Dead America The Third Week (Book 7): Dead America, El Paso Pt. 7

by Slaton, Derek

  “Round two?” Hammond asked.

  Jeff nodded. “Round two.” He lit them both at the same time, and they threw in unison. Both bottles landed at the feet of the front row, exploding in a spectacular display of flame. The wall of fire quickly ate the ghouls wandering through, catching some of the ones behind by proxy. Soon the flames spread from zombie to zombie, the rotted flesh and clothes burning to a crisp.

  “Not too bad,” Hammond said as they admired their handiwork.

  Jeff wrinkled his nose. “A shame to waste good liquor, though.”

  “Don’t know what you drink,” the Sergeant said, shaking his head, “but that was sure as shit not good liquor.”

  The skinhead laughed. “In my book, if it gets you drunk, it’s good liquor.”

  Hammond shared the laugh and clapped Jeff on the shoulder. “You’re my kind of people, man,” he declared. “Come on, let’s go see if we can give them a hand.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Whitaker led her team up the outskirts of town, far on the east side. They reached the target street, peering straight down it and noting a pack of zombies a few blocks away.

  “Dammit,” she cursed, “that’s the third block in a row with them packed in tight.”

  Sparks shook her head. “Not sure we’re going to have much luck going up further,” she said. “Even if we do, isn’t the gun store down this road?”

  “Yeah, five blocks,” Whitaker replied.

  The redhead frowned. “So, even if we circle around, we’re gonna have to fight off a shitload of these things.”

  “Looks that way,” Whitaker said with a sigh.

  Rufus scratched the back of his head. “How bad y’all need this stuff?”

  “Last time we fought the Cartel, we burned through a thousand rounds of ammo,” Landry piped up, “and I’d be surprised if we even took out one twentieth of their numbers.”

  Rufus crossed his arms. “Landry, I’m a simple man,” he said. “You can just give me a yes or no without having to impress me with fractions. In fact, the only fraction I give a damn about is a fifth, and only when it applies to whiskey.”

  “Speaking of which,” Sparks cut in, “did you remember to give Jeff your shopping list?”

  Rufus waved his hand. “Oh, he knows.”

  The group shared a laugh, except for Whitaker, who continued to stare intently down the road.

  “It’s your call,” Sparks said, addressing the soldier. “If you want to go for it, we’ll back your play.”

  Whitaker clenched her jaw for a moment. “I just know they have Mathis and are doing god only knows what to him,” she said tensely. “The stuff in that shop can help us get him back. Just feels like we owe it to him.”

  “Then let’s go get it,” Sparks declared, giving the woman’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  Landry sighed. “A shame I don’t have any grenades,” he said, shaking his head. “I could just get on a rooftop and chuck it down a block to clear ‘em out.”

  “Didn’t you bring C4?” Whitaker asked.

  He nodded, but held out his hand, wiggling it back and forth. “Yeah, but I don’t have much left,” he said. “Need to save it for an emergency.”

  “I got a redneck rattler,” Rufus piped up.

  The soldiers paused and raised their eyebrows at him.

  “What in the holy hell is that?” Landry asked.

  Rufus grinned. “Just a little concoction I came up with after spending way too much time alone in the woods,” he replied, and pulled out a bright red metal PVC pipe with a fuse sticking out of it.

  Landry cocked his head. “So… a pipe bomb?”

  “Don’t go insultin’ me with that pipe bomb bullshit,” Rufus scoffed. “Any eighth grade street punk can build a pipe bomb. This is a goddamn work of art that, if used properly, can level a fucking building.”

  Landry playfully put his hands up, as if to beg for forgiveness, a smile on his face. “My apologies, sir,” he said, bowing his head. “I will never underestimate the destructive power of your creations again.”

  “Good,” Rufus replied, and tossed it to the soldier. “Now make goddamn sure you aren’t in the direct path of it when that thing goes. Trust me on that one.”

  Landry nodded and put it in his back pocket. “So, is this the play?” he asked, turning to Whitaker.

  “Unless there is a helicopter available that I’m not aware of,” she replied dryly.

  He chuckled and nodded. “Okay, so the gun shop is two blocks up from the horde, right?” he asked.

  “According to the address you gave me,” Whitaker confirmed.

  He took a deep breath. “Well, here’s hoping that I can read,” he joked, and then took off running.

  The others walked up the block, getting in position to the side of one of the buildings on the corner, staying out of sight. Whitaker watched as her partner sprinted down the other side of the street, rushing towards the next intersection.

  He reached the corner building, taking a knee behind cover to stay out of sight. All of the buildings were single story, all connected in one long row. They were low-end, small town shops, the kind owned by local people instead of franchises. Restaurants, clothing, you name it.

  Landry looked through the window of the clothing store on the corner, seeing no movement inside. The sunlight lit up the space just enough that he could see a staircase in the back, leading to presumably an upstairs office.

  If there is roof access, it’s gotta be there, he thought, and glanced back towards the zombies. They were on the other side of the block, hanging out in the intersection, and none of them had noticed him at all.

  He knelt in front of the front door and pulled out his lock pick, getting to work on the deadbolt. It was an older style, and didn’t take long for him to release the latch. He made his way inside, gently closing the door behind him to avoid making any noise, and then drew his knife. He moved quickly and quietly to the back, just in case of any surprises. It seemed that the building had been locked up tight since the start of things, if the thick layer of dust on the register was anything to go by.

  Landry headed up the stairs to the office, making sure to rap lightly on the door before opening it. Nothing greeted him, so he headed inside, and pulled out his flashlight to look around the dim space. Once the room was clear, he pointed it at the ceiling, finally finding a hatch in the corner.

  “And, we’re in business,” he said, and put the flashlight away. He wrapped his hands around the edge of the desk, and shoved it into the corner of the room. He hopped up on top of it and pushed open the hatch.

  Sunlight blinded him temporarily as it shone into his eyes, but he shook it off and grabbed the edge of the hole, pulling his body up onto the roof. He blinked to adjust his vision, and then crept to the edge of the roof to look down on the cluster of zombies.

  As he leaned over, his stomach dropped at the horrific sight. It wasn’t just groups at several intersections, it was one long stretch of rotted flesh. Easily upwards of a thousand ghouls stretched for several blocks. He looked to the north, noting that the ones they’d seen were the tail end of it, but south it was three solid blocks of monsters, shoulder-to-shoulder.

  Fuck, even if I do set off a diversion, they’re not going to have much of anywhere to go, he thought, imagining the cluster just getting denser. He walked to the southern end of the roof, on the other end of the block. He stood there, looking out, contemplating where would be the best place to throw the bomb.

  The road running north to south was packed full, but there were only a handful of zombies on the west side. Maybe I can get them all going in that direction, he mused, and they’ll file up that street and keep walking. Not ideal, but it’s a lot better than them standing here. He took a deep breath, and then shrugged to himself. Worst case is that it doesn’t work, and we’re only out of one of these… he looked at the bomb in his hand and chuckled quietly. Redneck rattlers.

  He pulled out his lighter and lit the fuse.
Okay, here goes nothing, he thought, and took a few steps back before darting forward, using the momentum to throw as hard as he could.

  The rattler soared through the air, clearing the intersection and bouncing on the pavement about twenty feet up the west side of the cross street. It pinged on the pavement, drawing the attention of several zombies, and then settled against the side of the building.

  Landry watched it for a second, and then remembered Rufus’ warning. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, and dove back, hitting the roof just as the bomb exploded. The sound was deafening, leaving his ears ringing as it echoed off of the buildings.

  He dragged himself up off of the ground and staggered over to the edge, eyes wide at the sizable hole in the side of the building. Every zombie in sight was shambling towards it, drawn by the massive noise.

  “Goddamn, he wasn’t lying,” Landry breathed, “that wasn’t no pipe bomb.” He stood there for another moment, noting that some of the zombies were wandering into the hole itself, which was an even better result than he’d imagined. He glanced back towards the intersection they’d wanted clear, seeing that it was emptying out.

  Hell yeah, this might actually work, he thought, clenching a victory fist, and then stepped back so he was out of sight on the roof. He jogged back to the hatch, and hopped down into the office. He rushed down the stairs, and slipped out the front door just as his team approached it.

  “That was a goddamn teeth-rattler, wasn’t it, boy?” Rufus asked with a grin.

  Landry cracked a smile, waving a pretend white flag. “I will never call anything you make a pipe bomb again.

  “Goddamn right,” the older man declared, clapping him on the shoulder.

  Whitaker poked her head around the corner, watching the last of the zombies move out of sight. She turned to the others and put her finger to her lips to shush them, and then darted out into the intersection. She crept quietly, leading them up to the edge of the building, looking around and waiting until the zombies had moved a good twenty yards up the road before waving them across.

  Everyone moved quickly and quietly across, Landry bringing up the rear. He stopped at the other side to look back at the horde, making sure none of them had turned tail towards them, but they didn’t. He gave Whitaker a thumbs-up, and then the team jogged up the next two blocks, finding Bert’s Guns and Ammo tucked away in the middle of a shopping building, like the others connected all the way across.

  Whitaker waved her partner to work on the lock while the others stood guard. Sparks looked down the road and saw a lone zombie staggering around the corner, looking the other direction.

  “Speed it up there,” the redhead hissed.

  Landry grunted as he worked. “Going as fast as I can,” he replied quietly.

  “Go faster,” she murmured, urgency lacing her voice.

  He finally got the lock, and as soon as the latch clicked, he opened the door.

  “Everybody in, now!” Sparks hissed, and everyone piled in, the redhead last.

  She gently shut the door and latched it, scurrying over to the first window display to check on the lone zombie. It wandered the other way, and she let out a sigh of relief. The rest of the team moved quickly through the store, clearing it. A chorus of reports of “Clear” came back, and Landry wandered back over to the front window.

  “What was that all about?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Sparks motioned outside. “Zombie up the block,” she said. “Figured it would be better if it didn’t catch wind of us.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, good call.”

  “All right, let’s go shopping,” Whitaker announced. “Put everything useful on the back counter, we’ll sort it out from there.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Jackpot!” Trenton exclaimed as he spotted a stack of boxes behind the counter. He tore one open, wiggling a bottle of tequila out of its nestled sleeve. Someone had written $399.99/bottle on the outside of the box in black marker.

  “What did you find?” Hammond asked, heading over.

  Trenton held out the bottle. “It’s tequila that most of us would have to take out a loan to get a taste of.”

  “Clara is that going to work for you?” the Sergeant asked, passing it to her.

  She took it and inspected the label, a smile growing on her face. “I think we’re good,” she said. “How much is back there?”

  He dog through the boxes, opening each one to make sure they were full. “Three cases.”

  “That should buy us enough time to take out Tiago and get our boy back,” Hammond replied.

  Jeff emerged from one of the aisles carrying two cases of liquor, setting them down on the counter. “All right, I got what I came for.”

  “Sorry Jeff, but we got three cases,” Clara said, eyes apologetic. “That’s a lot for us to carry out.”

  He sighed heavily before wandering off, muttering to himself, “Goddammit, I said we needed to bring a truck.” After a few moments, he came back dragging two shopping carts behind him. “Okay, we’re good.”

  Clara laughed and gave him a thumbs up. As they began to load the cases into the carts, there was a loud thud at the door. They all froze and looked at it, and then eyes widened at the sound of more, faster, thumping and slapping all together.

  “Guess the fire didn’t take them all out,” Hammond said.

  Jeff rushed to the window and looked outside, seeing about a dozen creatures, mostly singed and black, but a few completely untouched. “Got twelve of them, three or four by the door.”

  The Sergeant thought for a second. “Were there any more of those shopping carts?” he asked.

  The skinhead grinned, catching on. “You get the door,” he instructed.

  Hammond headed for the door as his new partner grabbed a cart. Jeff went to the far side, lining himself up.

  “You ready?” the Sergeant asked.

  Jeff nodded. “Damn right,” he replied. “You just be ready to back me up.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Hammond said with a smile.

  Clara and Trenton stared back and forth between them, confused. She opened her mouth to ask what was happening, but Jeff held up a hand.

  “You just keep doing what you’re doing,” he instructed. “And if there’s room, throw in a couple more bottles of high end whiskey.” He threw her a wink and then let out a yell before tearing down the aisle.

  Just before he reached the door, Hammond opened it with perfect timing so that Jeff could blow across the threshold and slam the cart into the three zombies in front. He hit them with such force that they flew back into the air as the cart plowed into them.

  With the entranceway clear, Hammond grabbed two bottles of wine and leapt into the fray. He lunged at one of the standing zombies and slammed a bottle into its face, caving it in and dropping it. He spun and swung the other into the side of a rotted head, smashing it into the outer wall of the store.

  Jeff abandoned the cart and went at one of the knocked over zombies, still flailing and trying to get up. He stomped on the back of its head with his boot, squashing it almost to the pavement with the force.

  Hammond swung a bottle again, hitting a zombie so hard the glass shattered, killing it and leaving him with a sharp blade. He rushed another ghoul and speared it through its rheumy eye.

  Jeff grabbed another fallen zombie by the neck and rushed the brick wall, slamming it so hard its skull cracked and rotted brains splattered everywhere, dropping it. As the body crumpled to the ground, the Sergeant dropped his broken bottles and pulled his knife, jamming the blade into an eye socket.

  He tried to pull it out but it stuck fast, so he swung the corpse around and used it as a shield against another oncoming zombie. As he blocked it, it tried to reach around and grab him. He dodged a groping hand, but then his attacker flew to the side, and Clara was on top of it, slamming her knife down into its temple.

  Hammond finally freed his knife from the skull of his victim and wiped it off, sheathing it as he surveyed the bodies
strewn everywhere.

  Clara crossed her arms and glared at him. “Remember,” she said firmly, “the most important thing is that knocking them over is more important than delivering a kill shot.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. “Actually, I lied,” he admitted. “The most important thing is, don’t be cocky. Although your thing is a close second.”

  “If you two are done doing whatever it is you’re doing,” Jeff spoke up, emerging from the store pushing a cart full of booze, “we should probably start heading back.”

  Hammond nodded, holding out an arm to usher him by. “Lead the way, good sir.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Okay, that’s the last of the usable stuff from the back,” Landry announced as he slammed a case of nine millimeter rounds on the counter.

  Rufus eyed the hundred boxes of ammo stacked high above him, and turned to the soldier as Whitaker and Sparks began to do a quick inventory. “What do you mean, usable?” he asked.

  “Well, there’s a bunch of twenty-two if you’re interested,” Landry replied with a wry smile.

  Rufus crossed his arms. “Yep, that’s everything that’s usable.”

  Landry appraised the mountain of boxes. “Holy shit, it’s like gun-nut Christmas here.”

  “Well don’t get too excited,” Whitaker said as she counted a few boxes of shotgun shells. “We still have to lug this stuff back. Look around and see if you can find some canvas bags or backpacks.”

  The others rummaged through the store, heading in different directions as she continued to take stock of what they had.

  “Got some back here!” Sparks called, and Landry and Rufus headed over, to a large display near the front of the store. There was a mannequin modeling a large camo backpack, with a whole rack of them behind.

  As she pulled it from the mannequin, something caught her eye from the window, and she turned to peer outside. She’d thought it might be a zombie, but it had moved too quickly for anything but a runner.