A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse
reports and all the stuff our government denied at
first started to come out. I check my phone and I’ve got a
voicemail from my folks in Oakland.”
    “What happened to them?”
    “Dad... he left the message... he said things
were real bad and they were going to load up the car and get
on the I-80 and get the hell out of the city... get to a temporary
military shelter in San Francisco.”
    “I heard the Omega outbreak got real bad,
real quick in Oakland. Infected on every street, National Guard
shooting civilians, and civilians shooting civilians,” Farnsworth
noted.
    “Apparently things got so bad that in order
to protect their precious San Francisco the Army
dropped the Oakland Bay Bridge into the drink. The second and final
voicemail I got was my sister Steph telling me they were stuck in
traffic on the bridge. Said they were nearly on the west side and
as soon as things started moving again they would be safe... said
she would call me right back.” Elvis looked out the window and
discreetly dried a tear.
    “They were on the bridge when it was
demoed?”
    Seething inside Elvis nodded and said, “Upper
deck... and I hold the government fully responsible for not telling
the truth about the virus right away ... and secondly, for
the murders of my family.”
    “I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry
for your loss...”
    Elvis chuckled and looked coldly at
Farnsworth. “ Sorry is not going to bring them back. So I’m
just gonna put my nose to the grindstone and get to work buryin’
the dead. And later... later I’m gonna drink myself numb.”
    Farnsworth shifted uncomfortably in his seat,
put the truck in drive, and drove slowly across the base. After a
few minutes of uneasy silence he rekindled the conversation, taking
it in another direction entirely. “You said you were in Minot
before Z day. What the heck were you doing up there?”
    “Working for a drilling outfit.”
    “You drive a tractor there too?” Farnsworth
asked as the truck skittered and bounced along the rutted track
paralleling the twelve foot concertina topped fence, a thick plume
of dust roiling in its turbulent wake.
    “If it was made outta steel, painted a bright
ass gay color and just so happened to have an engine... I was
operatin’ it.” Elvis paused for a tick, his brow furrowed as he
squared his shoulders towards Farnsworth. “If they sent you to interrogate me... then y’alls paperwork is fouled up. I sat
down with a sour faced MoFo for an hour this morning... and I’m
gonna tell you exactly what I told them, I came to Colorado
Springs cause there was nothing left for me in Minot.”
    Farnsworth glanced sideways at his passenger.
The big man looked like he should be playing tight end for the
Cornhuskers, not just sporting their hat. Behind the yellow-lensed
safety glasses, Elvis’s ruddy sun-touched face wore a pinched
expression—almost as if he was carrying the weight of the world on
his shoulders. Hell, aren’t we all these days , Farnsworth
thought to himself as he slowed the truck near the edge of the base
proper. “All I know is that Colonel Shrill put each and every one
of us on high alert. Stay vigilant is what we were told,” he
said responding to the civilian’s accusation. “No I wasn’t prying.
I was just being friendly... that’s all.”
    Farnsworth brought the truck to a full stop
in front of a padlocked double gate in the far northeast corner of
the base, and he quickly rolled up his window in order to ward off
the stench of death and decay and to keep the encroaching tail of
dirt from invading the truck’s interior.
    As the dust vortex subsided, three walkers
materialized ambling towards the gate.
    “No disrespect,” Elvis said, “but what
happened to the cute lady soldier who picked me up yesterday?”
    “I’ve got no idea. We’re all spread so thin.
And it’s only gonna get worse before things turn around... if they
do.”
    Elvis adjusted his hat, keeping a watchful
eye on the advancing

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