Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 13): Gone

by Chesser, Shawn

  Fish on.

  He ran the cable in and cinched it tightly around her neck. With two hands gripping the pole, he clean jerked the writhing Z off the ground, lifted the sixty-some-odd pounds up and over the bed rail, and dumped it in the rear of the load bed.

  Thrusting the end of the pole nearest his hands through the slider, Cade looked Peter in the eye and said, “Hold this. Pretend it’s a trophy bass. Do not let it get away from you.”

  When Cade turned back toward Pom-Pom Z, Mother Z had made it to the truck and was already swiping the air near his right hip. Batting away the pale hands snaking over the bed rail, he tugged a few inches of leader off the roll of tape, clamped it between his teeth, and cautiously approached Pom-Pom Z.

  Planting one boot on the rotter’s narrow chest, Cade leaned forward and pinned the snarling beast to the load bed’s metal floor. Feeling vibrations course his leg from the thing’s nails raking his Danners, he ran out a foot of tape, held it horizontal to the Z’s face, and slapped it firmly over its open maw. He grabbed one tuft of hair and started the roll of tape in a clockwise orbit around the Z’s head. When all was said and done, Pom-Pom Z was silenced by eight layers of silver tape wrapped so tightly over its mouth that the other features had the droopy look of a plastic surgery gone bad. Since one tuft of hair was caught up in his hasty tape job, Cade grabbed the other with one hand and worked the noose from its neck. Being none too gentle, he firmed his grip on the lone dirty pom-pom, took hold of a pistoning leg, and heaved the Z over the tailgate.

  Zit Face Z was now next to Mom Z at the bed rail. Trying to find purchase on the meat to their fore, both Zs moaned and strained and banged their bodies against the truck.

  Holding the pole horizontal to the ground, Cade looked to Peter. “Same as before,” he said with a nod. Then, addressing Raven, he said, “I need you to get the younger Z’s attention and keep him occupied.”

  She asked, “How?”

  He called back, “Put your window down a couple of inches and lure him over with the red tassel on your stocking cap. Then try to keep him occupied.”

  Cade didn’t wait to see if his suggestion was being acted upon. Instead, he noosed Mother Z and guided her away from Zit Face Z, all the way around to the tailgate, where he dragged it hard to the sheet metal and again passed his end off to Peter’s waiting hands.

  “Hold her,” he said. Seeing that Pom-Pom Z was up from the spill and ambling toward the tailgate, he scooped up the cables and padlocks he’d taken from the A-Team van and slithered over the passenger side bed rail.

  He stood just outside Mother Z’s reach and waited for the girl to get close enough to grab. As she ambled past the detained Z, Cade saw she was dragging one leg. He guessed the injury had resulted from the long fall from the truck.

  Avoiding Pom-Pom Z’s clumsy chest-high swipe, he grabbed the nape of her neck and led her to the farmhouse, where he mounted the steps and went through the motions he always employed prior to entering a structure.

  He delivered three sharp raps to the door. Then waited the customary minute, during which he heard nothing moving inside.

  Still holding the struggling Z at arm’s length, he glanced at the Ford. The top of Mother Z’s head was barely visible over the tailgate. Just nose, eyes, and the top of her head. The way the Z had ahold of the edge of the tailgate made him think of the Kilroy Was Here sticker a cousin who followed the Grateful Dead around had placed prominently on the back of her VW van.

  Beside the driver’s side door, the teenaged Z was lunging for the bobbing tassel. He watched Raven drag it back inside the truck and grimaced when the Z mashed its face into the window.

  Another fish on.

  A game of cat and mouse being conducted perfectly.

  Chapter 36

  As Duncan lay there semi spread-eagled on the floor, ears ringing mightily, face pressed to the filthy all-weather carpet, he revisited the events that had gotten him here.

  Two distinct male voices, muffled and faraway sounding, was what he first heard as he came to. For a split second, as the drink-induced cobwebs began to lift away and consciousness returned, he had no idea where he was. What he did know, however, was that he still had not found Glenda, and he was sitting on a small couch all alone inside a cramped building, not a bleach-smelling RV or the semi-damp environs of the subterranean Eden compound. Those two certainties, when put together with the realization that the unfamiliar voices were drawing steadily nearer and growing louder by the second had started the adrenalin dump to his system that shocked him awake and had his hand going for the pistol on his hip.

  The sound of a boot striking the stair tread outside the door dictated his first move. With one in the pipe, so to speak, all he had to do was thumb back the .45’s trigger and aim for where he thought center of mass to the person mounting the stairs would be. His second move came as a result of one of the voices dropping off mid-sentence.

  Without hesitation, he had fired two rounds at the door. They struck a few inches below the midpoint and did a great deal of damage. Two distinct bars of daylight snapped through the ragged holes. And though the back-to-back gunshots had momentarily drowned out voices and the like, the familiar report of a Kalashnikov rifle being fired on full auto had not been lost on him.

  Training dormant for decades kicked in and fast twitch muscles used little in the last few months propelled him up and off the low-slung love seat. But before he could adjust aim and return the incoming fire, gravity and a pair of arthritic knees had him crashing to the floor, blood pouring into his eyes, and armed with the knowledge that he hadn’t survived the abrupt encounter wholly unscathed.

  Now, as Duncan lay on the floor, he became aware of several new developments.

  First, as trivial as it might be, he was fairly certain the already bullet-riddled Stetson sitting an arm’s reach from his face had taken a round or two, likely when he had lifted his decrepit carcass off the love seat. More troubling was the wetness spreading around his midsection. It was warm and his parka and jeans were thoroughly soaked by it. He was pretty sure he hadn’t pissed himself, but couldn’t rule it out. There was also the numbness spreading throughout his midsection. As best he could recall, the injury had happened when his forward momentum was bleeding off and his body was on the return trip to where he was now. And though he had been focused entirely on avoiding being struck by the bullets shredding the door before his very eyes, he vaguely recalled one of them punching him hard in the gut, somewhere between his navel and right hip bone. Precisely where the numbness was beginning to subside.

  Strange, he thought. Where’s the insurmountable pain that comes with being gut shot?

  Is the alcohol keeping it at bay?

  Is shock setting in?

  This was no time to obsess over it. Because he heard a young-sounding female say, “I got you covered.”

  One of the male voices he recognized from before the bullets started to fly said, “I got the fucker.” The owner of the voice sounded real pleased with his shooting. Spray and pray would be a more apt description.

  The female asked, “What about Otto?”

  The shooter said, “First things first. I want to see what I inherited from Cowboy here. Otto will be just fine.”

  Not likely, thought Duncan as he dragged his right knee slowly along the floor. The movement was subtle. Just a couple of inches on a gradual arc that saw his kneecap relocate to a point to the right and four inches up from where it originated.

  The same hollow clomp of a boot striking wood sounded inside the trailer. It was barely audible to Duncan, but he heard it, nonetheless. Save for the sound of an AK magazine being swapped out, the clomp and follow-on creaking of the wooden tread was exactly what he’d been waiting to hear.

  Lifting his pelvis off the floor created enough separation for him to covertly raise the Colt’s barrel to an angle he guessed was center of the void where the door used to be. Praying he wasn’t about to blow a hole in his thigh and sever an importa
nt artery or three, he let loose two quick shots.

  The shrill scream that followed was extremely satisfying. The single shot crackling over his prone body as he began a slow roll onto his back was not.

  With the man’s screams intensifying, Duncan found himself on his back, ears ringing anew, and unable to see more than a big purple blur filling up the door frame. The person responsible for the screams was out of sight near the bottom of the steps. The owner of the other male voice, likely the guy called Otto, was unaccounted for. Since Duncan hadn’t heard the voice since he’d fired those first shots through the door, he suspected Otto was now the proud owner of a pair of mashed-up hollow point slugs. Or maybe a pair of through and through wounds that, given the size of the bullets and their incredible velocity, was likely sufficient to put him down for good.

  Senses returning, Duncan picked up on the sour nose of stale beer on his breath. Detected the heavy acrid stink of gunpowder riding the air. The only thing missing was the copper smell of freshly spilled blood.

  “Surrender and I promise I will not kill you,” he bellowed. Though it was a lie, he thought it sounded damn convincing.

  Award me the Oscar now, crossed Duncan’s mind as he let loose four shots rapid-fire at the truck. He’d been aiming along the length of his body, the bullets cutting the air somewhere between the pointed tips of his fancy ostrich skin boots.

  There was a sonorous bang as at least one of the slugs found automotive sheet metal. A woman’s wails immediately joined the dissonance.

  As soon as the woman went silent, the man’s animalistic wailing morphed to plaintive calls for someone named Holly to help him. The man pleaded and cussed for a few seconds, then called for his mother.

  “Nobody is coming,” Duncan hollered.

  “I know,” said the female. She sounded tired, her voice wavering.

  Duncan detected defeat in the tone. Maybe it was a lifelong thing finally coming to a head for this one.

  He said, “Drop the gun.”

  “It’s empty,” she said.

  “Throw it down, then.”

  A clatter of metal was followed by the distinctive sound of gravel being displaced.

  Duncan groped to his left and found his aviator glasses by feel. Keeping the .45 trained on the purple blob, he hinged up to a sitting position and slipped the glasses on one-handed. At once the purple blob became a full-size pickup. A Dodge dually 4x4, no less.

  A young woman, arms upthrust in the classic reach for the sky pose, was hanging partway out the driver’s side window.

  Chapter 37

  Cade stood on the farmhouse porch a foot from the screen door. There was no WELCOME mat. A good thing, because he was well past the point of caring what anyone thought.

  Though the door to his fore was situated on the left side of the wraparound porch, and the big picture window to the right of it, he figured the floorplan inside would be similar to that of the Thagons’ home—where there had been a WELCOME mat. Little good that did them, he thought glumly. Ray and Helen were six feet under. Same as Brook and countless others who’d been struck down well before their time.

  Finding the door locked, Cade resorted to the Danner-to-the jamb method of entry.

  The aging wood housing the striker plate disintegrated on the initial kick. There was an immediate explosion of sound and puff of plaster dust as the door blasted inward. Finding the foyer booby-trap-free, he stepped through the roiling dust cloud, the M4’s stubby suppressor leading the way.

  “Hello,” he called out.

  A tomb-like silence greeted him.

  He pushed Pom-Pom Z in ahead of him and toggled on the tactical light attached to his M4. At once he learned that the boarded-up windows were papered over on the inside. It looked as if an entire week’s worth of the local newspaper was used to cover the large picture window to his right.

  To his left, after a short three-stair run to a small landing, were the stairs to the second floor. From the landing they shot off to the right, the darkened well quickly swallowing them up.

  Same as the Thagon home, splitting the main floor in two, a narrow hall ran from the front living area to a kitchen in back. Figuring the stairs to a basement—if there was one—would be found somewhere off the kitchen, he struck out down the hall, steering the staggering Z ahead of him one-handed.

  In the Ford, both literally and figuratively, Raven was tiring of the one-sided game of keep away. She had already switched hands twice. Her shoulder and upper arm muscles were beginning to burn. She was elated to see her dad exit the house alone and angle for the truck. Conversely, she was crestfallen when he skirted her side and snatched the dog catcher’s tool from Peter’s hands.

  Letting the teenaged Z get a taste of the tassel, she watched her dad guide Mom Z into the home through the front door. Once they were both inside, she swiveled in her seat and asked Peter what was in the two duffel bags.

  After casting a quick glance at the two-lane, then scrutinizing the drive and gravel expanse the Ford was parked atop, he said, “One has some clothes, a laptop, and a sword handed down to me by my father. The other bag,” he added, “has my three video game systems. I have lots of different games for each one, too.”

  Brow rising an inch, Raven said, “Do you have extra game controllers for all of them? Maybe me and Sasha—” Abruptly she went quiet and buried her face in her hands.

  “What is it?” he asked, voice full of concern.

  “My friend may have been bitten,” she said through her fingers. Looking up at Peter, she added, “For a split second there, I forgot it even happened.”

  “My brother was bit, too,” Peter said morosely.

  “I was there,” Raven said. “He got a shot from the same bad batch of the supposed cure that my mom did. She died almost a week ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Peter said. “Gregory … he died this morning. He was fine when my dad went on his mission. Next thing I knew he was down with what we hoped was the flu.”

  “Who did it?”

  “My father’s friend, Cleo. He has the flu, too. But he still came home with us after my father left. I think they both knew and didn’t want to tell me the truth. Probably didn’t think I could handle it, what with my father going out among thousands of roamers in an old ice cream truck.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Raven said, as her gaze skipped from mirror to mirror. “Sounds like they were both brave men.”

  Peter said nothing. He was busy thumbing tears from his eyes.

  “Here comes the man of mystery,” Raven said.

  “You really don’t know what your dad’s been doing inside there?” said Peter. He wasn’t looking at Raven. His eyes were following the dog catcher’s tool Cade was slowly lowering over the teenaged Z’s head. “He hasn’t come out with any supplies yet.”

  “It’s part of my training,” she said. “Dad calls it Bushcraft one-oh-one.”

  All of a sudden the teenaged Z was backpedaling, the noose tight around its neck as it fell hard to the ground.

  Raven and Peter watched in silence as her dad manhandled the Z to its feet and propelled it toward the farmhouse.

  Once the two were gone from sight and the front door had again swung shut, Peter said, “You’re not scared of whatever your dad has planned for you?”

  Parroting her dad, she said, “A healthy dose of fear helps to keep a person sharp.”

  “Makes me want to crawl under the covers,” Peter admitted.

  ***

  Cade was inside less than five minutes. When he returned to the truck and the door sucked open, first off he said, “Anything moving out here?”

  Both kids shook their heads as he displaced Raven from the driver’s seat.

  “Good,” he said, looking mostly to Raven. “Because I have a story to tell you. Either of you heard of Operation Slapshot?”

  Again both kids shook their heads.

  “Good,” he said. “Because it’s still classified.” He began retel
ling the story of the cobbled-together mission to rescue a handful of scientists from Canada’s counterpart to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Keeping details to a minimum, he told the part in which he and his Delta Team were inserted onto the National Microbiology Laboratory’s sloped roof. He briefly mentioned how they’d cleared the Zs from the floor with the cube farm where the scientists and a dozen or so survivors were located. Finally, when he started in on the part of the rescue mission during which he was on point and leading the terrified civilians down a darkened stairwell full of hungry Zs, he switched gears and made sure to add every gory detail.

  He recounted the gut-wrenching horror of seeing through the night vision goggles the snarling faces of the dead up close and rendered in dozens of shades of green. He made sure to make clear how the smells and sounds had been amplified ten-fold in the dark and humid stairwell. The kids were both wide-eyed and hanging on his every word when he finished by saying, “To date … that was the scariest thing I have ever faced.”

  Screwing up her face, Raven said, “What about Mom? Uncle Mike? Iraq? Afghanistan?”

  “Those first two were the saddest tasks I’ve ever faced. All of the instances you just mentioned were actions I followed through on because I was duty bound. I made promises to both your mom and Mike Desantos. And I followed through on those. As for the Sandbox … save for missing you and Mom terribly while there, I loved every second I spent in-country.”

  “So you want me to go inside and cull the rotter family?”

  Peter’s arms were draped over the seatback. He was following the conversation with rapt attention.

  “Best you face the stuff of your nightmares under semi-controlled conditions.”

  She looked to the farmhouse and noted that the windows were all boarded over. She swallowed hard then said, “It’ll be real dark in there.”

  Swiveling around in his seat, Cade said to Peter, “Hand me the plastic case that’s back there. I think my ruck is sitting on it.”