The report of a rifle. Then quiet. A different weapon fires.
Good plan to take turns popping them. Sanchez says as she draws the blanket around her, “I can’t shake being cold.”
“I’m going to assist in the cleanup. Get back in the truck.” He opens the door for her. The oven blast of air sends her body into shivers.
Combeth closes the door.
Sanchez trembles as the heat rises.
The lightbulb clicks for her. She grabs the radio. I need to complete my leadership responsibly. Clicking the mic, “North gate to Wanikiya, over.”
“Private Sanchez, report.”
“I need you to send an armed contingent to the bridge over the lake before the dam and block it off, over.”
Highway J heading south past the Visitor’s Center over the bridge, necessary even if there was no lake. The height and the water prevent any undead from scaling the rock side. I know the orders to bring people across that bridge as a secondary fallback point and blow it in the event of a southern successful invasion. It was now a third plan, as some cave fortress has the first level of construction completed. It’s some big secret. The bridge creates a chokepoint and the perfect location to hold a temporary gate. Now it will allow my team to be inspected for bites before they return to the community.
The warm air dries any loose water from her skin. She touches her sports bra, still soaking wet and ice-cold to the touch.
She loses sight of Jada, Zeke and Combeth as they head down the hillside, popping biters. Wade’s head remains in her view. He operates as backup for the team, clearing any straggling undead to protect the camp.
Ten minutes pass.
Her shiver has quelled enough that she slides to the driver’s seat and fires up the pickup. Inching the vehicle backward like an old lady, she’s unable to move her arms with speed.
Reaching the turn off for the Visitor’s Center, she turns the truck around and shifts into forward. Sanchez places weight and wet socks on the accelerator to a quick fifteen miles an hour. Reaching the bridge, she crosses the center line, so any approaching vehicle would have to ram her.
Three trucks slow, blocking the bridge on the south end.
The freezing air sends her body to quivering. Despite chattering teeth, she raises her arm for them to remain across the bridge.
She drops the towel and marches toward them, stepping out of her pants. She steps on the toes of her left sock and pulls her leg up, leaving the wet clothes on the road. She drops her panties, and never has she been so warm while naked. She raises her arms out and turns around so everyone in the trucks know she has no bites. She’s dropped trou in front of plenty of people. It’s a staple for going in and out of the camp. Still, inside the sally port checkpoint isn’t the same as being on display on the highway.
Wanikiya slips his tomahawk from his belt. “You can dress.”
Not back into the wet clothes. She remains exposed to all the men. “I opened the gate. Nothing got through. You must secure the bridge and check everyone for bites.”
Wanikiya inspects her visually. “Are there biters left?”
“No. No one was bitten. I was the only one in danger if my plans went FUBAR. They’re cleaning up stragglers now. Enforce the entry rules here. Ensure the camp’s integrity.”
Wanikiya takes a dry blanket from the truck. He spreads it out more like a towel in his arms. He wraps it around Sanchez. Giving her a quick, prideful, fatherly squeeze. “She’s clean.” He chews the inside of his right cheek. “It worked?”
“Sir?”
“Your plan. It worked. I’m not sure what else to say. Some will scold you. But it worked. And we’re safe. You adapted, improvised and overcame.”
“That’s the Marines, Sir. But I did what I had to with what I had to work with. I’d do it again if it keeps us safe.”
He gathers her clothes. “Let’s get you back to the farm house and dry.”
“No, Sir. Not until this gate is secure.”
“We’ll secure it now. I don’t need you sick.” He pats her shoulder with a hand as large as her head. “You’re a good soldier, Sanchez.”
“I had a good team, Sir.”
“And they trusted you. This could have gone sideways.”
“It was all sideways, Sir. It worked. I didn’t want to lose the gate.”
“And I don’t want to lose you. Now report to your quarters and get warm.”
DUST.
Tom recalls the training video after 9/11. Dust as thick as water covered everything. People were left with permanent lung damage from the coating of concrete powder.
He clamps his hand over his nose and mouth, holding back as much dirt as possible and still allowing in oxygen. The compressed space has no place for all the particles to go.
Breathe. You must find clean air. Even if he could open his eyes, the stairwell had little light before the quake, now it has none. Why bother? No one to dig me out. Tom breathes through his nose. His arm throbs. The intense pain dulls.
Tom has no idea how long he was out, but the touch of a hand jerks him awake. The dust flakes have thinned.
“Tom.”
He knows the female voice.
“Darcy?”
“We’re not alone,” she warns.
Tom pushes himself up, his back to the wall. The pitch darkness means he’s on equal footing with the living. “Undead?”
“No.”
A new voice. Tom knows it belongs to one of the church fanatics. He has no idea how to proceed.
None of them speak.
After long minutes, Tom says, “You stay back.”
“I saved the girl.”
“He did drag me down the hole with him as the wall crashed,” Darcy says.
“No one’s going to dig us out.” Tom says it aloud. More for himself. It had to be admitted—accepted. They could die in this hole.
“What about the basement?”
“When the building fell in, the church’s main floor collapsed into the basement,” Tom says.
“Air?” Darcy asks.
“We might be lucky. Air can seep through the rubble.” If we got lucky. Better we get crushed than suffocate. I’d end it with a bullet before I asphyxiate. “But we lack water and food and no place to put the rubble if we could move some and dig our way up.”
“Why did you people do this to us?” Darcy demands.
“Not all of us. But there was safety, and no one sought to challenge the preacher. His house was safe if you believed. You’ve been out there. We were afraid.”
“Don’t fake it now. You drank the Kool-Aid, and you live with what you did.” Tom might strangle the man if he could see him. He might strangle him to conserve air. He fumbles his fingers around the cold metal being pressed into his hand.
“Dakota,” she whispers.
Tom pieces together the upstairs confrontation. Dakota burst in and gave his team guns. Poor Dakota and Dave. The last of the Ds. Five young people who allowed me to join them after I separated from Danziger. All five had D names. They turned to me, and under my leadership, they all died. Maybe I can do right by Darcy.
“I’m not faking.”
A light blinds them.
Tom’s pupils seal as the light illuminates the room.
“I’ve a light. We can find an escape.”
Tom points the gun at the man.
“Wait! You need me. You don’t think they’ll dig you out. They will a true believer.”
“They’re dead. And you’re sucking up my air.” Tom slides his index finger over the trigger.
“You said air would seep through the rubble.”
“It will, but three people will use it faster than it might refill. Put your fingers in your ears.”
Darcy complies.
Tom fires. The thundering echo deafens him as the man’s face caves in and blows out the back of his skull.
“Maybe we should have saved him. Kept him fresh in case we have to eat something,” Darcy says.
Tom knows she said something, but his eardrums throb. He places the gun on a step and rubs his right ear with the meat of his palm. The ringing remains.
Darcy snags the flashlight. She examines the rubble at the base of the stairs. The gaps between splintered lumber and smashed bricks would allow a small child to crawl in but not get far.
Tom taps her shoulder, holding out his hand for the light. He’d ask, but he’d bet it would have been as a shout. He shines the light at the rubble over the stairwell. It seems to be a solid brick wall laying over. It wasn’t until the center of the church it broke up and filled the basement.
No way to push it up. Tom hands her the flashlight. He works the gun slide and spots the shiny brass in the chamber. At least one round. Won’t let Darcy suffer. How long do we futilely wait for death? God, what if there is only one bullet? I dare not check. Better not to know. Better I end her. How long? Days? We’ll last days if the air holds out. When she can’t take the confinement anymore, I’ll do it. God, I hope I’ve a second bullet.
MIKE KEEPS THE El Camino’s pace around fifteen miles an hour to preserve his limited gas. Even with a clear road ahead, he dares not risk performing a high-speed maneuver. An undead would tangle in the wheel well. Even on obscure roads, people abandoned cars. The impact would end their trip.
The sun heats the inside of the cab. He doesn’t test the air conditioning, but if it does work, considering the age of the car, will cost more fuel than the comfort it brings. He won’t roll down the windows. Up creates an illusion of safety.
“I’m warm,” Kelsey says.
He cracks his window an inch, but the slow speed doesn’t provide any cooler air.
Kelsey snorts. Her hoarse breathing means her lungs are bruised.
He glances over. Now the button up shirt gaps, and the side of her breast shows through teasingly. He shifts his eyes back to the road. She’s been naked most of the time he’s known her. When he rescued her, he nearly shot her naked, dirty like an undead. He cleaned her wounds and dressed her.
He reaches over without ceremony and closes the gap in her shirt.
“No fucking way!” Mike brakes. He rubs his eyes with both fists to clear his vision. Gripping the wheel tight, he presses on the gas. His brain recalls the exact voice of Tattoo. He tries his awful impression anyway. “Da plane! Da plane!” He doesn’t know Kelsey’s age but understands fast she’s too young to know the reference.
He points. “Do you see what I see?”
It hurts her to twist her body to gander out the windshield, but she does spot the white, single engine plane. “I’m in too much pain to believe what I see.”
“You said the county map had farms marked. Was there an airport?” Excited, he presses on the accelerator to match speeds with the plane. Mike transforms into a ten-year-old. “It’s a plane.”
“You can’t chase a plane. Head north. I want to go home.”
Mike sniggers with derision. “My God. You’ve a home to go to. I almost thought that would never happen again.”
“Forget about the plane,” she pleads.
“But it’s a major task to maintain an airplane and an airfield. It would take a well-equipped team. Maybe medical supplies.”
“You’ve nothing for trade. Even if they’re decent people, they may not share for free. I know I should be impressed about a plane, but it’s a noise maker. How long does airplane fuel last? Car gas must be reaching the limits of its shelf life,” Kelsey says.
“I poured this stuff through a sheet, kept out as much rust flakes as I could. It appeared decent. I don’t know if gas has a smell when it goes bad. This stuff smelled like gas.” Mike speeds up to keep the plane in his view. “Watch the road.”
“It’s not worth it. We’ll top a hill and hit a stalled car.”
“It’s an airplane.” Mike presses the accelerator, keeping the car parallel to the plane visible through the tree branches.
“It’s not important. Not if we crash,” she pleads.
“There has to be an airfield.”
“It can use a long stretch of clear highways,” Kelsey says, desperate for him to slow down.
“Most don’t have that much distance without an abandoned car.”
“All the more reason for you to slow down!” Kelsey raises her voice, but it lacks authority.
Mike weaves around a stalled pickup.
“Eyes on the road.” Kelsey pulls herself up in the seat to lean against the window. “I’ll watch the plane.”
“Team work.”
“Remember the scared dog in the back. You’ll destroy his trust, and he had so little of people.”
Mike moves the rearview. The dog’s nose points into the swift moving air flowing around the car.
“Please don’t chase the plane. It’s too great a risk with no gains. I promise my place has doctors and hot showers and walls to keep out all the biters.”
Mike backs off the gas. The road curves at a right angle away from the direction the airplane travels. “The risk could be worth it. They have to be well stocked to maintain a plane.”
“Or they’re desperate. Remember the group that saved you from the cannibal girl, then turned you out,” she says, still not ready to speak fully about her own assault.
“I was strangling her to death,” Mike reminds her.
“She was trying to eat you.”
“They didn’t know. It was the correct choice on their part. Still, they seemed like good people. Not many of those left,” Mike says.
“My people are good. And you’re bringing back a dog.” She smiles.
Mike says, “It sure works the imagination. It’s been ten months, and someone still pilots a plane.”
“It sets my radar off. And I’m going to listen to it from now on. I should’ve shot those men as they approached my team. I might be dead now if I had, but so would some of them. And I wouldn’t have to have been the one—”
“Don’t do that. Don’t second guess it.” Pain, as if cued, radiates from his own cuts.
She notices his wincing and asks, “You okay?”
“Wounds hurt. Do you know where we’re at on that county map?”
“About.”
“Mark it. Your people might care where we saw a plane.”
“I don’t know why, but Ethan might be able to use it.” Kelsey pokes a small hole in the map. “They have to land for fuel. How long does it take to fuel a plane?” she asks.
“I don’t know much about aircraft. Tanks maybe, but not planes. I’d say hours. If the airfield has fuel in the tanks.”
“Maybe they are attempting to reach a safe haven. You could fly across the country in a day.”
“Fort Wood fell. There are no places left that are safe.”
“My home.”
“You got an airport?”
“No.” She finds their location on the map. “There’s one in Vichy. I know we’re in this area, but I don’t know what road we’re on to get over there. And that’s if.” She scans the map. “It must be a big one to be marked. The airport near my hometown isn’t on this map.”
“As soon as we see a road sign, we move toward Vichy. If it’s not there, then we head to your compound. You think plane fuel works in a car?”
“Not at all. Be a great source of gas, but I think it’s special. It doesn’t freeze up where the air’s thinner.”
“You know more than me. But unless this guy knows about the local airfields, he’d use a map like this, so let’s find Vichy.”
Meaty chunks of flesh and a radial bone bounce across the windshield. A mucus red goop and a coagulated, black oil covers the glass. Already decelerating before the impact, Mike mashes on the brake. Like a squirrel, the undead staggers onto the road out of nowhere.
The wipers do nothing but smear, pasting bits of the once person to the glass.
Kelsey has the decency to only give him an “I told you so” glance.
Offbeat thumping on the hood.
The growls,
whines, then a fit of snarled barking.
“There’s more,” Kelsey warns.
Mike scowls, flinging open the door to block anything close. He swings his M16 more instinctually with all his combat training. God, don’t let me piss myself in front of her. He pops an undead. He fires across the dog cage, ending three. The mutt drops to the crate floor, cowering in whimpers.
The muffled thunder fascinates two more from the ditch. Mike draws in a breath and exhales as he squeezes off two rounds.
Even if he wanted to case the plane, it’s gone now. This pause cost him his visual.
He unscrews the cap on a bottled water from the farm house. Pouring it on the windshield, he clears enough gunk to see. Before he clears a viewport, dozens of undead stagger from the tree line.
Mike slams the car door and adjusts his weapon. And twists the key. The engine sputters.
“BUZZ,” screams from the dash as all the warning symbols light up.
ALEC UNHOOKS THE clasp on his gun belt and places it on the inactive metal detector conveyor belt. “Sense any more quakes?”
“I never felt the big one.” The plump man laughs. His shirt buttons stretch to capacity to hold in his rolls of flesh in a uniform never intended for him.
“I did. Scary shit,” Alec says.
“It’s the aftershocks that will get you,” the second guard says. His tattered, light blue shirt marks him as a CO. “You’d never make it over here, Alec.” He loops an identification tag to the gun and hands a claim check to Alec.
“Working the fence gets stressful, Bob.” These fuckers always have a name like Bob.
“We’ve got plenty of ways to relieve stress around here. And it won’t cost you any of your hard-earned beer.” The fat one jostles.
“Liquor will be the first thing those fanatics get rid of.” Alec tests the man.
“Then who we fuck?” Bob laughs before lowering his voice. “You know, you could round up a few of their women, and we can re-educate some of them here. We do need more men on the cleanup crew. They won’t be so high and mighty scooping up cadavers.” He places a key in Alec’s hand. Before letting go, he adds, “A nice, perky-titted blonde. One who broke a rule. She was for a special night that got canceled. Hate to waste all the prep time on her. You always do me right.” He smiles. Alec thought he had a few more teeth the last time.
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 12
