15. Smarter Every Day
Staying Human
Fuel and Fire
The morning light filtered gray through the live oaks as the group broke camp behind the old Hopewell Church. Jack heated water on the green Coleman for coffee while everyone choked down MREs. He drew the chicken burrito bowl and shook his head with a grunt.
“Today’s soldiers are spoiled,” he muttered. “No ham and chicken loaf to complain about. Damn shame.”
Raych gave him a tired smile and passed the percolator. The rich, dark aroma rose warm and familiar in the humid morning air. It cut through the lingering damp of the night and steadied his nerves. Small rituals. Hot coffee. Even bad food tasted better when shared with family.
Jack laid out the plan while they ate. “Twenty minutes to the Georgia line. Another twenty to the first bridge over Little Suwannee Creek. Then about twenty more to Fargo and the second bridge at the edge of town. We do this careful. Drone recon first on every choke point. Then my own eyes on it. No heroics.”
They rolled out slow. The drone hummed ahead on its tether of battery life while the convoy stayed tight. Both bridges proved unavoidable. The first crossed Little Suwannee Creek on two-lane blacktop with concrete curbs and low fences made of stacked railroad ties. Thick forest pressed close, barely five yards from the road. The second spanned the wider Suwannee River at the edge of Fargo. Same design, bigger water. No fording either one.
At the first bridge Jack and Raych dismounted. They moved forward on foot while the trucks held back. A broken-down car sat square in the middle of the span. Three Walkers loitered nearby. Without the drone they might have driven right into it.
Jack hefted a heavy rock and hurled it at the car. The loud clang echoed across the bridge and rolled into the trees. The Walkers turned fast and came on at a shambling run. Jack and Raych raised their rifles. Two crisp head shots dropped the first pair. Jack took the third with a clean round just as it reached the near side. The bodies hit the pavement with wet thuds.
“Clear,” Jack called back. “They’re getting quicker. And that was an ambush sure as hell.”
Tom and Jack quickly cleared the car on the bridge with a tow strap and the F-150.
They pushed on into Georgia. The second bridge stood empty. Jack and Sarah walked it on foot while the trucks followed slow behind. The town of Fargo opened up quiet and still. A boat launch sat on the right. On the left the Dollar General showed heavy fire damage. Blackened walls and a collapsed roof. Good scavenging lost to flame.
A few blocks farther they reached the Marathon gas station and convenience store. Jack gave the signal. The trucks pulled in and formed a tight barrier in front of the store. The air already carried the faint sweet smell of old spilled fuel.
“Raych, Sarah, you’ve got guard,” Jack ordered. “Mikey, up in the bed of the F-150 as lookout. Tom, you’re with me on the fuel.”
Tom eyed the pumps and the ground. “Underground tanks are full. But tapping them direct would be suicide. One spark and ten thousand gallons go up. This station is on a marked hurricane evac route and should have a StormSwitch. Emergency transfer setup. Should be a big gray box on the back wall.”
They found it. Tom was starting to puzzle over the lock when Jack returned with the crowbar. He set the end under the cover and heaved. Metal shrieked loud and harsh across the lot. The cover tore open with a groan.
Tom grinned. “Perfect. Needs 240-volt power. Let’s check with Grok, but I saw the EMS and Fire Station right across the street. Bet they have what we need.”
Tom and Jack conferred quickly with Grok: “Yes, there is certainly an appropriate generator there. It is a Clinch County EMS facility.”
They did not even need to move the trucks. Jack and Tom walked over, broke into the fenced yard behind the fire station, and rolled the heavy diesel generator across the road on its wheels. The big commercial unit had the right voltage selector and cabling. Fifteen minutes of sweat and they had it hooked up beside the pumps.
Jack took a quick look inside the convenience store. “Five minutes to scavenge what we can. Then we fire it up.”
The shelves offered slim pickings. Tourist trap items mostly. They grabbed jerky, candy, and bags of potato chips. Simple comforts after weeks of iron rations and MREs. The familiar plastic rustle of the bags felt almost normal.
“Once this thing fires up every Walker in earshot will come running,” Jack warned. “Tom, Sarah, and Mikey handle the fueling. Raych and I take perimeter. Weapons free in every direction except back toward the pumps.”
Tom nodded. “The pumps will want card transactions. I’ll cut the computers out of the loop once power comes on.”
They ran hoses, connected everything, and got the nozzles ready. Sarah and Tom each held a Glock in one hand and a fuel nozzle in the other. Mikey worked two nozzles at once into the jerry cans.
Tom hit the starter. The generator roared to life like an angry construction site. The deep diesel rumble shook the pavement and filled the air. Once satisfied it ran steady, Tom moved inside the store and flipped the bypass switch. Five minutes of noise and tension passed. Then the pumps hummed. Gas began to flow with a steady, satisfying gurgle.
Six minutes in the first Walkers appeared. Not the old stumbling kind. Eight or ten of them moved in a rough wedge formation with one clear leader at the point. They came at a near run. Smarter. Coordinated. Hungry.
“Contact!” Jack shouted.
His AR cracked in controlled bursts. Raych poured fire beside him. Empty brass rained onto the pavement with sharp metallic pings. The leader dropped at twenty yards. Others fell behind it. Jack took the last one at five yards, the Walker’s reaching hands still clawing as it collapsed. A line of bodies now pointed straight at the station like an arrow.
The nozzles clicked off. Tanks full. Four jerry cans topped off. Seventy-five gallons of fuel. With their reserve and an estimated twelve miles per gallon, they now carried a four hundred and fifty mile operating range.
“Mount up!” Jack ordered.
Everyone piled into the vehicles. Engines revved. The convoy pulled out of Fargo and headed north on US 441. The generator still rumbled behind them. Smoke from distant fires mixed with the sharp smell of fresh gasoline on the warm air.
Raych looked over at Jack. “You left the generator running?”
Jack chuckled. “Yep. That noise will attract the damn zombies from every direction. Fuck ’em.”
Grok spoke once they put distance between them and the town. “Analysis of the engagement complete. The entities displayed basic tactical coordination. Wedge formation. Designated leader. Speed increased. This matches early indicators of hive-like behavior. The virus continues to refine its host organisms. And Jack is correct. The Zombie Hive will be attracted to the generator noise.”
Jack kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Wait, Grok. What did you say? Zombie Hive?”
“Yes, Jack. They are beginning to behave as a coordinated group. A hive. They are tracking us.”
Tom’s voice came over the walkie. “Smarter every day. We’ll have to get smarter faster.”
The trucks rolled deeper into Georgia. Full tanks. Full jerry cans. And the growing knowledge that the things hunting them were learning new tricks. The family stayed tight. Rifles ready. Coffee mugs still warm in the cup holders.
They would need every advantage they could get.
Bougie Apocalypse
A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
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