“I’m sure she was in county lockup. But I don’t have access to the court records,” Frank says.
“You know there’s a rumor about the jail?” Kalvin gives up on sleep.
“You got information you didn’t share?” Karen says.
“When I got paid, the paymaster quipped I’d never earn enough to visit the jail at this rate. I brushed it off. It felt like a reference everyone understood.” Kalvin sits up on his elbows.
“I was told I earned enough for a few visits if I needed some fun,” Frank says.
“All we need is a train engineer.” Karen rolls her eyes. I demanded this mission.
“This girl’s been in the hospital since the beginning. She’ll be able to answer Ethan’s questions about the city. She proves useful.”
“When did you become some spy expert?”
“I’m no Agent Phelps. We’re on an impossible mission. If my suspicions about what happened to all the medical personnel proves correct, we’ve got to evacuate,” Frank says.
SANCHEZ HITS THE pavement as if ordered to drop and give twenty push-ups. She squirrels around like a crab, inspecting the undercarriage of the tank and two semi-trucks for any space even a mouse could squeeze through. “Put a few men right here. Thin gaps smaller than any person don’t stop biters.”
“The undead won’t care about the ripping of their own flesh as they crawl in. They only care about eating,” Combeth says, finding the need to clarify her reason for the instruction to himself if no one else could.
“Check the front side again!” she orders. Her hand stings from the powder burn.
Private Combeth jumps at her command. “You’d make Sergeant pretty fast if we were still in the military.”
“Nice to think so, but women don’t advance.”
“The dam operators demand clearance from Wanikiya before they open the gates,” Zeke reports. “I can’t raise the front gate on the radio.”
Fuck. Sanchez chews her bottom lip. “Fuck it. We go with the plan. Wanikiya will back us.” I’ll give him no choice.
“You don’t think they’ll climb over the tank the way they got into the dog runs at the main gate?”
“We won’t give them the chance.” Sanchez unbuttons her uniform jacket.
“As much as I enjoy a good striptease, you may want to keep your arms covered,” Combeth says.
She tosses it at him and pulls off her T-shirt, revealing her lavender sports bra.
“You sure stuff those puppies in tight.” Combeth smiles, hoping her offer stands after they secure this gate.
“You’ve seen them flopping around. Mind on your work, soldier.”
“I don’t want it to be the last time.”
She stuffs extra pistol clips into her belt. “I’m going to make sure the undead have something breathing to follow to the base of the dam. You don’t let anyone come over the tank onto the dam road. Ignore the rest. They’re my issue.”
“Insanity run through your family?” Combeth asks, his eyes never shifting off the exposed flesh of her bulging cleavage.
“You know it gallops.” Sanchez unfastens the clasp of her neck chain. She drops the cross into his palm. “I want that back.” She climbs over the tank, dropping onto the road before the sally port. “Open the gate!”
“She’s got some big nuts,” Jada says.
“I don’t want them to get her killed.” Combeth rechecks his ammo supply.
Sanchez draws one leg behind her back as if she were a flamingo stretching her calves before a jog.
Wade swings the innermost gate. He ties it open before scaling the rung ladder welded to the side of the cargo trailer. He jogs to the front. The ocean of undead claw and hiss at him. He pops the forward gate latch. The undead push inside, giving him no time to secure it. The flowing wave of rot keeps the gate pressed open. He wraps his hand around the release of the center gate, glancing at Sanchez for a final confirmation on her crazy scheme.
She nods, drawing her pistol.
He opens the gate.
The undead shuffle through like tweens at a boy band concert. The first biter to step onto Acheron soil meets with a bullet to the skull. Sanchez backs up a step. As biters trail toward the tank, she pops another one, turning them toward her and the service road leading down the hillside to the base of the dam.
She ambles down the road. Keeping a rhythm as she jogs, pops a biter, jogs, pops a biter. Sanchez wishes they would shuffle a little faster. She changes clips, leaving eight rounds unspent.
The floodgate alarm blares.
The warning horn informs anyone along the bank that the gates will open, releasing thousands of gallons of water. The herd chases her like a river of rotten flesh. The flow of the biters remains steady through the gate, and only a straggler or two even approach the tank. Mindless as they are, they move with a hive mentality when in such a large group.
“Shit.” I forgot the chain-link keeping bystanders from reaching the water near the dam. Some of the undead might get stuck along it.
Pain chomps her left foot. The gash, not fully healed, reminds her of her first assigned command…and failure.
Sanchez pops a biter.
Chunks of coagulated brain and skull fragments scatter over five undead. A portion of bone lodges itself in the eye of a biter. The trauma of blood splatter has rendered some of the most John Wayne of human soldiers to crying babies. These creatures shamble on without notice of those which fall around them. Her enlistment did not extend to a combat tour of the end of the world.
Hundreds of feet step on their fallen brethren until a blackened paste stains the asphalt.
Sanchez reaches for the top of her chest, missing the comfort of her cross. God was instilled into her upbringing every day of her childhood. She wonders how a God who professed to love his faithful would force them to face such adversity.
God helps those who help themselves, her grandmother always said.
“He sure does.” She limp-hops, working through the pain. Breathy, she drops to a knee, her back to the giant red sign: WARNING! WHEN HORN SOUNDS WATER WILL RISE FAST.
Even with both hands laced around the pistol handle, her breathing controlled, her arms shake. Looking back, this will be the number one on my list of stupidest life choices. Bumping Tommy Hernandez off the list. And he was unable to appreciate my sacrifice—my virginity—over his hormone-induced insanity for more than forty-five seconds.
Emptying the pistol, she lays it on the ground, slide open and smoking. Unlacing her boot, she slips it off. The throbbing pressure releases. She has no time to appreciate the relief.
Jamming in a new clip, she empties it as fast as her trigger pulls allow, the rapid thunder drowned by the warning horn.
Their guttural vocals crescendo in an orgy frenzy of moan-howls. Untying her second boot, she knots the laces together, flipping them over her shoulders. She vows to scavenge some Odor Eaters. Military grade—comfortable boots won’t be found anymore.
With no land left for her to retreat, the encroaching undead shamble toward their meal, unencumbered.
Sanchez loads her last clip. Simon’s going to be pissed. Four clips—gone. At this range, she could point and click, but she picks each target to give her breathing room and allow more crowding of the bank. The noise no longer matters. All the biters head down the hill. If I lose the gun in the water, I want every round to have counted.
She steps off the bank, expecting to find a bottom. The edge was deeper than anticipated, and she tumbles into the cold—shocking her system.
“Freezing!” Shivers from her lips when she pops up in the chest-deep water.
Fuck. She struggles to find balance in an undertow.
Her hair hangs in her face. She drags the wet, brown stands from her eyes. She empties her pistol, releasing the slide, racking nothing into the chamber before holstering it. Biters tumble into the water. They lack any skills to prevent the mild current from drawing them downstream. The warning horn keeps them stirring, b
ut the splashing of undead brings more to stagger into the Salt River.
Sanchez backs up until the liquid reaches her chin. Her teeth chatter. The sports bra provides no protection. She slaps a boot. Twisting into a freestyle stroke, she swims to the opposite bank.
The biters lack the physical control to find the river bottom and follow in pursuit. More fall in desiring fresh meat.
Finding her rhythm, Sanchez picks up speed. She dips her head under the water, the hair matted to her face slips from her eyes and she spots Combeth. He repels down the quarried rocks dumped to protect the opposite bank from erosion.
She reaches the stones. Panting, she glances back at the horde.
Jogging and swimming are not the same cardio.
Combeth offers his hand.
She locks her fingers through his. He tugs her out of the water.
Exposed, the breeze bites. She grabs her jaw to prevent the mashing of her molars together.
“Cold?” He smiles.
“To freeze balls.” She shivers, imagining her body flailing like a golden retriever fresh from a bath. “I don’t think I can climb up.”
“Simon’s going to be pissed you got the Glock wet. He hates rust.”
Through chattering teeth, she says, “They’re designed to fire underwater.”
“But not recommended.” Combeth puts his full weight on the knotted rope—secure. He wrenches her in front of him and lashes the rope around their makeshift hug. He clicks his CB mic. “Open the floodgate.”
He smiles before locking his lips on hers.
As his tongue slips between her teeth, she prays to control the chomping and detects mint. He found a mint for this moment. Either the most romantic gesture, or I should stab him in the ear.
“Just in case I’m not strong enough to scale back up the rocks with both of us.”
“Are you saying I’m fat?” She places her shaking chin against his shoulder. “We need to move.”
The sluice gates open. Water spills from the reservoir. Even the tiniest drops of mist sting her blue skin as the falling liquid picks up speed.
“Wasn’t sure you could close your burnt hand around the rope.”
“I sure as hell ain’t staying here.” Sanchez cranes her neck. The undead along the bank move toward the deafening crash of razor mist. As the water rises, those shoved in struggle like drowning cats. The water rises faster than the dam’s designers had planned. Biters caught in the flow turn into bobbing floats.
Even if they don’t escape the upcoming flood, her plan will save Acheron. More biters will be swept away, and the stragglers will be easy to pick off.
Water spills into the Salt River, forcing Combeth to quicken his hand-over-fist movement to scale the rope. Sideways, rain pelts them. The sting bothers Sanchez, but the wet on the dry rope hinders Combeth. She closes her eyes and enjoys the quickening of his heart as it thumps against his chest. It soothes her, and if it’s the last sound she hears, it’s pleasant.
The crashing water quells as if the endless buckets being dumped stop.
Chain-link presses into her back.
He grabs the top of the fence. “You’re going to have to climb over.”
Sanchez hates to move her cheek, the one part of her finally warm. She grabs the bar securing the chain-link meant to keep little kids from falling when viewing the dam from this side of the river. She lifts herself up on stiff arms. Water rolls from her boots.
“It may not kill them.” Combeth flips over the fence.
“The Salt empties into the Mississippi. We won’t see them ever again.” Sanchez drops to her butt, still shivering. She needs to scream at him to get her a towel, but even she can’t take her eyes off the rising water. Must do something physical to increase circulation. She tugs at her shoe laces with shaking fingers. “Think they’ll kick me out for this?”
“Why? You saved us.”
“I let them in. I put everyone at risk if I failed.”
“If it makes you feel any better, the walls are an illusion.” Combeth unhooks the rope from the harness he wears.
The lake level lowers. The alarm ceases. As the herd washes downstream, the report of rifle fire echoes.
Jada leads the crew at the tank to eliminate the undead not swept away.
Combeth tosses the climbing gear into the truck bed. He wraps her jacket around her exposed shoulders.
“Thanks.”
“Get in the truck and turn on the heat.”
“It’s June.”
“It’s not a warm June. And you’re so cold your nipples will put out an eye. Let’s prevent hypothermia.” He offers his hand to pull her to her feet.
Too bad I’m freezing and wouldn’t enjoy one remedy for hypothermia. Her shivering quells enough that she’s able to slip her arms through the jacket sleeves. “Time to face whatever stands here for a court-martial.”
MARY CURSES HER dive into the Olympic-sized pool. She holds perfect form until her feet come apart, as her head enters the lagoon blue water. She glides along the bottom without the restrictions of a suit. Surfacing, she kicks her way across the pool. It has yet to warm to a comfortable temperature, despite being June. The cold invigorates her.
As she nears the end of her lap, a voice says, “It’s a beautiful day for a swim.”
She raises on her toes to expose the top of her breasts before clearing the hair hanging in her face. “Surprisingly enough, no one raided pool cleaning supplies. There were plenty available.”
John drops to a knee to dip his fingers in the water. “You should cover yourself. A queen should have modesty. And don’t forget what happened to the Czar when he embellished too much in luxury while the masses starved.”
“Same as in France. Pastor John Milton,” she deadpans.
“We both know each other, Mary. But you’re now wife of our fearless leader.”
“And his brother seeks the throne. Too bad the little shit isn’t interested in me.”
“It has all the makings of a Shakespearean play. And we know how those end.” He flicks the water from his fingers. “Where’s your brother-in-competitiveness?”
“Since Rolla was evacuated first and little homes raided, he’s examining the best locations to construct a wall using some of the homes as part of the barrier.
“It’s all fine and good until winter. Most of those homes don’t have a fireplace or propane tanks.”
“Let Kale figure out how to keep us warm. My palace has propane heat. And with a wall, survivors will come and be safe here.”
“You desire people to come and be your slaves,” he snaps.
“We used to work so well together.” She raises her right eyebrow as she flashes her impish grin.
“We ran cons and never stepped on each other’s toes. But not here. We get found out and we’re dead,” John says.
“We have guns. We offer protection. To pay for protection, people must earn it. Like in the Middle Ages. They’ll be serfs, serving their lords and ladies. The alternative is life outside the wall we build,” Mary says. “It’s already better here. I’ve stopped the assaults.”
“But you had him place trailers for girls to service the men.”
“By choice. And some people will have to earn their keep who won’t be able to work the fields.” She pushes away from the edge, floating on her back, allowing her breasts to bob in the water. “I’m having a second pool filled for the masses. Those two mansions are to become boarding homes for the workers. Everyone will have their own room. I won’t make the mistakes the Czars did.” She flips her foot so water flings onto John’s pants. “Did you come here to splash about my pool, or did you miss seeing me naked?”
“You’re a married woman. At least in the eyes of the camp.”
“If you reveal you’re not a pastor, we both will be killed. Kale wants me gone. I control his brother better than he does.”
“He’s smart. Maybe smarter than both of us. I wish your husband hadn’t run off to Memphis.”
“What!?” Mary drops her legs, landing on the bottom of the pool. “He was checking out Meramec Caverns.” She swims to the edge.
John grabs her towel from the deck chair. “He never made it. He sent a truck back to inform Kale he found part of a group that lives with Kade’s murderer. The man was heading to Memphis.”
“How do you know this?” She takes the towel and bounces over to the stairs.
“I was at the farm when they arrived. I thought you should know. I don’t trust Kale.”
“Nor do I. I assumed his spot.” She pats dry her skin. “I’m in his way of manipulating Kaleb.”
“But the men won’t follow Kale. He has no authority.”
“He’s got brains. Brains we need to build a viable camp. Brains enough I can’t shake my tits at him to get what I demand.” Mary slips into her cotton robe leaving the front open.
“This will be a new challenge for you? Winning over a man without using your...body?”
She throws the wet towel at John. “What could possibly be in Memphis? There are closer cities and much of the countryside to scavenge for supplies long before someone would need to travel so far.”
The mansion shakes. He catches her, but only for a second, as they topple to the concrete patio. Waves of water splash from the pool, soaking them both. A car alarm beeps in the distance. The faint howl of a dog punctures the air.
“What the fuck?”
“Earthquake.” He slides from under Mary.
“We’re not in California and all the fracking in Oklahoma should have stopped ten months ago.” Confused, Mary struggles to keep the exposed parts of flesh from scraping on the concrete.
John steadies himself as he stands. “Missouri has one of the largest fault lines in the world. It doesn’t make the news when it shakes cotton stalks. If we felt it here, it was massive.”
“They grow cotton?”
“You know, if you’re going to roll these hillbillies, maybe you should learn about them first,” John says. “Get dressed. We need to go.”
“I should inspect my people.”
“I had those men Kaleb sent as messengers wait out of sight, but they might panic now.”
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 6
