Dead America The Second Week (Book 7): Dead America: Carolina Front, Part 4

by Slaton, Derek

  “Let’s go,” he hissed to Miles, and then took off like a shot.

  Zombies began to mill around the building, staggering and tripping over each other on their way towards the runway, and the hillbillies focused on the horde mostly, taking cover from Coleman’s sporadic fire.

  Terrell reached them first, leaping down on the closest guy and smashing the butt of his rifle into his face. The guy screamed in surprise, kicking out the Captain’s ankles and dropping him to the ground. He rolled and gripped the barrel of the redneck’s gun, jammit it up into his chin, and then launched himself on top, sending them rolling to the side into a pile of crates.

  A snarl and snap sounded just above his head and Terrell flopped out of the way to allow for the zombie to descend on his enemy’s face.

  Miles jabbed a few times into one man’s throat, kicking him in the stomach until he doubled over, and grabbing the butt of his hunting rifle. Another guy swung at Miles from behind, but Terrell launched himself at him, slamming them down to the asphalt.

  Miles grappled with his opponent, spinning him around and throwing him over the crates into a trio of waiting zombies to devour. Terrell slammed the redneck’s face into the ground a few times, and picked up his rifle, firing once into the fallen man’s head and then again at one of the remaining rednecks that aimed at Miles.

  The final hillbilly jumped up on top of a crate and raised his gun with a loud yell, but then his head exploded with the force of a bullet from Coleman’s vantage point.

  Miles and Terrell grabbed all of the fallen hunting rifles that had scattered with their prey, and turned to make a beeline back to Mario and Phil. The Captain had just enough time to notice that their window had been blasted right through before six more rednecks came around the corner.

  “Motherfucker!” Miles exclaimed before clenching his jaw and diving back behind the crates.

  Terrell joined him, cocking one of the rifles. “As soon as we fire on them we’re fucked,” he said.

  “But if we don’t, we’re fucked,” Miles added. The snarls from the zombies milling about on the other side of the crates solidified that theory.

  The Captain nodded. “Yep.”

  Miles cocked one of the rifles he’d retrieved. “Ready when you are.”

  Terrell popped up from behind the crates, managing to take advantage of the element of surprise and take out one of the rednecks. He ducked back down as the other five opened fire, drawing the attention of the nearby zombies.

  Miles fired through the slats in one of the crates, but his jaw dropped as a truck skidded around the corner, a plaid-laden man with a gigantic gut manning a mounted machine gun on the back.

  The duo scattered in opposite directions as the machine gun tore the crates to smithereens, making it out of the way just in time as wood splinters exploded everywhere. Terrell pressed himself flat against a little outbuilding, looking over to see Miles behind a few dumpsters as cover. The Captain looked up to Coleman’s window, hoping to hell that his friend was still alive, and as if on cue, the Corporal fired on the truck.

  The redneck swung around, bringing the mounted barrel to face the building, but Coleman was faster, putting a bullet right into his face. The rotund hillbilly flopped backwards in the truck bed, one arm still hanging off of the gun.

  Terrell rushed forward, launching himself off of a legless zombie up onto the back of the truck. One of the other rednecks clambered up after him, but he smashed them in the face with the butt of the rifle he held. The driver floored it, swerving to try to shake him off, but Miles dove out from behind his dumpster and fired at the windshield a few times. He managed to hit something, because Terrell had to brace himself on the fat corpse to keep from hurtling off of the truck as it sideswiped a building.

  He swung the gun around and fired into the remaining enemies, taking them down even in their futile attempt to dive away. Miles ran for the truck, throwing open the driver’s side door and jumping inside.

  Terrell pulled his radio up to his mouth. “Meet us at the south side of that building, Coleman, stat!” he yelled, and then dropped the mouthpiece as he took out more of the horde. The gun was useful, but it was also noisy as all hell, which wasn’t helping their situation any.

  Miles skidded to a stop next to the window where Mario and Phil had been decoys, but only the former hopped outside.

  “Where’s Phil?!” Miles demanded as Mario dove into the passenger’s seat.

  He shook his head. “They got him,” he said.

  “Fuck,” Miles cursed, and floored the gas.

  Terrell narrowed his eyes, sure that as they sped away, he saw blood staining the broken end of a fallen broomstick on the floor through the window. But he had to focus.

  He stopped firing on the horde as they began to put some distance between them, opting instead to scan around to make sure that none of the Boss’ lackeys were still hanging about. He didn’t know if the twelve or so that he and Miles had taken out had been all the backup that was coming, or if there were just going to be more waves of hillbillies.

  They screamed around to the south side, and Coleman came tearing out of the side door, clambering up into the truck bed next to the Captain.

  “That was fucking close,” he said.

  Terrell clapped him on the shoulder. “It really was.”

  “Where are we going?” Miles called back through the window as he pulled away from the base.

  The Captain smacked the roof of the truck. “I think it’s time you came back to chat with Xavier.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The men at the gate seemed impressed and taken aback by the massive gun on the back of the truck. Terrell beckoned for Miles and Mario to come out.

  “Rifles in the cab, boys,” the Captain said as Mario tried to snag a rifle from Miles’ stash he’d procured.

  Miles nodded and unslung the one from his shoulder, tossing it into the backseat. “Understood.”

  Mario scowled. “Not understood. What’s going to stop you from just killing us once we get inside?”

  “One measly rifle on your back isn’t, that’s for sure,” Coleman replied brightly.

  The annoyed-looking man thrust the gun into one of the guard’s unsuspecting hands, and moved to stand behind Miles petulantly.

  “Go ahead and take this baby to the garage,” Terrell said to the guard, motioning to the truck. “Xavier can decide if he wants to keep it like this or mount the gun on the wall.”

  The guard nodded and got behind the wheel, heading inside.

  “Well, do we get to go inside?” Mario demanded, motioning to the door.

  Terrell motioned to a little lean-to on the outer wall that served as the compound’s lobby. “We need to go over a few things, first.” He waved for them to come over. “Have a seat.”

  Coleman pulled out two wooden chairs, patting both men heartily on the back as they sat in them. The Corporal then leaned against the wall off to the side, inspecting his fingernails as Terrell pulled a book from the shelf behind him.

  He slammed it down on the table in front of the men, both of them visibly jumping from the noise.

  “Can you read?” he demanded.

  Miles raised an eyebrow and stared down at the cover of the book. “Medieval Torture Techniques?” he asked.

  Terrell nodded and slid the book towards Mario, flipping it open. “Pick a page,” he urged.

  Mario wrinkled his nose, flipping a few pages and shoving the book back.

  “Ah, the saw technique,” the Captain said.

  Coleman clucked his tongue. “Good choice.”

  “The subject is strung up from his ankles in a v formation,” Terrell read, pacing back and forth as he held the book in his hands. “And then a gigantic saw is passed through the opening at the apex of the thighs. Two people begin to saw back and forth from the genitals down through the body, until the subject is rend in two.”

  Miles and Mario both stared at him, faces pale.

  He slapped the b
ook shut, and stared down at them, brow stern. “And since this ain’t fuckin’ medieval times, we’ll saw just enough to get the blood flowing, and leave you strung up for the zombies to take chunks out of.”

  “We’re distinguished, modern men,” Coleman added, not looking up from his nails.

  Terrell slid the book back onto its shelf. “Of course, you don’t have to worry about any of this if you’re loyal to the town.” He glared down at Mario, noting the sweat on his brow. “What do you think?”

  Miles took a deep breath. “Dude, you don’t have to worry about us,” he said. “Definitely don’t need to be sawing my dick in half.”

  “And you?” Terrell stared down his nose at Mario. “I saw Phil. He didn’t get shot.”

  Mario leapt from his chair, the wood clattering to the ground, and took off down a side street.

  Miles shook his head, jaw dropped. He raised his hands. “The guy was an asshole, but I swear I didn’t know he was-”

  “It’s cool, man, I know,” Terrell said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve been genuine. And you had my back out there. Come on.”

  Miles got to his feet, shaking his head. “If you knew about Mario… why didn’t you kill him?” he asked as they walked to the front gate. “After all that talk of… sawing.”

  “Oh, the sawing still applies,” Coleman assured him as they strolled. “So you’d better stay loyal.”

  Terrell nodded. “We’ve got other plans for Mario,” he said, and the Corporal wiggled a little console from his pocket. He flicked it on, and a red light immediately began to flicker on a small screen.

  “You planted a tracker on him,” Miles breathed, shaking his head in awe. “You guys are hardcore.”

  “Yep,” Coleman replied, puffing out his chest.

  Terrell chuckled, shaking his head. “We figured your information might be dated, since the Boss knows that you defected and can’t be sure what Xavier knows. So having Mario lead us to him will give us a better lay of the land for future.”

  “Good call,” Miles agreed.

  Xavier headed out of town hall, pursing his lips as he took in the two soldiers and their friend. “Mr. Miles,” he greeted. “You’ve always been cordial in our dealings. Looks like that’s paid off for you.”

  “Apparently so, sir,” he replied, extending his hand to shake.

  The older man took it, offering a smile. “If you’ve been vetted by these two, then welcome. We are always needing some strong hands around here.”

  “I can help with that,” Miles said, and cracked his knuckles.

  Coleman raised his nose. “Something smells… fried.”

  Xavier chuckled and shook his head. “Nothing gets past you, Corporal. June’s got some fried chicken plated just for you boys.”

  “Fried chicken?” Miles asked, incredulously.

  Coleman pumped a fist into the air. “I fucking love this place.”

  “Language, young man,” Ruth scolded as they entered the hall.

  Coleman blushed. “Apologies, ma’am,” he mumbled, and she nodded at him as she set cups of coffee down on the conference table.

  Miles looked flabbergasted as he took a seat at the long table in front of a steaming plate of fried chicken and mashed root vegetables and a hot coffee.

  “You’re an angel,” he said, and June trilled a laugh, patting him on the shoulder before heading back into the kitchen.

  “So, where are we on the Fayetteville distraction?” Xavier asked as he raised a mug of coffee to his lips.

  Terrell leaned back in his chair with his own mug. “We’ve got a detonation device, but nothing to make it explode. We need chemicals.”

  “I hope you have something big,” Miles put in. “The Boss has a battle force of five hundred men at least. He’s got military grade hardware, not to mention all of the weapons from that cache we tried to get to you.”

  Coleman spit bits of chicken as he shook his head. “Five hundred men?” he blurted around his food.

  Terrell flicked a hunk of meat from his sleeve with distaste. “How many men doesn’t matter. It’s the zombies that matter. And we need to make a big enough explosion to draw them away from here.”

  “Back on one of the farms I used to work at, there’s a stash of nitrate we can use,” Xavier said. “At least it should still be there. If we can get our hands on ammonia, then that should do it for the bomb.”

  “Any word from the scouts on where we could find that?” Terrell asked.

  Xavier shook his head. “No, but I can make sure they know to look for it.”

  “Better to have the supplies sooner rather than later,” the Captain replied, and received a nod in return.

  “Walter,” Xavier called as the young man headed through the lobby, “could you get some intel to the scouts, please?”

  “Sure thing, sir,” Walter replied, and followed the older man over to a back table where they could work out the messages to send out.

  “No rest for the wicked, huh?” Coleman asked as he leaned back in his chair and let out a loud belch.

  Terrell eyed his empty plate with a raised eyebrow. “Not with the way you eat.”

  “Man, you’d better eat yours or I’m gonna,” the Corporal replied. “It’s delicious and I worked up an appetite saving your ass a bunch of times today.”

  Miles chuckled through a mouthful of chicken at the two soldiers.

  Terrell shook his head and pulled his plate away from his comrade. “Your reward for saving my ass was a ride home, thank you and you’re welcome.” He glanced over at Miles. “Well? What do you think? You ready to run with us?”

  Their new recruit nodded, swallowing his mouthful. “I’ll help however I can.”

  “Fuck I wish we’d have gotten those weapons,” Coleman lamented.

  Terrell shrugged. “Well, we got some rifles and that sweet machine gun.”

  “True,” the Corporal replied.

  Terrell grinned. “And, we get to build a giant bomb.”

  “Hell yes,” Coleman agreed. “Let’s go blow shit up.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Meanwhile. At the Charlotte Fortress…

  Captain Frank Kyle strained against the weights, eeking out a few last reps before his body gave up for the day. He shoved up one more before heaving the bar up with a crash and sitting up to grab his water bottle. He took a swig and wiped his sweaty face with a towel, chest heaving.

  The doors to the gym opened and two middle-aged overweight men sauntered in.

  Frank raised an eyebrow as he sized up their grease-stained jeans and cautious gait. “How’s it going, fellas?” he asked. “What can I do for you?”

  They glanced at each other, motioning for the other to speak. After a momentary silent parlay, the taller of the two stepped forward.

  “Excuse me, mister army man,” he said, southern accent thick as molasses, “we’re real sorry for interrupting your workout, but we’s wonderin’ if you could help us out.”

  The Captain shrugged and slung his towel over his shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do, and please, call me Frank. And who might you be?”

  “My name’s Kenny, sir, and this is my lifelong friend Zane,” the tall man replied, and motioned to his shorter companion.

  Frank extended his hand to shake each of them in turn. “It’s a pleasure to meet the two of you. If you don’t mind me asking, and please don’t take offense to the question, but how did you two find your way into our little fortress here? Forgive me, but y’all don’t really strike me as the scientist or farmer types.”

  “No offense taken, Mister Frank,” Kenny replied politely.

  The Captain smiled and put up a hand. “Please, just Frank.”

  “Okay, Frank.” The tall man nodded. “Well ya see, when this stuff started goin’ down, Zane and me were up at our junk pit.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow. “Junk pit?”

  “Yeah, it’s like a car junkyard, ‘cept we’d take in anythin’ and everythin’ we thoug
ht we could repurpose,” Kenny explained. “Refrigerators from the fifties, wrought iron fences, and hell I’m pretty sure we even had some old rail lines they tore up to put in a mini-mall.”

  Frank nodded, impressed. “Y’all must have been pretty good at what you do in order to get an invite here.”

  “Oh yessir, we was the best demolition derby car builders on the east coast!” Zane piped up, nodding emphatically. “People feared us at every dirt track from here to Milton, Florida! Our driver Jimbo would drive that big bitch of a car and just tear through them other buggers like a hot knife through gravy. Ain’t lost a derby in damn near six years!”

  Kenny wrinkled his nose. “‘Cept that one in Valdosta.”

  “Man, you know that don’t count on accountin’ that we got disqualified for bein’ too shit-kickin’ awesome!” Zane wagged his finger. “Y’see, Frank, that was the race we debuted the behemoth-”

  “Named after Zane’s wife,” Kenny cut in.

  His friend laughed. “Not sure why you gettin’ salty, she was your wife first!”

  Frank scrubbed his hands down his face, trying to hide his sly smile.

  “Anyhoo, we beat ‘em suckers down so quick that the crowd started booing and throwin’ beer onto the infield,” Zane continued. “Promoter got pissed and DQ’d us to keep the peace.”

  The Captain nodded. “Okay, I’m starting to see why Bill picked you boys. Sounds like if I need a deathmobile, you’ll be up to the task.”

  “Oh yes, Sir Frank, we gotcha covered, buddy,” Kenny said with a little salute.

  Frank took a deep breath. “Well, fellas, I got a lot on my plate today, so what is it I can help you out with?”

  “We was wonderin’ if we could have one of them dumbbells,” the tall man said.

  The Captain took a swig of his water and shrugged. “I mean, this gym is open to everyone, so you boys are more than welcome to work out anytime you like. You don’t have to ask my permission.”

  The duo burst out laughing, full out slapping their knees.