bike out of sight, shoulders a twelve-gauge, checks his forty-fives, rounds in both chambers, and heads up the path next to the sign, taking it slow, checking every hiding place, shotgun muzzle leading the way. In a half-hour he comes to a clearing. Small building. Nothing special. A simple corrugated house, shed in back, yard full of rocks.

Signs dot the perimeter. BURIED LIVE MINES, they warn, with arrows pointing left and right at stony gravel on either side. A common courtesy. Lines of Claymores, their wiring marked with red flags tied every few feet. Another sign: TRIPWIRES AT YOUR FEET. Above the door, on sun-bleached plywood: 'THE FORTRESS'.

STAY ON THE WALKWAY. He did, stepping over loose gravel to keep quiet, following the zig-zag path to the door (straight paths were too easy for the infected to follow). He slings the shotgun, draws an automatic, taps the barrel on the door.

'Hello. Saw the signs. Looking for a place to sleep.' No answer. 'I have goods to trade.'

There was a ritual when checking into a rest stop for the night. First, one had to make it clear he or she wasn't sick. This had been established as the simple sentences Russell had already spoken were beyond the ability of the infected. Getting to the front door without tripping a mine was also unfeasible (they couldn't read warning signs).

Sometimes, the proprietor would ask questions to make sure. If a prospective visitor's answers were incorrect, or even too slow, the snappy retort would be a shotgun blast through the door. Nobody could afford to take chances. After formalities and a succinct nervous greeting, negotiations were made, goods transferred, and a polite if somewhat brittle invitation was offered. This time, however, there was only silence.

'I'm not infected. I have goods to trade. Medicines.' Russell imagines twitchy holdouts pointing guns at the door. He steps to the side and leans close to listen. No reply. 'Are you injured or sick?' He realizes how silly the question is. If someone was badly injured or so sick they couldn't answer the door they probably couldn't answer the question. With no other course of action left he slowly reaches out, grasps the knob, turns. Unlocked. Controlling his breathing he pushes the door open.

The smell of death hits him. He flinches and grimaces as a reflex even though, emotionally, he had long since become numbed to the offense. He inhales deeply to clear his head and opens the door wide. Dark, silent. Eyes wide, he reaches in, flips the light switch, which does nothing. He points his penlight. Dust floats in its narrow beam.

The sun has almost set. He had to go back down in near darkness and set up camp blind, eat dinner out of a can. It was probably the smart thing to do. He decided against it and steps inside.



Chapter 2, 'Vaccine'