Page 4 of My Apocalypse Mountain Man
The reality is different. Younger than her radio voice suggested, maybe late twenties. Soft features that remind me of my communications instructor at Fort Gordon, back when the world still had forts and instructors. There's a competence to her even while sleeping—her pack organized for quick access, her pistol positioned where she could reach if she woke suddenly.
A survivor.Like recognizes like.
The storm howls outside, getting worse as the night deepens. I check my preparations again—boards reinforced over windows, supplies organized, weapons loaded. Two hundred zombies. I've handled herds before, but never that large. Never in a storm that prevents escape routes.
"Can't sleep either?"
I turn to find Sierra standing in the bedroom doorway, wearing the oversized flannel shirt and sweatpants I'd left for her. Her feet are bare, and she's favoring the left one slightly—the one that came closest to real frostbite.
"You should rest," I tell her.
"Can't. Keep thinking about the herd." She limps to the other chair by the fire, lowering herself carefully. "How many zombies have you dealt with at once?"
"Forty-three."
"Exactly forty-three?"
"You count when your life depends on it."
She nods like this makes perfect sense. "My record is twenty-seven. But that was with a full team and prepared positions."
"And now it's just us."
"Unless you've got reinforcements hidden somewhere."
"Fresh out of reinforcements."
She almost smiles at that. "So what's the plan? We can't fight two hundred."
"No, but we might not have to." I move to the map on my wall, one I've annotated with every trail, every chokepoint, every defensive position in a five-mile radius. "Herds follow the easiest path. In this storm, that's the valley."
"But your cabin—"
"Is elevated. If we're quiet, if we're smart, they might pass right by."
"Might."
"Better odds than fighting."
She stands, moving closer to study the map. Close enough that I can smell her—woodsmoke and pine.
"What if we could divert them?" she asks, tracing a path with her finger. "Make noise here, draw them away from both the cabin and Old Pines?"
"That would require someone being bait."
"Orsomething. You have equipment, supplies. We could rig something automated."
I look at her. She's already thinking tactically, already problem-solving. Not panicking about the threat but working through solutions.
"What kind ofautomated?"
"Radio distraction. Speakers in trees, timed broadcasts. I've done it before to clear supply routes."
"That would take equipment I don't have."
"But equipment you could build?"
"Maybe. With help."
