Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 13): Gone

by Chesser, Shawn

  “Ruck?”

  Raven smiled.

  “My camo backpack,” Cade answered. “Sorry for spouting Army lingo at you.”

  “I play first person shooters,” Peter said, as he hefted the sturdy case over the seatback.

  Cade chuckled softly. “Not exactly the same experience.” He set the attaché-sized case on the center console, rotated it clockwise until the word PELICAN emblazoned across the top lid was upright and the carrying handle faced him. He disengaged the half-dozen double-throw latches one at a time, each making a sharp click as he did so. Carefully, he worked the item inside from the charcoal-gray foam it had been snugged down in.

  “Night vision goggles,” Raven said matter-of-factly.

  Peter was hanging over the seatback, obviously intrigued by the contents of the box.

  Holding the device up for all to see, Cade said, “See anything different about these and the ones in the footlocker back home?”

  Raven handled them for a second. She said, “Four tubes instead of two. The controls seem mostly the same.”

  “Correct,” Cade answered. He adjusted the flexible head strap to the smallest possible extent. “Try them on.”

  Raven slipped them over her head, finding them a little loose.

  Cade took her hat from the dash and handed it to her.

  Shooing it away, she said, “There’s rotter spit on the tassel. Cut it off.”

  Cade complied. Tossed the slimy ball of yarn out the window.

  After snugging her black cap on, the NVGs fit perfectly. With the ocular lenses hovering close to her eyes and the four front-facing tubes sprouting from her head, each at a slightly different angle, she looked like some kind of futuristic robot.

  Nearly in the front seat by now, Peter twisted his near-horizontal upper body to face Raven. “Turn them on,” he urged.

  Finding the power switch by feel, Raven tilted her head forward and turned the devices on. Instantly she saw everything in the shadowy footwell clear as day. The black carpet on the floorboard, her black boots, and the black rifle trapped between her knees was rendered in a hundred tones of gray. Compared to the green display of the NVGs she’d had the opportunity to use, the phosphor white display of these goggles lent much more definition to what she was looking at. And though she had only used the other devices on a couple of occasions, she still noticed that these vastly improved her depth perception.

  Craning around toward Cade, Peter said, “Can I try?”

  Cade shook his head. “Got to save the batteries.”

  On cue, Raven powered the goggles down and went to remove them.

  Putting a hand on the goggles, Cade said, “Leave them on. Take your rifle, the Glock 19, and a radio. Turn the radio up in case I need to contact you.”

  Now Peter was gawking at Raven. His jaw was hinged open and it was apparent he was going green with envy.

  Goggles tilted into the up position, Raven shot a nervous glance at the farmhouse. “I’m going in there with … them?”

  “You don’t have to,” Cade said. “I’d be happy if you did.” He paused. “They can’t bite you. I made sure of that by using the whole roll of tape. They can get ahold of you if you get too close. Shouldn’t happen, though. You’ll have the upper hand wearing those.”

  She said nothing.

  “Better to do this the first time under controlled circumstances,” urged Cade. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”

  “You mean when she needs you, right?”

  Cade said nothing. He was waiting with rapt attention for his daughter’s response. And it came fast, catching Peter by surprise.

  Twisting in her seat, Raven leaned in real close. So close her nose was nearly touching Peter’s. Brown eyes locked with his baby blues and lips drawn tight, she snarled, “Don’t patronize me.” And though she didn’t know the exact meaning of the words she’d heard the strong women in her life employ in situations such as these, it sure felt good to use them.

  Leaning back in his seat, Cade threw his hands in the air. “You’re on your own, Peter.”

  As Raven gathered up her gear, Peter disappeared into the back seat.

  Cade said, “I want you to put down each Z using a different weapon.”

  Raven said nothing. She seemed to be lost in thought.

  “Toothpick, Glock, Rifle,” prompted Cade.

  Making a face, Peter said, “Toothpick?”

  Raven showed off the slim blade.

  “Ahhh,” exclaimed Peter.

  Cade looked to Raven. “Your mom did it. So can you.”

  She nodded. After a second’s hesitation, she leaned across the console and wrapped her arms around her dad’s neck. “Your stubble is coming in,” she said, running a finger over the five o’clock shadow come early. “It feels weird. Why’d you shave?”

  “I just felt like a change.” Navigating past the NVGs, Cade kissed her on the cheek. “You have five minutes. I put one on each level.”

  “There’s a basement?”

  He nodded.

  “Sounds like a video game,” Peter said to nobody in particular.

  “Nothing like it,” Cade said to Peter. Regarding Raven, he added, “Go get ‘em, Bird.”

  She exited the truck and they watched her mount the steps and form up before the door.

  Cade drew his radio to his lips. Thumbing the Talk button, he said, “Comms check.”

  After a short burst of squelch, Raven’s voice emanated from the speaker. “Good copy,” she said and disappeared through the gloomy doorway.

  Chapter 38

  Duncan had just gotten to his knees and spotted the dead men on the ground near the trailer stairs when blood spilling from a wound somewhere on his scalp began the slow steady march down his already bloodied forehead, nose, and cheeks. Ignoring the warm sticky tendrils working their way into his collar, he eyed the corpses.

  The older of the two, a wiry man with wild hair, full beard, and sporting crude prison tats on his arms and neck lay to the left of the steps. He was closer to forty than thirty. His body had absorbed the two bullets fired from the .45. One had struck the man’s sternum, blowing apart his tee shirt and opening up a fist-sized hole in his chest. The other entered a few inches higher, near the man’s Adam’s apple, rendering him mute and excising a substantial chunk of his neck on the way out. A soon-to-be-fatal through-and-through from the looks of it. The amount of blood present was the first clue to the chronology of events. After the man had fallen where he lay, his heart had continued to beat long enough to purge an ample amount of blood from the neck wound, through one curled hand, and onto the ground around his head and upper torso.

  Though the other corpse’s face had been peppered by what looked to be splinters from the door, he had died from a massive gunshot wound to the upper chest. The traces of acne and wisp of a beard told Duncan the man was new to the title. He put his age at eighteen or nineteen. Mouth agape in a final silent scream, the man had curled up and died in a fetal position. Blood was pooled around his midsection. Already beginning to glaze over, the brown eyes stared accusingly in Duncan’s direction.

  With his .45 still aimed at the woman seated in the purple Dodge, Duncan unzipped his parka and conducted a one-handed examination of his aching midsection.

  At the spot near his navel where numbness was quickly giving over to shooting pains, he felt nothing pointing to the fact he had caught a bullet. There was no bloody hole waiting to accept his probing fingers. He detected no rips in the shirt and no furrows underneath the wet fabric where he may have been grazed by a bullet, or fragment thereof.

  “My arms are getting tired,” called the woman. “I can’t hold this pose much longer.”

  “Your best thinking got you there,” Duncan sneered. “Suck it up, buttercup. I’ll get to you in two shakes.”

  Tentatively, Duncan brought his hand up in front of his face. He examined his fingers, then looked at his palm. His hand was all wet, but there wasn’t a spot of red on it.
r />   He brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed.

  Beer.

  Saved by the very thing that’s slowly killing me. He said, “Damn it all to hell! Your AK-wielding friend blew a hole clean through my Blue Ribbon.”

  Favoring his right side, he rose to his feet and unzipped his parka pocket. Dragged the exploded can into daylight, gave it a cursory look, then tossed it out the door. It bounced off the bottom stair and came to rest next to two other cans bearing the same red and blue Pabst logo.

  He left his ruined Stetson in the trailer. Bracing himself on the jamb, he took the steps one at a time. With the .45 never wavering, he skirted the bodies and blood and made his way to the truck. Reaching the driver’s side door, he kicked the bolt-action rifle aside and looked the woman in the face. Up close, she looked much younger than his initial impression. A youthful face like that with no emotional wear and tear told him she was either just getting her feet wet in the nightclub scene before the dead began to walk, or the experience had been just around the corner. Voice devoid of emotion, he said, “Do you have another gun on you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Any in the truck?”

  She nodded. “One in the glove box.”

  “OK, then,” he said, all business. “Keeping your hands where I can see them, pop the door with the outside handle and push it open with your knee.”

  She did as she was told, then shot him a What now? look.

  Face a bloody mess, Duncan stalked to his right and peered inside the cab. Seeing she was indeed unarmed, he ordered her out of the truck.

  She stepped to the ground and immediately heaping platitudes on Duncan. Thanking him for “rescuing” her from the rapists.

  Waving her out of his way, he craned and gave the cab a longer visual inspection. Saw the near empty Pabst suitcase. The cardboard was torn, a couple of full beers spilling out on the seat.

  “You found my rig at the Shell station, I see.”

  “You broke into our place,” she said.

  “Those aren’t the words of a captive,” he noted. “What’s your name?”

  She was shifting from foot to foot now. She said, “Holly.”

  A hint of skepticism in his tone, he asked, “How old are you, Holly?”

  “Twenty-one on the fifteenth,” she said.

  “Of this month?”

  She nodded.

  “Then you’re old enough to know better.” Nodding toward the trailer, he added, “I saw your sleeping arrangements in there. You three were thick as thieves, weren’t you? You were on those boys like a shorthaired hound on a wounded duck. Or was it the other way around?” He paused and clucked his tongue. “You were playing a little good cop, bad cop with them, weren’t you?”

  After a few seconds, she nodded. She said, “It was exciting. All the looting and shooting. I come from a family of bankers and accountants. I was set to go to an Ivy League school in the fall before all of this derailed that.”

  “In all your galavantin’ around, did you see a woman? Name’s Glenda. She’s a little younger than me. Mid-fifties. Graying reddish-brown hair. Prettiest green eyes you’ll ever see.” He held his hand up to his nose. Blood was still dripping from the tip. “She’s about this tall to me.”

  The young woman just stared.

  “Well?” he asked. “Did you, or didn’t you?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  He pulled his left arm inside his parka sleeve. Being careful to not dislodge his glasses, he dabbed the blood from his face.

  Finally she said, “We haven’t come across anyone who fits that description.”

  Gun unwavering, he demanded, “Who have you come across?”

  “Couple of soldiers on motorcycles. A few more in those square military trucks.”

  “Humvees?”

  She nodded.

  “Were the soldiers ours?”

  “How would I know?” She crossed her arms across her chest.

  “What did Frick and Frack here think?”

  “Didn’t say one way or the other. We stayed at the ski resort night before last and spotted them going through the burned-out town. And like we always did, we just stayed out of sight and watched.”

  “You mean if they were stronger than you three desperados, you just watched. Am I right?”

  She said nothing.

  “Actions speak louder than words,” said Duncan. “And oftentimes they beget consequences.” As he motioned with the gun for her to walk the length of the Dodge’s load bed, he saw Adrian in his mind’s eye. She was captive in the stocks at the cul-de-sac compound. And she seemed to be smirking at him. Then she winked and mouthed, No more loose ends.

  Shaking her head, Holly said, “I have a feeling I know what you have in mind for me, Mister. I’ll just go ahead and make it easy for you.” She unzipped her fleece jacket and turned toward him. Her right hand went to her left breast and she cupped it and squeezed the erect nipple between thumb and forefinger.

  “Put your damn teat away,” he growled. “That’s the furthest thing from my mind. Just turn around and walk.”

  Lower lip sticking out, she pulled down her shirt, zipped up her fleece, and turned away.

  Duncan’s gun hand was beginning to shake. He swiped at the blood on his nose and then pressed the trigger. The boom was tremendous, even out of doors. It rolled away and crashed around the UDOT yard, scattering birds from a nearby tree.

  The young woman pitched forward violently and her feet lifted off the gravel. For the first half beat she seemed to be imitating Superman in flight. In the latter half of that beat, gravity brought her back to the ground, where she hit face first, arms bent at unnatural angles, and plowed the patch of gravel with her face into the neat little pillow her head eventually came to rest on.

  Duncan exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He removed his glasses and gave his face a thorough wiping.

  He didn’t look at his grim work. No reason to have that as visual fodder for the nightmares already visiting him regularly. If last night was any indication, drinking excessively to keep them at bay was no longer an option.

  After holstering his pistol, Duncan retrieved the keys for the Dodge from the tattooed man’s pocket, policed up the weapons, and then slow-walked back to the pickup. As he pulled back the tarp to place the rifles in the load bed, he noted the rest of the stuff scattered about the floor. It appeared the crew had just returned from a scavenging trip. And a fruitful one, at that. Judging by the items near the tailgate, they had recently relieved an automotive parts concern of all the things necessary to keep the Dodge running. He saw a case of motor oil, gas additives, windshield cleaner, several cans of instant flat tire repair, a couple of gallons of severe weather anti-freeze, and a host of other items. Clothing and bedding was also represented.

  A plastic bin near the cab held hundreds of rounds of ammunition for the rifles—some already loaded into a half-dozen magazines for each.

  “You kids were busy little beavers,” he said, pulling the tarp to cover the loot.

  He patted his pockets, then muttered an expletive. “Left my Dear John in the trailer.”

  He trudged back to the trailer, the gash on his head bleeding the entire way. As he mounted the steps, he looked down at the Pabst cans. “Nearly a fatal mistake you made there, Old Man. Might have cut out the middleman, though. Saved you the trouble of doing it yourself one day.”

  The folded-up letter was on the floor beside the love seat. He scooped it up and stood amongst the debris from the door, staring down at it while turning it over and over in his hands.

  He stuffed the letter in a pocket not soaked with beer.

  He made his way to the small bathroom at the end of the trailer opposite the sleeping bags. Examined the wound in the mirror. There was no water, so he dabbed at the wound with his coat sleeve. Revealed an inches-long furrow maybe a half-inch wide at the start. Where there should have been an exit wound, there was a lump, the jagged gray edges of what was likely a b
ullet fragment pressing through his scalp.

  “Another quarter-inch south and you’d be dead, muchacho.”

  To staunch the blood flow, he cut a few strips of liner from one of the sleeping bags and, using some of the fill, made a crude bandage.

  After a little reshaping, he jammed the Stetson down on his misshapen head.

  Walking back to the Dodge, he kept his gaze level.

  The truck started on the first try. No reason it shouldn’t, it was barely broken in. He supposed it was three years old, max.

  He didn’t bother reclosing the gate after rolling the Dodge through. Just continued down the feeder road to the junction with 39, where he turned right and tromped the gas, a whole host of problems in the rearview and many more on the cloud-choked horizon.

  Chapter 39

  Eyes already sweeping the dark interior, Raven reached behind her and closed the door to the farmhouse. M4 aimed forward, she stood in the entry to the two-story affair for thirty seconds, to let her eyes adjust.

  They did not.

  Save for the stairs to her left being partially illuminated by the sliver of light coming in from where a piece of door jamb was missing, a veil of inky darkness enshrouded the entire main floor.

  What would Dad do? she thought. He’d achieve tactical advantage at once, she told herself, sliding the night vision goggles down in front of her eyes. With an economy of movement, she powered the device on and raised her rifle, its stubby suppressor pointed toward her right flank, the likely place for a rotter to be lying in wait.

  Once the NVGs powered on—the cycle taking a second at most—she saw the entire room rendered in shades of white, gray, and black. Phosphor white was what her dad called it. Like looking at old timey television, I Love Lucy or The Three Stooges, is how she saw it. And she saw it all. In crystal clear clarity.

  To her right, a long hallway led off to the back of the house. She was standing in what looked like a living room. Only there was no furniture to speak of. She guessed it had all been broken apart and used to board up the window on the outside. Inside, the windows were all covered with newspapers. Headlines on some of them jumped out at her like the credits at a 3D feature film. The Dead Have Come Back To Life. President Odero says: Shelter In Place. Governor Silcox Calls Up Utah National Guard. Government Is Collapsing Across the Nation. All of this she already knew. But God how she missed going to the movie theater. The buttered popcorn. Sour Patch Kids. All of it.