Which was fine, Gus figured.
He’d been too damn reliant on Collie anyway. Too quick to follow. Not that Collie was a bad person to follow. She was the best. But now… she was gone, and Gus realized he had to start thinking for himself rather than wait for orders.
The thought of her made his heart ache, and his throat clutched until it hurt. Unable to wipe at his eyes because of his helmet’s visor, Gus blinked away the sadness. Collie would not approve.
The lit floor below him stretched out ahead about a dozen paces. Gus felt like he was chasing a moving void that was always just out of reach. Rogan told Gus not to worry about his own safety. There were only two ways into the security command center. One was the secret elevator that Gus had used. The other was through a series of stairwells that linked the many levels of the bunker.
And when Gus left him, two steel doors closed, sealing the assistant within Whitecap’s inner keep.
The lighting ahead exposed a stairwell stamped with the block characters ‘A7’ on the wall. He hurried down the seven flights of stairs, all the way to ground level, and by the time he reached ‘A1’, his legs were aching dearly. His treacherous foot was in full revolt, and the other one wasn’t too happy either.
Gus hung off the steel railing, his shoulders lurching, and stood at an intersection. The steps continued below, and if he leaned out over the railing, he could just make out ‘B1’. Those steps would take him deeper underground, under the ground entrance, and he could only guess at what was kept down there.
He studied the three wide passageways open before him. The C-area corridor was to the right of the stairwell. That would take him back to the underground paradise he’d walked through earlier, except this time he would be backstage, in the ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ sections.
Barbarians, he thought.
Forcing himself into a jog, Gus left the stairwell behind and forged ahead, the lights flicking on as he labored along, puffing like a steam engine. Black double doors passed by, leading to the shopping sector and woodlands he’d seen on the other side. Across from each set of doors was a techy-looking area filled with computer terminals, filing cabinets, and doors leading to, presumably, additional storage areas. A single sliding door with a keypad granted access to those rooms, but a couple were opened.
Gus rushed by them all.
“Where the hell’s… one of them… goddamn buggies?” he rasped, slowing to a forced march and grimacing with every step. The helmet and body armor weren’t as heavy or claustrophobic as his firefighter’s gear, but it was every bit as hot. Hotter since he was inside the temperature-controlled innards of a mountain fortress. Whatever thin layers of body fat he might’ve stored over the winter were quickly melting.
Doors came and went, some spaced apart only a few meters, others more than thirty.
He was getting close now. Very close. Rogan said he would have to go back the way he traveled, then follow the lit hallways until he reached the batting cages.
Rogan. Poor bastard. All alone this whole time, living in what was essentially a giant grave. Bound to a wheelchair and munching on, of all things, deodorant sticks.
That made Gus stop in his tracks.
Well, shit, he thought. When he put it that way, how could the guy not be just a little insane?
I’m not… a bad person,” the assistant had said. “I saved… you. After all. And I’ll save your companions.”
Gus walked on a few more steps and faced the doorway marked ‘Batting Cages’. There were two bolt locks on his side, both unlocked, and when Gus tried turning the knob first, it didn’t move. A second later there was an audible click, and the door opened.
I’ll be watching where I can, Rogan had also said, just before Gus left him. Whatever surveillance cameras the bunker had were expertly hidden. Gus didn’t see anything that resembled a black, overturned snow cone.
He turned the doorknob and cautiously stuck his head inside.
Two lonely lights barely lit up six cages, six distinct lanes divided by netting. Gus realized he was at the rear of the batting area, opposite where the balls would be belted. Three pitching machines were aimed at their respective home plates, one of which was located about ten feet away from him, standing like a silent sentinel cannon. Another three machines were parked in a distant corner to Gus’s left. An artificial turf covered the floor, and lawn chairs were just visible at the other end, providing onlookers a place to perch while they waited their turn.
Or whatever. Gus couldn’t give a fuck about the particulars. He wanted the goods, and he saw them. Mounted on a gray wall, on the left side of the batting area. The bats stood tall and proud and beckoned him like Olympic torches. Most were colored, from bright orange to glow-in-the-dark green.
Gus then saw the clear glass, which ran the length of the room, right behind where the spectators’ chairs were set up.
“Why, Lord?” Gus whispered at the ceiling. “Why do you save my ass, only to kick it back into the shitter? Time after time? I mean… fuck.”
Keeping abreast of the netting and the shadows, Gus discovered his second wind as he walked past the individual batting lanes. Halfway through, he discovered the middle lane wasn’t enclosed at all, and actually led to the front of the batting area.
He turned the corner, eyes on the glass wall, and eventually reached the bat rack. Wood and alloy bats were firm to the touch. Numbers flittered by, designating weight of each bat. He stopped at a plain gray aluminum slugger, with the number ‘8’ above it. The plainness of that length of metal, soon to be head splitter, attracted him.
Gus took the bat and held it samurai style. It was a good weight. Just under two pounds, yet powerful, and ready to smash.
“Sorry, woodies,” he muttered to the others. “I’ve found Miss Right.”
A light flickered on outside the cages from the main walkway, and a shadow raced up to the glass. A floppy hand, boneless from the wrist up, smashed against the clear partition, and sent oily rivulets shooting in all directions. The thing pressed its face against the surface, flattening a cheek, and stretching the skin around a milky eyeball.
An eyeball that slowly split open from the pressure.
Gus grimaced at the sight.
His grimace deepened as more undead (he discovered he had a problem with thinking of these things as alive) caught up and joined the first one at the window. He didn’t know how they’d tracked him through what he suspected should have been an air-tight bunker. Maybe the smell afflicting him got sucked up into an airduct or something. In any case, they’d found him. The rest of the pack charged right up to the window and crashed into it like the mindless monsters they were. No more than three dozen of the creatures.
Gus held his bat across his pelvis and glowered at the hateful things.
Then he remembered where he was.
And what was with him.
He retreated, keeping to the shadows, and stopped in a corner with the discarded pitching machines. He studied the black mesh enclosing each designated batting lane. The mesh extended upwards, where it was suspended in an intricate lattice consisting of more rope and support rods hanging from the ceiling.
It was the finest netting Gus had ever seen in his life.
He approached the midway point and rested for all of ten seconds, while his plan took form.
All the while, the mindless tracked him, pounding upon the glass.
He would have to work fast. Very fast. And, even then, he’d have to kill them as if he were in a supercharged game of whack-a-mole, because they would be pissed. Super pissed. And flailing, maybe even desperate.
Excitement began to build as Gus walked up the center lane partitioning the six batting cages, three on either side, towards the main entrance.
This would be close. So very close.
He eyed the door controls. There were two buttons, clearly marked, along with a third one labeled “lock.”
The zombies moved toward the entrance, ready to intercept. T
hey were shifting, pawing, piling onto one another, a terrifying multi-legged amoeba of flesh and bone. Eyes watched him. Teeth snapped. Fingers dragged over the surface of the glass, some bursting under the extreme pressure. More faces pressed up against the glass, which was becoming a nightmarish smear of skin and blood.
“Careful what you wish for… bitches.”
Gus hefted the bat and tapped the door control.
The portal swung inward.
The scrum of zombies fell forward in a gush, landing in a noisy, howling sprawl. The ones pushing from behind fell over them, as they, in turn were shoved from behind.
Gus didn’t wait for them to rise. He was already at the end of the middle lane and turning right, back towards the corner filled with pitching machines, bypassing and staying clear of all those fine batting meshes just hanging in the wind.
The first few zombies to stand charged forward, heedless of Gus’s more precise route, and charged after him at an angle—going through the netting. The first lane collapsed with an alarming crackle, the mesh falling over at least four gimps. That cleared the way for the rest, but even as the others charged forward, their feet became entangled. One runner avoided the trapped few until a zombie caught under the mesh attempted to rise.
Pulling the net backwards.
Which yanked the charging zombie off his feet and onto his face. That ugly spill tripped up two more right behind him, and they went down in a savage heap.
Gus backed himself into the corner and watched the mayhem.
Mindless raved and trudged over the netting, stomping over the ones trapped underneath. That heaving mess slowed them until they reached the second batting lane. They trundled forward, their fingers stabbing through the mesh. More than a few digits were bowed backward until snapping. The mindless lurched into the netting and the combined weight pulled the support lattice down from the ceiling with a clatter. More zombies were entangled, until the whole floor resembled a spidery oil spill. Those still trying to rise hampered the charge of those free, until, ultimately, they all went down.
Which opened the way for the last of them… and those that got past their struggling companions ran face-first into the netting of the third batting lane, yanking a final layer of mesh from the ceiling. The whole area became a thrashing, seething marsh of rising and falling bodies, becoming increasingly entangled with every passing second. In every instance where one zombie attempted to stand, the surrounding chaos pulled the thing back down.
It was glorious.
Gus waited until the foremost of the mindless got within range—a man with the netting pulled tight over his head and screaming through a mouthful of mesh. Gus broke open his skull with one swing—that unsettling crack of metal on bone serving as a starting pistol. When the creature went down, Gus retreated to the bat rack, while the entire floor attempted to follow him.
They could not.
It was a chaotic, lilting tug of war, with no unity beyond being ensnared in the net. Zombies would stand only to be yanked off their feet when others trapped underneath a section would rise. Those covered in mesh would inadvertently drag the net over others. All the while, the lattice of rods and ceiling hooks—pulled down by the mindless—became an anchor, slowing the undead even more.
Gus picked his second target and bashed in its skull. He killed a third, then a fourth, avoiding stepping onto the net itself.
Plenty of zombies remained.
“Fuck me,” Gus muttered, realizing just how many were after him. The sight of all those trapped gimps deflated his initial elation of a successful plan. It was going to take time to slaughter them all. And energy.
Thanks, Lord, he mentally projected.
Taking a deep breath, he smashed the next head.
45
Roughly three dozen of the Leather followed the trail of the mindless. Blood streaked the walls in gruesome bar codes, while thick spatters of gore coated the floor.
It was as if a bleeding mob had squeezed their collective asses through a narrow passage. As the Leather delved deeper into the bunker’s hidden realms, overhead lights automatically switched on. The Bronze strode behind the advancing Leather, surrounded by a handful of minions. His mask barely acknowledged the artificial splendor of the bunker’s indoor beach or shimmering night sky. He didn’t care for the shop façades or the numerous sport and entertainment attractions.
He wanted the prize.
For the Dog Tongue.
The Bronze gripped his executioner’s axe in one fist. Somewhere in this subterranean maze was a little girl. The little girl was important. Very important to the Leather’s plans of expansion. The bunker, however, had the potential to be even more so.
There were weapons to be found.
He could smell it.
But before the Leather could devote time to finding those weapons, he had to contend with the task at hand. So, they followed their unleashed hounds, keeping just enough distance from the mob, and let the mindless do the thing they did best.
Find the meat.
The entrances leading to the bunker’s amenities were locked, and one of the Leather with a bat actually clubbed the glass—to no effect. The Bronze barked at the minion in a rare display of anger. They needed to employ stealth, not brute force. There was no need to smash anything. Not on this particular hunt.
Something caught the Bronze’s attention, however.
The place was clean.
Despite the deluge of bodies leading up and into the bunker, this section was cleared of the dead. Which puzzled him.
The lights continued to switch on for the Leather as they strode past elaborate sets resembling beach fronts draped in shadow.
Shops, the Bronze noted. So many shops. As if the living believed reconstructing the old world would have any benefit. The old world was gone. Forever. Those who believed otherwise were either dying or already dead.
The Leather ahead stopped and gathered before a shoe shop.
The Bronze saw why.
One of those small golf carts had been jammed through the glass front. Glass pebbles covered the floor. Displays had been either flipped or pushed aside, as if a tank had rolled through the aisle, bursting it completely. Toppled boxes spilled sneakers and packing paper onto the floor, leaving a trail to the rear of the shop.
The Bronze signaled for his minions to wait while he studied the scene. After a moment, he crawled over the cart and stood within the shop. No lights came on, so the executioner readied his axe and headed inside. The Bronze took two steps and paused, cocking his head, listening. Nothing sprang at him from the dark. No one challenged him.
He explored further, pushing through the clutter, dislodging a few boxes as he went.
The trail ended in a back room, where another surprise waited. The overhead light came on as he entered, revealing an open doorway filled with four dead people—their heads either partially destroyed by gunfire or blown off entirely. Blasted soot covered the door frame and nearby shelves, as if an entire can of black paint had exploded. The bodies were stacked unevenly over each other, perhaps shot as they attempted to clear the door.
The Bronze studied the scene carefully. His minions gathered behind him, every bit as curious. Hefting his axe to his shoulder, he leaned outside.
The light overhead came to life.
The tall man leaned one way, then the other, before stepping into a cinder block corridor.
Ah, the Bronze thought.
Bodies filled both sides of the hall, long since dried and gone the way of leather, right up and into the darkness on either end. Most of them were facedown and dressed in casual clothing, but a few of them wore the blood caked remains of uniforms. Heads were opened in the back like melons split by axes. Dead hands clawed at the air. Lower legs and feet stuck up as if the zombies had been shot from behind.
The Bronze spotted something at the very edge of the light, which made it an easy matter to choose which way to go. The Bronze made his way through the corpse-flooded corri
dor, while the rest of the Leather followed, shadows drifting after a shadow, threading through the ankle-deep crust of dead matter.
The Bronze stopped and, after a moment, tapped the edge of his axe on the helmet of a dead soldier. The man was lying on his back with his neck half-removed, which the Bronze thought odd. A rifle lay to one side, and the magazine on top of the weapon was empty.
The overhead lights illuminated the next ten feet, and there were more deceased zombies.
Perhaps the soldiers were retreating from a group of charging mindless. Perhaps the soldiers were advancing, reached one spot, and were forced to return. Neither scenario explained the golf cart smashed through the window, but that didn’t overly concern the Bronze. He’d discovered something here. The corridor was not like the ones outside. This place felt more secretive, and the Bronze very much enjoyed discovering secrets.
Secrets meant power.
The Bronze stalked down the hall, discovering clumps of dead things mangled by gunfire. There were more weapons, and the Leather collected all of them. One of the masked men picked up a grenade, no bigger than a golf ball, and stashed the explosive device in a chest pocket.
Then, for some reason, the automatic lights stopped switching on.
The Bronze halted, lifting his head as if smelling gas. Readying his axe again, he shuffled forward, disappearing into that cauldron depth, his boots scuffing on concrete and cloth. Feeling his way along, the Bronze moved over a pile of debris in the hallway. Jagged edges and cold pipes grazed the big man’s frame, but he passed by it all.
A light came on, some thirty feet away. That cone revealed the edges of a substantial blast that had taken out not only a good chunk of the corridor, but quite a few of the mindless. What really got the Bronze’s attention, however, was another clump of legs sticking out into the hall. He walked toward them and discovered that the bodies were preventing a sliding steel door from closing. Upon further scrutiny, two of the dead lay on top of another soldier. A huge hole had replaced the man’s face, leaving only his lower jaw and upper brow. The man had collapsed on his weapon, which had fallen, lengthwise, into the machine-cut grooves of the sliding door.
Mountain Man (Book 5): Make Me King Page 31
