The Detective rolled his eyes. “And in the non-fantasy world where that scenario has a less than zero percent chance of working?”
“The only realistic answer is the high school,” Leon replied. “It’s big, strong, and we can turn it into a fortress. I mean sure, they probably have an abundance of high explosives at their disposal, but we can make ‘em pay dearly to take us out.”
Rogers tilted his head from side to side, thinking about it. “We could always do a bit of both,” he suggested. “Fortify the high school, stock it for a prolonged siege, and set up some defense houses.”
“Better than that,” Leon added, holding up a finger, “while we don’t have the manpower to staff those houses, we can designate some trap houses.”
The Detective stroked his chin. “That could be interesting,” he mused. “Rig them to explode or catch fire or something when they go into them. They drive us back into the school, we start firing, they take cover in the houses and BOOM.”
“Well given our lack of explosives,” Leon replied with a grimace, “we might have to resort to something a little more low tech. I was thinking something like chlorine gas.”
Rogers cocked his head. “I know that shit can fuck your lungs up pretty good, but how lethal is it?”
“Get it in the right mixture and make sure they can’t get out?” his friend replied. “Quite deadly.”
The Detective nodded thoughtfully. “I can dig it,” he said. “Just as long as we keep enough chlorine to keep a pool open this summer.”
“Oh, that’s funny,” Leon quipped, “you thinking we’re going to make it to summer.”
Rogers put a hand to his chest. “I mean, I know I will,” he shot back playfully. “If you don’t have the intestinal fortitude to make it, that’s on you.”
“There going to be margaritas at this hypothetical pool?” Leon wondered.
The Detective smacked his lips. “I was always partial to pina coladas.”
“That’s cause you’re a pussy,” his friend said, and they cracked up at their good-natured ribbing of each other.
As they approached the command center, Trenton’s SUV came into view sitting out front.
“Wow, they’re back already?” Rogers blinked in surprise.
Leon picked up the pace. “Hopefully that means good news.”
He burst inside, the Detective hot on his heels, and stopped short at the sight of Trenton and Clara sitting in office chairs, their feet propped up on a stack of crates with tequila labels.
“Oh, tell me those things are full,” Leon blurted, pointing at the crates.
Clara smirked. “If they weren’t, then we wouldn’t have brought them back.”
“Hell yeah!” he gushed, heading over to inspect the top box. “Y’all whooped some ass today!”
Rogers approached a little slower, eyes on Clara. “Everybody make it through the day okay?” he asked.
“Everybody except the Cartel trackers,” she replied, and the two men froze, brows furrowed.
“You… you killed the trackers?” Leon asked.
Trenton shook his head. “Personally? No, we didn’t,” he replied. “Everybody else however bagged at least one.”
“Christ, how many were there?” Rogers’ jaw dropped.
Clara shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said, “a dozen or so?”
“They must really be out for blood,” Leon said, sharing a look with the Detective.
Rogers nodded. “We should probably get ready for stuff to go down.”
“None of them got away,” Trenton piped up.
Rogers crossed his arms. “Are you sure?”
“Very,” Clara confirmed, nodding. “Hammond and his crew were very thorough.”
“I sure hope you’re right,” Leon replied. “Because if you’re not, we’re going to need a hell of a lot of help.”
She grinned. “On that front, Sparks said she’s going to be coming down in a few days,” she said. “Just to meet everybody and figure out how they can help more.”
“About time we got some good news.” Rogers let out a deep breath.
Trenton grinned. “I’d say a boatload of alcohol, some dead Cartel members, and new allies qualifies as good news.”
“Still if it’s all the same to you,” Leon replied, “I’m going to start getting our defense set up.”
Clara cocked her head. “What kind of defense?”
“Did you take chemistry in school?” he asked.
She pursed her lips for a moment. “Yeah, I was considering it as a major for a while, but didn’t go that route.”
“Then you and I are going to have a whole lot of fun starting tomorrow,” Leon replied, pointing at her.
Rogers checked his watch. “Well, I hate to break this up,” he said, “but Ethel is currently on the verge of plating up dinner. If we’re not there on time, she’s liable to be more of a threat to our well being than the Cartel.”
Leon clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Ain’t that the truth,” he said, and waved to Trenton and Clara. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sonora - 150 Miles East of Fort Stockton.
Brandon sat at his desk in the second floor office, enjoying a nice breeze through the open windows. Despite the slight smell of charred bodies, it was a welcome change to the stuffy building air.
It had been over two weeks since Rufus and Sparks had wreaked havoc on the small town, killing most of the able-bodied men. The most savage of which, trapping Brandon’s boss and several of his men in the building next door and lighting it on fire as they left town.
He wrinkled his nose. It wasn’t just the screams and smell of burning flesh that haunted him, it was the survivor’s guilt. Why did they let him live? It was a question that had kept him up many a night since that day.
Being spared of death had another side effect, which was putting him in charge of the town. Only a few men remained, with the majority of the other survivors not being able to contribute much. He sighed as he went over the numbers of the goods they had.
“Knock, knock,” George sang as he walked in.
Brandon waved him forward. “Hey, come on in.”
George was a lumpy fellow that looked like he hadn’t exercised a day in his life, and had been thrust into the role of Brandon’s second following the tragedy in their town. He handed his boss a sheet of paper.
“This is the latest food count,” George said.
Brandon looked at it, pursing his lips, and shaking his head. “Why are these so low?”
“We still haven’t gotten anything from Junction,” his second replied.
“Shipment didn’t come today?” Brandon asked.
George shook his head. “Not just shipment,” he replied, “but anything from Junction. Didn’t get anything the last couple of days either.”
“That’s odd,” his boss mused. “Sheriff Hutch usually sends us something, even if it’s just a survivor.”
George wrung his hands. “I don’t know… maybe after… you know…” He swallowed hard. “Maybe he’s given up on us.”
“Have you been able to get the ham radio up and going?” Brandon asked darkly.
His second nodded frantically. “Yeah, got her up this morning,” he replied quickly. “Think she’s working pretty good.”
“Well, let’s see if we can find out what’s going on,” Brandon replied, and stood up, grabbing a handgun and a walkie talkie off of his desk.
The two men walked downstairs and headed outside, past the crispy building. Brandon didn’t look at it, purposely avoiding his gaze, not wanting to see the charred zombie corpses still strewn everywhere. Manpower was at a premium, and since he and George were the only two who came near the building, he didn’t want to waste time or energy on the burnt up shell.
They headed into a building a few doors down, walking into the radio room. When they got inside, there was a teenage boy sitting at the controls. He leaned back in his chair with a
football, spinning it up in the air and catching it.
“Look sharp, now,” George said, and the kid fumbled his ball and jerked out of his seat, standing at attention.
Brandon just smiled and held out his hand. “It’s all good,” he said. “Has there been anything on the radio?”
The kid shook his head. “No, sir,” he reported. “Nothing all day, but I’ve just been listening.”
“Why don’t you go take a break?” Brandon offered. “I’m going to mess with it for a bit.”
The kid rushed off, heading out the door with his ball in hand.
Brandon sat down and began dialing in the frequency that Sheriff Hutch had been on. He set it up, and lifted the mic to his lips.
“Hey there Sheriff Hutch, it’s Brandon over in Sonora, come back,” he said, and then waited. There was nothing. “Sheriff, it’s Brandon in Sonora. We’ve been offline for a bit, but we’re back. Do you copy?” Dead silence. “Sheriff Hutch, or anybody, do you copy?”
After another moment, Brandon tossed down the receiver and sighed heavily.
He swiveled the chair towards his second. “Well, no matter how you slice it, that’s not a good sign,” he said.
“Maybe their radio is down too?” George asked hopefully.
Brandon shook his head. “Unlikely.” He took a deep breath. “Not only do they have police quality equipment, I know a few of the men on the force have their own setups. They live in the middle of nowhere, so they need something to keep themselves entertained.”
“I always went for video games and movie streaming,” George admitted.
His boss shrugged. “Great for you, but not so great for rural Texans in their fifties.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” George agreed.
Brandon stared at the receiver, and picked up the microphone again. “Calling in for Sheriff Hutch, or anybody in Junction. This is Brandon in Sonora, please respond,” he said again, but there was nothing in the way of a reply.
When he tossed the microphone down again, George took a step forward. “If you want, I can gas up my car and drive down,” he offered. “You know, to make sure everything is okay.”
“It’s a little risky…” Brandon trailed off for a moment. “But we may not have a choice.”
His second jerked a thumb over his shoulder, motioning to the door. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I could take our young radio operator with me. He might get a better appreciation of the importance of the job if he sees the system we got in place.”
“You know what? That’s not a bad idea,” Brandon mused, rubbing his chin. “Can’t imagine what it’s like being a teenager in all this mess.”
All of a sudden his walkie talkie came to life, and a panicked voice cried, “Oh my god, Brandon, Brandon! Are you there!”
Brandon lifted the radio to his mouth. “Ken?” he asked. “Calm down buddy, I’m here. What’s going on?”
“You… you gotta get to the interstate,” Ken replied, sounding breathless.
Several gunshots rang out before the line went dead, and Brandon sat up straight, eyes wide. “Ken!” he cried. “Ken! Do you copy?” There was no answer, and he looked up at his second, who stood frozen in fear. “Your car here?”
“No, I walked,” George replied, shaking.
“Shit,” Brandon cursed, and then rushed out the door. He looked around frantically for the teenage radio operator, but he was nowhere to be found.
Several gunshots cracked in the distance towards the interstate. Brandon took off running in that direction, and George huffed as he tried to keep up behind him.
“What about…” he gasped as he ran.
Brandon shook his head. “He’ll be fine,” he replied, “we’ve gotta get to the interstate!”
He pumped his legs hard, pulling away from his second who was huffing and puffing with the effort. The gunshots intensified as he grew closer. By the time he was two blocks away, every man he had stood on the interstate exit, unloading every bullet in their guns in the direction of Junction.
Brandon froze, coming to a stop, chest heaving and eyes wide with fear. “What the hell?”
“I’m starting cardio tomorrow, I swear,” George gasped as he caught up.
“Gonna have to wait,” Brandon replied, and grabbed his shirt to pull him up.
The gunfire continued as they ran up the exit ramp, coming up to a firing line of eight men standing shoulder to shoulder, shooting constantly. Brandon sprinted to the top and his body seemed to melt into the ground in fear.
George caught up, doubled over and gasping for air. “Man… you have… got to slow dow…” he looked up at his boss. “What’s wrong?” He followed Brandon’s gaze to the interstate and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head.
There were tens of thousands of zombies, easily into the hundreds of thousands, but it was impossible to tell for sure. Creatures packed shoulder to shoulder from one side of the interstate clear to the other side, and going back as far as the eye could see.
“What do we do?!” George babbled, scrubbing at his face. “What do we do?!”
Brandon stared at them, the first no more than forty yards away and closing quickly. Every bit of life drained from his face, skin going pale.
George grabbed his arm and shook him. “Brandon!” he urged, desperate for direction. “Brandon!”
The firing line broke, giving up, and ran for their cars, jumping in and speeding off towards town. Brandon simply continued to stare at the horde.
“We have to run!” George screamed.
Brandon finally blinked, and turned to his friend. He patted him on the shoulder. “George. You be safe now,” he said. “Get as far away from here as you can.”
“Brandon?!” his second cried shrilly.
Brandon patted him again and gave him a solid push down the exit ramp. “Go.”
George hesitated, but then gave up trying to persuade him, and turned to run towards a car.
Brandon watched him for a moment, and then turned back to the horde, watching the impenetrable mass of rotted flesh stagger towards him. They were twenty yards away, and more were shuffling between the trees.
It was suddenly clear why nothing had come from Junction in the past few days. Why Sheriff Hutch had not responded to any of his calls. Brandon knew that he didn’t have what it took to survive the impending doom that staggered towards him, towards the town. He wasn’t cut out for this.
As they got to within ten yards of him, he pulled out his handgun, and checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber. He put the barrel to his temple, and took a deep breath, conceding that this was the last moment of his life.
Just as the zombies were within grabbing distance, he pulled the trigger.
The sound was barely audible over the sea of moans and growls, and had there been anyone there to observe it, they wouldn’t have noticed his body dropping beneath the ghouls as dozens of creatures pounded on the still warm corpse, devouring the tasty flesh with gusto.
The horde shambled on by, looking for their next meal, heading down the interstate.
Heading west.
END
BOOK 8 - BISMARCK PT. 2
BY DEREK SLATON
© 2020
CHAPTER ONE
Day Zero +19
The wind off of the Missouri river was brisk, but not overbearing, especially for this time of year. Patches of snow dotted the grassy landscape by the water, hidden beneath shady spots. The weather was cool, though threatening to push over the forty degree mark.
Most of the snow was undisturbed, except for one patch by a trail that led down to the waterfront. The footprints were unmistakably human, but with the off-kilter gait and the dragging of one side, it was clear that it wasn’t a living one.
“Got another one,” Myles said, and knelt down beside the tracks, noting the trajectory its maker had been traveling in.
Susanna cocked her head, her mid-length black ponytail falling over one shoulder. “You sure it’s fr
esh?”
Myles nodded, running a hand through his sandy blonde locks as he stood. “Well it wasn’t here when we did our sweep last night.”
“Let’s assume it’s a live one, then,” Emily declared, cradling her hunting rifle in her arms. “Probably wandered into the harbor village,” she said, pointing to the north where the tracks were headed.
Myles shook his head. “Amazing how many of those things find their way in there, given there’s only one bridge leading to the darn thing.”
“It’s like a rat trap,” Susanna said, “easy to get in, not so easy to get back out.” She brushed a leaf from her fiancé’s shoulder that he’d picked up from the brush they’d been hiking through, and he smiled down at her.
“Been a few days since we cleared it out,” Emily piped up, turning to the young couple. “Y’all want to go for it?”
They looked at each other and shrugged, a silent conversation between them.
“With the narrow roads in the harbor it’s a bit risky,” Myles mused, “but it still needs to be done. So let’s get it done.”
Susanna winked at him. “Just no swimming this time.”
“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” he replied, raising his hands. “I’m in no hurry to join the polar bear club.”
His fiancee smirked. “Afraid of the shrinkage there, hon?” she teased.
“You’re more afraid of it than I am,” he shot back with a smile.
“Y’all keep that up, and I’m gonna toss you both in the water to calm down,” Emily piped up, but she smiled as they blushed.
The trio walked up the road by the river, keeping their eyes peeled for any other zombie activity. They didn’t find any more signs of the undead walking, and reached the curve in the road that ran along the edge of the harbor, taking them to the narrow bridge.
“Looks like it’s just one extra straggler,” Emily said.
Myles shrugged. “Well, one that tracked through the snow, anyway.”
“Weather’s been above freezing for several days now,” Susanna cut in, “so I don’t see how much of anything could have gotten across.”
Dead America The Third Week Box Set | Books 7-12 Page 7
