Cade looked to his left. Saw a wide expanse of ochre, clay-rich soil dotted with puddles. Farther out, maybe a quarter-mile or so west, a rock-strewn hillside rose steeply to a craggy ridge. Atop the ridge was a picket of firs that rambled off north for as far as the eye could see. And nestled somewhere in those trees was the hide from which Cade and Jamie had sniped at Adrian’s people.
As soon as the truck stopped rocking, Raven leaned forward against her shoulder belt, put both hands flat on the dash, and drew in a deep breath.
“What is it?” Cade asked.
There was a moment of dead silence in the cab as they both stared at the blocks of utter destruction filling up the windshield.
Finally, pointing diagonally across the hood, she said, “There’s your missing school bus.”
Cade looked to where she was pointing. Saw the bus in a side yard on the east side of Main roughly a block north of Center. It was crumpled and windowless and had come to rest with its wheels and undercarriage facing skyward. The streak of yellow paint starting at the 39/16 junction scribed north along Main until its terminus at a shattered length of sidewalk a dozen feet shy of the multi-ton vehicle. It was pretty obvious the horde was responsible for moving it all that distance. And one didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to conclude that in transit the bus had somehow contributed to the rehab place’s demise.
She made a face. “How’d they do all that damage?”
“Physics, I guess. I know it’s got something to do with mass and momentum and inertia. I’m no expert on the matter. But I do know, once a mega-horde gets a full head of steam, they’re virtually unstoppable.” And though Cade had witnessed a full-blown mega-horde on the move and was well aware of the amount of destruction one could inflict, to keep from further worrying his daughter he didn’t let on to her that moving a school bus several city blocks and dumping an old house from its foundation was child’s play in comparison.
“How are you going to get inside the garage with all those cars jammed in there like sardines?”
“Improvise,” he said and started the Ford rolling forward across the open field.
She fished the Steiners out of the center console and brought them to her face.
Voice wavering, she said, “Dad.”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“I count at least fifteen of them caught between the cars.”
Having already spied pale hands reaching up from within the warren of glass and steel, he said, “More than twenty, but who’s counting?”
Still glassing their destination with the binoculars, she said, “At least the garage is still standing.”
Cade glanced sidelong at her. “Don’t go jinxing me now, Bird.”
A beat later they rolled up and found the lot’s main entrance blocked by the crush of vehicles. Chain strung between cement posts served as a barrier to the back lot. So Cade reversed and circled back through the field to an unimproved access road. They bumped along north to a pair of dirt tracks cutting across a strip of grass bordering the rear lot. Along the way they passed a neat assemblage of charred corpses, their faces upturned and heads pointing west.
“Disposing of their dead,” stated Cade.
Raven said nothing as the gruesome sight slipped from view.
The chain blocking the drive was fitted with a sign that read NO TRESPASSING. At its centermost point, the chain was, at most, six inches off the drive.
Cade looked to Raven. “Think Black Beauty can drive over it?”
“No problemo,” she said.
“Get your head down in case the chain snaps back when it breaks.”
Shifting her rifle aside, Raven clicked out of her belt and slumped down in her seat.
Cade let off the brake and allowed the idling engine to pull the Ford ahead. Just when he thought the chain would go taut and stall the rig’s forward momentum, there was a sharp crack and one end of the chain arced over the right front fender and slammed down on the hood with a resonant bang.
Physics, thought Cade as he watched the chain slither snake-like off the hood and disappear from view.
Straight across the lot from them, backed up to the shop’s west wall, was a like-new Ford F-350 Super Duty outfitted as a tow truck. Next to the black tow truck was a white pick-up missing most of its windows. Both trucks were dirt covered from sitting in the elements.
Cade drove over the broken chain, started a sweeping right turn, then stopped broadside to the tow truck. Regarding Raven, he said, “That’s how Wilson got up onto the roof.”
Raven regarded the tow truck then craned to see across the dash. “He climbed up that thingy out back, huh?”
Nodding, he said, “That thingy’s called a boom.”
“Strange name,” she said, still gawking at the wall. “Wilson’s no ninja,” she said skeptically. “And he definitely isn’t Spiderman.”
“Saw it with my own eyes,” Cade said, his tone softening. “A few minutes before a whole bunch of Adrian’s people went to Hell.” He let off the brake and drove south along the west-facing wall. Gravel popped under the tires as mirrored windows bearing alarm company decals and fronted by wire mesh screens scrolled by outside Cade’s window. Roughly a truck length from the main lot, he wrenched the steering wheel right and started the Ford on a big counterclockwise U-turn that saw the distant 39/16 junction begin a slow left to right slide across the windshield.
The intersection with Center and Main made a brief appearance over the hood then was quickly replaced by the vehicle- and zombie-choked parking lot fronting the body shop’s rollup doors. When it was clear to Cade that Raven would be able to see the entire front of the body shop, its compromised rollup door, and all points of approach save for the blind corner at the shop’s east wall on Main, he ground the rig to a halt nosed in diagonally to the shop’s southwest corner.
He rolled the transmission to Park, engaged the emergency brake, and shut off the motor.
Raven looked across the cab at him. “Are you used to all of this yet? The death? The violence?” Her nose crinkled. “The smell? I’ll never get used to the effin smell.”
Choose your battles, Cade told himself again. Then, remembering all the deployments to the Middle East and the handful to Africa, he said, “I hate to say it, but you will. All of it. That doesn’t mean you have to like it, though.”
“Do you think it stinks like this in Colorado Springs?”
Cade had told her earlier about the burgeoning walled-in city that had become the United States’ new seat of power. However, he had purposefully left out the part about the constant breaches in the wall, outbreaks within the walls, and general hardships faced by all who were making a go of it on the inside.
“I suppose the smell of death is prevalent here, too,” he conceded.
She looked out the window. Bit her lip and held the pose for a couple of seconds.
It was obvious to Cade she didn’t like his answer.
All business, she said, “What’s the plan?”
“I want you to set yourself up just like you did last time. Adjust the pedals, run the steering wheel to the stop, and pick a backpack to sit on.”
Looking him square in the face, she said, “I really suck at driving.”
“Considering you’ve had no formal training, your performance under duress back there wasn’t so bad.”
“How long will you be inside?”
“I hope it’ll be a quick in and out. If the Zs come while I’m inside, stay out of sight and try to ignore them.”
“You mean, when they come.” She glanced right. Saw the creatures trapped between the nearby cars already craning and ogling her. And it worried her. Because to the dead, the noise of the truck crawling through the culvert, four-wheeling across the field, and the chain snapping was no different than someone ringing a dinner bell. In her mind’s eye she saw Zs perking up for blocks around. Though she didn’t let on, she was convinced they were already on the move, the prospect of a meal of fresh meat attracting them
like wasps to a picnic.
“Hope for the best,” he said.
“Prepare for the worst,” she answered.
Nodding his approval, Cade changed the channel on his Motorola, rolled the volume down low, and pocketed it. He pulled the suppressed Glock 19 from his shoulder rig, gave it a quick press check, and set it on the dash. Next, he removed the Glock 17 from the drop-thigh holster and checked it in the same manner.
“Always assume a weapon is loaded,” Raven proffered. “Even if you know it isn’t.”
“Correct. And these both are,” he stated, presenting her the Glock 17, grip first, muzzle aimed away from them both. He struck the padded top of the center console with his elbow. “There’s a can in there for this one.”
Without further instruction, she took the black pistol from him. Keeping her hands away from the trigger, she set the Glock on her lap and retrieved the six-inch suppressor from inside the overflowing compartment. As she threaded the black cylinder onto the barrel, he went on, “When you’re done there, change channels on your radio to 10-2. There’s bound to be a few Zs inside. No reason to take a chance on Tran or Seth’s voice blaring over the radio and getting them all riled up.”
Handing back the Glock 17, she said, “You’re always preaching to me that the only purpose for a handgun is to fight your way to your rifle.”
“Not this time. I can tell just from looking at all the cars jammed into the lot that once I get inside there … it’s going to be hard moving around. No kind of place to be swinging a rifle back and forth.”
“It’s going to be dark once you get inside.” She gestured at the M4. “Your rifle has the light attached to it.”
“I have a backup flashlight. Do you?”
She nodded.
“Good girl.”
Raven nodded again. “So while you’re inside … I’m to stay low, keep an eye out, and monitor the radio.”
“In a nutshell.”
“Any other orders? Rules?”
“Just the usual. Keep a round in the chamber … always. Never forget you have to shoot Zs in the head.”
“Mom said with the Breathers you aim for center mass, right?”
Good job, Brook, thought Cade, his throat tightening unexpectedly. God, I miss you so. He nodded once and cast a furtive glance at each mirror. Seeing nothing to be worried about for the moment, he said, “I’ll radio once I’m inside. While I’m out of sight, I want you to stay low and be still. Only show yourself if the Zs get to be two or three deep outside the truck. Use the Glock to clear the driver’s side so I can get back in when I return. If it looks like the Zs are on to me and a whole bunch of them start heading for the rollup door while I’m still inside—”
One brow arched, she said, “Define a whole bunch.”
He shrugged. “Fifteen … or more.”
She screwed up her face.
He said, “Are you finished interrupting me?”
She nodded and crossed her arms.
“If you’re sure they are coming for me—”
“Honk?”
He shook his head vigorously.
“Never, ever honk.”
She smirked. “I was joking.”
“This is not the time or the place for that, Bird.”
“Mom said humor is my coping mechanism.”
Cade pinched the bridge of his nose and looked toward the moon roof. “Understood,” he said in a near whisper. “While I’m happy she diagnosed it, and I’m really, really happy you’re astute enough to recognize and embrace it, there is an appropriate time and place for humor.” He paused to check the mirrors. “The time for joking is when I’m back inside here safe and sound and we’re driving off.”
Nodding in agreement, she asked, “What if there are fifteen or fewer?”
He mulled it over for a second. While ammo needed to be rationed from here on out, Raven hadn’t done much “real world” shooting with the M4. Deciding that expending a few rounds would be worth the benefit reaped, he said, “Use your best judgment. If you think the Zs may pose a threat, you have the rifle. Warn me first, then deploy the three-power magnifier and take out as many as you can from here.”
Brow furrowed, she said, “You’ll be downrange, Dad. I don’t want to accidentally shoot you.”
“The shop is constructed from cement blocks.” He paused for effect. “The walls are a foot thick.”
She shot him a doubtful look. Said, “You’re assuming you’ll be able to get in. Can’t we just change the tire here?”
Cade shook his head. “The wheel and tire and all the gore on it probably weighs upwards of two hundred pounds. Even if I could get the thing jacked up and the lug nuts off and drop the wheel … getting the full-size spare in place by myself is probably not going to happen.”
Raven said nothing. She was busy worrying the sling on her M4.
“There has to be a way in,” he said. “You won’t accidentally shoot your dad. I promise.” He paused, then added, “I’ll radio you a heads up before I come out. Two clicks of the talk button.” He demonstrated with his radio. “Does that set you at ease?”
She made a face he found difficult to interpret. “Be careful,” she said, putting her hand atop his. “It’s just you and me now.”
Cade leaned in and kissed her forehead, then drew back and stuck his right hand in the air, palm out. Keeping three fingers pressed together and extended, he trapped his pinky finger with the pad of his thumb.
Raven smiled because she knew what was coming next.
Suppressing a grin of his own, he shot her a quick salute. “I will be very careful … Scout’s honor.”
Though she wanted to remind her dad of his time and place rule pertaining to humor, she refrained from doing so.
Without another word or backward glance, Cade was out the door and padding away from the Ford, Glock in hand and head on a swivel.
Chapter 17
The suitcase of Pabst was three beers lighter when the familiar red and yellow SHELL sign pierced the horizon.
Duncan cracked beer number four one-handed and was lapping at the overflowing foam with his tongue when the Land Cruiser began to shimmy. Coming even with the driveway to the burned-out gas station, the engine stalled out, causing the steering to get difficult as the power steering pump stopped doing its job.
“Gawdammit,” he bawled as the warm beer spewing from the can wet his crotch. He looked to the gauge cluster and pored over the lit-up symbols. A crudely rendered engine that looked more like a pregnant prop airplane than what it was supposed to represent was yellow. A red rectangle sprouting a pair of posts he took to be the check battery warning was also ablaze. Most troubling of all was the admonishment spelled out in plain English on the computerized display nestled between the tach and speedometer. It was telling him in red letters that he was OUT OF FUEL. And the big cosmic “eff you” was that the luxury off-road rig was giving up the ghost in front of a filling station that no doubt had been bone dry since the day the first wave of desperate folks fleeing Salt Lake and Ogden surged through here.
Cursing under his breath, he jammed the half-full can into the center console cup holder. To conserve the diminishing forward momentum, he slammed the shifter into neutral and began hauling the steering wheel hand over hand hard to the right. Getting the Land Cruiser to yield to the input was a chore. He felt the burn starting in his forearms as the SUV rode over the sidewalk and coasted onto the expansive asphalt parking lot. He muscled the front tires straight and pulled sharply alongside the fueling station as if he were stopping for a fill up and to scrape the bugs from his windows. Those days were long gone. Only thing needed scraping off the windshield was the film of mystery liquid he couldn’t identify and, frankly, didn’t really wish to.
He set the selector to Park and pulled the e-brake.
After downing the half can of beer with one solid pull, he tossed the empty to the floor and pulled the suitcase of beer onto the seat next to him. He loaded a can into every avail
able pocket, ten total. He stepped out onto the pad, closed the door, and set the locks.
Though lacking several inches of freshly fallen snow, the place was just as he remembered it. Same bowed-in rollup door. Same decaying corpses lying in a jumble at its base.
Approaching the burned-out shell of what used to be the convenience store component of the station, he spotted the interior door leading into the garage. Scrawled in the soot near the top of the fire-proof metal door was the word DEAD. The elements had scoured the word INSIDE from Glenda’s hastily scrawled warning.
Behind the building were the same dozen or so cars and trucks. All had been torched by whoever started the fire that claimed the store.
“Might as well be a sign says last gas for a million miles,” Duncan muttered. “Looks like you gotta walk now, Old Man.” He chuckled softly to himself as he worked a beer from a pocket, pulled the tab, and took a long slug. Holding the near empty can at his side, he looked west in the direction of Huntsville. After about a half-mile, 39 reared up into a pretty steep grade that seemed to go on forever. Out of sight on the far side of the rise was the failed National Guard roadblock. Barely visible over the hill’s apex was the Wasatch Range. At the moment the rambling band of upthrust rock was just a horizontal gray smudge due to distance and clouds hugging its flanks. Closer in were Mount Ogden’s forested foothills. Home to Snowbasin ski resort, the 9,569-foot peak separated Huntsville from Ogden, a fifteen-mile drive north through the canyon.
With the picket of trees behind the gas station blocking Duncan from seeing Eden and Huntsville and the mountains he knew rose up behind the small towns, he inexplicably recalled a place he’d been that lay a short distance beyond the trees. A place out of sight and mind to most. He let his eyes roam the trees from right to left and caught a glimpse of where a short run of gray feeder road dodged north off of 39. It was unmarked and roughly equidistant from the station and where 39 started to rise. He put it at a quarter-mile, maybe less.
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