To the south...
Armorer sat at his computer, waiting as the weak wifi link he'd hijacked was holding. He could hear the converted generator on the porch running. He'd hate to have it run down now-- it was already three o'clock in the morning est, he'd waited in the dark to conserve juice, finally kicking over the rigged diesel motor an hour before the satellite was scheduled to pass over head.
He'd paused before heading back inside to listen to distant moans and gurggles. The deaders were out tonight, as long as they concentrated in the city another couple of days he'd be fine for pulling out of Dodge by the end of the week.
Now he sat, lower back aching, groaning himself as his red eyes watched the little blue bar at the window's bottom as the next screen loaded.
"I'll fuckin shoot you if you cut out now you pos..." He muttered to the white, blank screen.
A message from TJ...the site owner had been AWOL since a week into the first outbreaks. That had been...six months? He was slipping. When was it?
Of the people from Security Arms, he knew that Damn Yankee had cut out a couple of weeks ago. UZI MIA two weeks after that when Texas shut down as a state. PT, of all people, had snagged one of the remaining flights out for the SHOT show-- the plane forced down in NY for quarentine. His last email had been a hopeful as a charter flight arranged by his editor carried them the rest of the way to Nevada.
The last news broadcast he'd managed before his end of the State's power grid died was a short lived report out of California-- one of three broadcasting stations left in that part of the country after the final California riots. A single man field team was covering a break in the wall between the US and Mexico.
By the time he'd actually found the damn thing the transmission was interrupted as infect zombies poured through a hole made as deadheads pulled at the monolithic wall.
A dead head climbed to the top, and for a moment, he couldn't help but see the Berlin Wall...then the illusion faded as the Zombie on top teetered over and fell to the other side.
And now it boiled down a fucking 28k connection.
At last, the screen flashed-- a simple white sheet with a brief typed letter from the SecurityArms chieftan. He could only give it a glance as he was startled by a rattling of chainlink on the back porch.
He hit print screen and marched around. Standing in the doorway he could see the dead head-- a middle aged bald man, a torn red flag for a cheek was walking blindly into the wire gate across the porch entrance.
A few feet to his left, the diesel generator puttered on.
He lined up the three glowing dots and focused on the pale palet between the diamond shaped wire grid. With a bark and brief flash, the .45 round struck the man on the temple. The lifeless corpse stoof for a moment before tumbling backwards against a pile of his brethren who'd come knocking earlier.
The man who called himself Armorer closed the door quietly, his mind elsewhere.
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