Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home

by Chesser, Shawn

  “Damn,” said Buck. “Good ol’ Nash has him on the fast track to ordering from the menu without going to the numbers.”

  He placed the Glock and magazine in the locker numbered 3, snapped a padlock shut on the handle, then turned to present the key to Raven. When his gaze fell on her, he saw that her smile had been replaced by a look of confusion.

  “Order by the number?” Raven asked, head adopting a slight tilt. “Like at McDonalds?”

  Stepping away from the entry, Buck chuckled and then explained how, to keep the layperson from butchering the names of the dozens of available dishes on their menus, as well as for ease of ordering, many Chinese restaurants put a number next to each item.

  Brow arched, Raven said, “I see.” Having never ordered from a Chinese menu, she took Buck at his word. Ordering Max to stay, she mounted the stairs and pushed through the door.

  Chapter 22

  “What we need is a couple of Pied Pipers of our own,” Griff said. “Lead that horde over the edge of the effin Grand Canyon.”

  Holding the sniper rifle vertical between his knees, Axe looked to Griff. “You still in the volunteering mood, mate?”

  “Someone’s got to do it, overwatch boy.” Griff smiled to let Axe know his chain was being yanked.

  “I’ll have you know, Griff, Overwatch Boy dropped a pair of Zeds creeping up on your six.” Axe glanced at the interstate below the Ghost Hawk. Off the starboard side, rising up beside the old highway, was the iconic Now Entering Las Vegas sign.

  The closer they got to downtown, the more outbound vehicles they saw stalled out on the interstate. Similarly, side streets and boulevards around the interstate were clogged with unoccupied vehicles, nearly all of them loaded down with belongings.

  “Lots of people left their rides behind,” noted Cross.

  “Your ride almost left you behind,” quipped Griff.

  “Wasn’t even close,” Ari shot.

  “Closer than I would have liked,” Cross admitted. “I have the rips in my pants to prove it.”

  “But did you die?”

  Deciding to let Griff have the last word, Cross went back to taping up his torn pants legs.

  Up front, Ari was still scanning the west/east-running streets. Imagining that the PLA scouts had to resort to backtracking or even dismounting their motorcycles to get through the particularly nasty blockages, he said, “Where oh where are our Chinese friends?”

  Haynes said, “What would you want to do if you had been riding a bike across the desert at slow speed for hours on end?”

  “Shoot myself,” Griff joked. “Motorcycles are meant to be ridden fast and with a hot babe on back.”

  “Seriously,” Haynes pressed. “Once you saw that beacon in the distance, besides the obvious air-conditioned casino or seafood buffet, where would you go first?”

  “I’d find me a brewski and a swimming pool,” Lopez said. “And not necessarily in that order.”

  Ari slowed Jedi One and brought her to a hover above a cloverleaf being negotiated by a small herd of dead. In twos and threes, as the down blast from the main rotor swirled their wispy hair and tugged at clothing gone threadbare from exposure to the elements, the Zs paused and looked expectantly skyward.

  Flanking the boulevard cutting underneath the interstate was a pair of gas stations. Both of the attached convenience marts were just metal shells, the windows devoid of glass, the shelves emptied. Snaking off from the fueling islands and into the road were six lines of inert vehicles. Each line held a dozen or more cars, SUVs, and pickups, some of which were loaded down with personal belongings and all manner of home furnishings.

  Ari said, “Folks didn’t get far. Which begs the question: Where are the riders? I have a feeling they’re laying low somewhere and waiting for Sierra Charlie to shuffle on down the road.”

  “What makes you think the dead won’t deviate?” Lopez asked.

  “I-15 is a natural conduit,” Haynes stated. “So unless a majority of the pacesetters take an off-ramp, maybe to chase something living they think they can eat, I bet the whole stinking lot of them will pass right on through.”

  Still holding the bird in a hover, Ari said, “Anyone in the cheap seats have an idea where they might have gone?”

  Silence.

  “Don’t all you ladies speak up at the same time,” Ari continued. “Where would you go?”

  Griff spoke up. “Think like a Chinese tourist. Say you’re visiting New York. What’s the first thing you go and do?” Answering his own question, he added, “You go see Ground Zero.”

  Struck by an epiphany, Lopez said, “Everyone who goes to Vegas has to see the fountains at the Bellagio. I bet the riders are no different.”

  Haynes said, “Nail on the head. Though the fountains are likely just standing water, you’d still be killing two birds with one stone.”

  “And that water can be purified for drinking,” Cross added.

  “Even if it was full of duck shite,” Axe said, “I’d still take my boots off and dip my feet.”

  “They’re riding, not marching,” Griff said. “Still, I like the way you’re thinking. They have an hour, maybe two lag time before the horde reaches the Vegas sign. The cars on the interstate will slow them down some.”

  “Only until the main body gets to them,” Cross said. “Then, bang … cars will be tossed aside like toys.”

  Ari said, “We better move it, then.” He nudged the stick forward and applied right pedal. As the helicopter went nose down and started a slow turn to starboard, he went on, saying, “The riders are here. I’m sure of it. They stopped somewhere and are likely taking catnaps in shifts. And I agree, they’re probably set up near some water.” He regarded Haynes. “High Tower, you know this city better than any of us. Where do you think we should start our search?”

  With no hesitation, Haynes pointed to a regal-looking building off in the distance. “Start at the Bellagio.” For the benefit of the team in back, he targeted the hotel with the FLIR pod and fed the live feed to the troop compartment monitor.

  As Ari kept the Ghost Hawk tracking north, three hundred feet above Interstate 15, everyone aboard was afforded a bird’s-eye view of a number of landmark hotel/casinos.

  The south gatekeeper was Mandalay Bay, a stout wedge of concrete rising to nearly eye level with the helicopter. Curtains hung through jagged holes punched in many of its windows. On the ground below, debris pushed by the desert wind danced over mirrored shards of glass glittering in the sun.

  Next came the Luxor’s pyramid. It was seemingly untouched, the intact glass panels streaked with dirt.

  Behind the Luxor, its faux skyline nearly as impressive as the real thing, was the New York-New York Hotel and Casino. In the distance, the 1149-foot-tall needle-like Stratosphere Hotel rose above it all.

  “At the clover leaf,” called Haynes, “make a ninety-degree turn to starboard.”

  “Copy that,” replied Ari, beginning the task of bleeding airspeed and swinging the bird around to the right.

  “Bellagio dead ahead,” Haynes stated. He tapped the glass cockpit to enlarge the image.

  Rising up behind the palms fronting the Bellagio, maybe two blocks distant, stood a replica of the Eiffel Tower. Though it was considerably smaller in scale than the real deal, the amount of detail put into its construction was impressive.

  The palms dotting the Bellagio grounds were in dire need of attention, their fronds brown and drooping. In the middle distance the burned-out hulk of a super-stretch limousine sat across the main driveway. It was ringed by twice-dead corpses ravaged by decomposition.

  Closer in, blocking the exit spilling onto a wide thoroughfare, was a red double-decker sightseeing bus. BIG BUS LAS VEGAS was splashed in gold across both sides.

  Chain-link fencing anchored by cement footers and fronted by Jersey barriers ringed the property. Just outside the barriers, sitting amongst a sea of brass shell casings and dead bodies, was a trio of desert tan Humvees. Though the squat vehi
cles were fitted with top-mounted cupolas, they had been stripped of their heavy weapons.

  Trapped inside the perimeter were dozens of zombies in varying states of decay. And since the hotel’s main doors were thrown open, it was clear to Ari and Haynes that the walking dead had free reign of the place.

  Seeing the same images on the rear monitor, Lopez said, “Looks like someone put up a helluva fight trying to hold it.”

  Ari tapped the image. Sounding disappointed, he said, “All that aside … it looks as if our hypothesis is shot. And to add a kick in the nuts to it all, the fountains are as dead as those things walking the grounds.”

  “Looks like the duck pond at my abuela’s finca,” commented Lopez.

  A usually reserved Cross said, “Tijuana called … it wants its drinking water back.”

  Axe said, “Bugger. If the wankers did visit the famous Bellagio fountains, looks as if they popped a selfie and moved on.”

  “You think?” Griff chided. “The entire property is compromised. Nothing to see here. Move along.”

  Ari flipped up his visor and looked a question at Haynes.

  Shrugging against his shoulder straps, Haynes said, “We do have enough fuel to grid search the strip north to south one time. Caesar’s Palace is pretty well known, too. Remember that movie The Hangover? It’s where they filmed it.”

  Ari didn’t need convincing. Nor did he ask Lopez for input. The urge to see the place where one of his favorite comedies was filmed was motivation enough to add a few more minutes’ stick time to what was already one hell of a long mission. Firm set to his jaw, he threaded Jedi One between cross-competing multi-story hotels, turned to a northerly heading, and grabbed some altitude.

  Chapter 23

  The inside of LOLAMART smelled of cigarette smoke and mildew. A space heater worked hard to warm the still air. Gutted from floor to ceiling, chest-high shelves crisscrossed the floor where interior walls used to rise. Only thing in the popup store that spoke to it once being someone’s dwelling was the thick brown carpet underfoot and the dark wood paneling behind Lola’s makeshift checkout counter.

  The stock on Lola’s shelves changed constantly. One day after the arrival of the contents of a previously looted convenience store, the shelves burst with whimsical items and toys—most made in China. Another time a foraging party had returned with U-Haul trucks filled with goods salvaged from an untouched sporting goods store. The guns and ammunition were first to go, with the camping and fishing gear not so hot a commodity. Last time Raven had visited Lola’s, the odds and ends from that haul were still languishing on the shelves. As the bell over her head signaled the door closing at her back, she hoped that was still the case. However, like Forest Gump’s take on life, Lola’s inventory was the chocolates in the box and you never knew what you were going to get.

  The woman behind the counter rose from her chair and directed her gaze toward the door. Greeting Raven by name, she began to rattle off the recent arrivals and the stores they’d been liberated from.

  Making her way to the nearby counter, Raven asked, “Got anything left from the Outdoor N’ More haul?”

  Cigarette bouncing as she talked, Lola said, “Moved all that to the back forty and marked it all down more than half.” She pointed a crooked, arthritic finger toward the area of the store she regarded the back forty.

  Looking to the rear of the store, Raven spotted a middle-aged couple perusing the aisles. After waiting for the shoppers to vacate the aisle she had her sights set on, Raven made her move, passing shelves brimming with alkaline batteries, disposable propane canisters, wooden matches, and propane stoves.

  The item Raven had come looking for was indeed on a lower shelf at the back of the rectangular trailer. And true to Lola’s word, it was priced to move.

  Once the couple completed their business with Lola, Raven made her way toward the front, along the way grabbing a pouch of bacon treats for Max off a low shelf.

  Lola was dressed head-to-toe in surplus BDUs in woodland-pattern camouflage. On her feet were Sorel snow boots with wool liners showing. On her hip was a compact pistol, the make foreign to Raven. She was lighting a new cigarette with the stub of the previous cigarette as Raven approached the counter.

  Close up, it was crystal clear the woman was somewhere in age north of Duncan and south of dirt. Calling her seventy was probably being generous. Her features were angular, like a granite escarpment sharpened by water and time. Eyes the color of river rock, set deep within wrinkled folds of skin, had tracked Raven’s every move.

  Raven met the woman’s stare and thrust out her chin. “Do you have any spray paint?” she asked politely. “Or some kind of solvent that removes it from wood and cement?”

  “You can get something that’ll remove it over at the fuel depot. Talk to Jon Lang. Tell him I sent you and he’ll cut you a fair deal. As for spray paint”—she took a drag off her cigarette and held it in—“the paper pushers at Reclamation intercept all that comes through the gates. They’re using it to mark doors after they clear the homes and businesses of corpses and roamers. I hear they’re just getting started on the east side of Aurora.” Lola paused and her gray eyes roamed the merchandise spread out on the counter before her. Coughing and releasing the trapped smoke through her nostrils, she said, “What’re the game cameras for?”

  Raven set the Beggin’ Strips on the counter. Digging out the card loaded with credits earned from lopping ears and scrambling brains, she said, “We have pests outside our place.”

  Looking over top of her bifocals, Lola said, “The big, two-legged type, I presume.”

  Raven nodded. “Since they’re breathers, I can’t just hide out and put a bullet in them next time they turn up.”

  “Too bad you can’t.” She laughed. It was more of a wet rasp, really. “What makes you think you’re dealing with more than one pest?”

  “Gut feeling.”

  “Always good to listen to your gut. That’s why I’m still breathing.”

  Barely, thought Raven as she dodged the swirling smoke.

  Lola finished bagging the goods and reached for Raven’s card.

  Drawing the card back, Raven looked a question at the woman.

  “Five credits,” said Lola, eyes unblinking and locked with Raven’s. Either Lola’s habit had rubbed off on Buck, or vice-versa, because those crooked fingers started doing the same gimme here waggle.

  “I’ll pay two credits,” shot Raven, voice firm and unwavering.

  Lola sighed. Hands going to her bony hips, she said, “That barely covers the dog treats.”

  “Who’s going to buy a game camera inside these walls? Out there you might get lucky and get three credits for them. Inside the walls”—she shook her head—“that is not gonna happen.”

  “People are going soft,” Lola conceded. “Three credits for the treats and information. I’ll throw in the cameras. Besides, I’ve still got a half-dozen where these came from, don’t I?”

  Lips curling into a half-smile, Raven nodded and relinquished her card.

  The transaction occurred like any other before the dead started coming back to life. One quick swipe and the credits were removed. Where they ended up and who was keeping score didn’t even register on Raven’s give-a-crap radar.

  Lola said, “You got batteries for the cameras?”

  “Plenty,” Raven answered. “Do you have any muscle cream?”

  “Like Ben Gay?”

  Raven chuckled at that.

  Barely able to contain her own laughter, Lola said, “It’s a brand name, young lady … not a punchline.” Tone turning serious, she added, “We’ve all gotten wound up so damn tight as of late. What with all this surviving and stuff.” She paused. “You want one tube or two?”

  Raven nodded. Holding up the requisite number of fingers, she said, “Three.” Pointing at an item on the counter behind Lola, she said, “And I need one of those.”

  “Is it all for your dad?”

  Again with the nod
, only this time Raven was biting her lip.

  Lola set the silver and red can beside Raven’s purchases. Next, she reached under the counter and came up with a handful of white tubes sporting red letters. “This is all on the house.” She dumped everything into the bag. “Least I can do after all your dad has done. He was involved in the operation that stopped the Denver mega-horde from getting here, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s my dad,” said Raven, an aw’ shucks tone to her voice. As she scooped up her purchases, she skipped over in her mind all the things he had done for the country so far. And the list was long, rescuing scientists from the Canadian research lab the most important among them. As Raven walked out with her bag in hand, she wondered if the search for a cure was still ongoing, or if the previous antiserum failures—such as the batch that killed her mom—was a portent that Omega would remain forever unchecked.

  Max was sitting next to Buck’s muddy boots and staring at the trailer door when Raven emerged. As if he had x-ray vision and could see the bacon treats in the bag, his gaze locked on the item in her hand and his stub tail began to twitch.

  Hand out, Buck said, “Get what you need?”

  Relinquishing the key, Raven nodded. “Everything but the cure for Omega.”

  Buck met her gaze and handed over the Glock and magazine for it. “I hear Mother Nature isn’t cooperating.”

  “We shouldn’t have tested her in the first place.”

  Jaw taking a granite set, Buck said, “No we about it. The Chinese are the ones to blame. We’re just trying to clean up their mess.”

  Raven ripped open the treat bag and gave Max a full strip. As the dog played with the fake bacon, tossing it around like an injured mouse, Raven probed Buck for more information. “Why aren’t you out on a mission with the teams?”

  “I will be soon,” he said. “Chinese are no doubt taking advantage of the cold weather same as we are. Only they’re trying to gain ground on us. We, on the other hand, are taking ours back from the dead. This”—he spread his arms—“is me using my mandatory stand-down time to earn a little extra scratch.”