Chapter 26
Las Vegas
Inside the Caesar’s lobby, having just watched the thick glass doors fracture into a thousand pieces and those pieces cascade to the stone floor and bounce in every direction like dice thrown by a drunk, the rider shouldered an FN-6 Man-Portable Air-Defense System missile launcher and sighted on the spot in the sky the American helicopter was most likely to emerge. While the rider waited, what was left of the mangled motorcycle the second rider had just gotten astride was leaking different-colored liquids onto the floor. A suitcase-sized hunk of shredded flesh trapped underneath the bike and spilling internal organs was all that remained of a man who had just stopped firing on the helicopter long enough to issue the order to deploy the MANPADS missile.
Limbs trembling furiously, the second rider looked away from the patch of blue sky and regarded the multiple blood trails leading away from the limbless torso.
At the end of one bloody track was an arm. It had come to rest against a massive round column in the middle of the lobby. Bent at a ninety-degree angle to the floor, the gloved hand appeared to be waving a final goodbye.
A bare leg—still shod in a black combat boot—sat atop a white rug slowly turning crimson.
The dead rider’s rifle and parts of the arm and hand that had been gripping it were now a gory jumble at the terminus of yet another jagged red streak.
The dead rider’s helmeted head was nowhere to be seen.
Confident that firing a missile at the futuristic-looking helicopter would ensure a similar fate, the second rider discarded the MANPADS, straddled the dirt bike, then kick started the engine to life.
Having swung the Ghost Hawk out of harm’s way and repositioned above an intersection a block down and at an oblique angle to the Caesar’s Palace entrance, Ari held the helo in a hover and watched for movement in the area where the rifle fire had come from.
“I think Skip pasted them both,” Lopez said glumly. “Set us down and I’ll lead a team in to gather intel.”
Griff was glassing the front of Caesar’s with Steiner binoculars. “Not necessary,” he growled. “We have a squirter.”
On the monitor, Lopez watched a lone rider atop a camouflage motorcycle bounce down a long run of stairs, make a sharp left by the fountain, and barrel toward the far fence line. The point in the fence the rider was tracking for was fronted by a handful of Zs. The sidewalk occupied by the Zs was already littered with a dozen twice-dead corpses, some of them surrounded by pools of brackish fluid.
Cross said, “No doubt they cut the fence to get their bikes inside. Look for a seam. That’s got to be where he’s headed.”
“Closing the gap,” Ari said as he side-slipped the helicopter down the street toward the rabbiting rider. “Axe, if I keep presenting you this angle, you think you can drop him inside the perimeter?”
“Certainly,” Axe answered. “He’s not going home to his mum.”
“Unless he starts shooting at us, keep him alive,” Lopez ordered.
“Copy that,” replied Axe, dropping his eye to the high-powered Leupold scope atop the Remington MSR chambered in .300 Win Mag. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, dead center in the open starboard-side door, with only a thin nylon strap to prevent a hundred-foot fall should he get pitched out.
The rider appeared to be slowing down, then all of a sudden he swerved right and accelerated rapidly toward a spot in the fence a few yards from the assembled Zs.
“I see where they came in,” Griff said. Pointing out the spot for Axe, he went on, “It’s only secured with a couple of zip-ties. To get through, he’ll be forced to stop and clip them. Hit him when he dismounts.”
Axe said nothing. He was already in the zone, everything external slowing and snapping into sharp focus. The moment the speeding rider presented his full right-side profile, the SAS shooter announced, “Right thigh. Through and through,” and pressed the trigger.
The only indication Axe had just discharged his suppressed rifle was the subtle rocking back and forth of his upper torso.
Still training the minigun on the squirter, Skipper saw the spritz of blood and witnessed the rider’s right leg leaving the peg. By the time the damaged leg was toe down and being dragged limply along the pavers behind the slumping rider, the bike had adopted a serious death wobble and was leaving in its wake an oil slick.
A total of three seconds elapsed between the disabling shot and the bike and rider going down hard in front of the crease in the fence. As the rider spun away in one direction, arms and legs flopping as if all control of them was lost, the bike skittered off in the opposite, shedding parts and marking the white walkway green wherever the camouflage paint came into contact with it.
The rider was arrested by the fence a couple of yards short of the opening. The bike was not. It hit the fence a few feet to the right of the unmoving rider, opening up the seam and becoming wedged there.
Lopez saw the Zs take note of the rider and begin a slow march towards him.
“Murphy just arrived,” Griff said. “The fence is breached.”
Seeing a few of the dead go to ground by the motorcycle and start clawing their way through the fence to get to the rider, Lopez said, “Axe, do not let the Zeds get to the rider.”
Axe said nothing. He was busy slinging lead downrange at the prone zombies.
Addressing Skip, Lopez said, “There’s more Zs on the way. Think you can eliminate them without dinging the rider?”
Skip said, “Negative.”
Coinciding with rapid-fire reports from Axe’s rifle, the pair of Zs clawing their way up the rider’s legs went limp. More Zs fell as Axe shifted aim and emptied the rifle’s magazine.
Struggling to get free of the corpses piling on, the rider lost hold of the sidearm he’d been trying to bring to bear. As he groped the ground blindly in search of the lost pistol, the already compromised run of fence bowed inward.
Cold ball forming in his gut, Lopez said, “Skipper, we need him alive for questioning. You have got to take the shot.”
Considering the number of dead things drawn to the scene by the harmonic rotor thwop and initial minigun fusillade, it was a wonder the fence still stood.
“Going hot,” Skipper warned a half beat before the minigun came alive with the sound of a thousand angry hornets. Aiming head-high to the gathering throng, he walked a three-second burst left-to-right across the fence. When the crew chief finally took his finger from the trigger, the sidewalk and ground opposite the downed bike and rider was littered with body parts and a couple of dozen twice-dead Zs.
Watching the surviving rider crawling on hands and knees away from the carnage, Lopez said, “Ari, how close can you get us?”
Eyes scanning the ground all around, Ari said, “I’ll put down right next to the fountain.”
For the first time in a long while Lopez second-guessed the ace pilot, saying, “You think there’s room?”
A wide grin appeared under Ari’s visor. “If Evel Knievel can land his Triumph on that postage stamp, no reason I can’t squeeze this old girl in there.” Then, voice all business, he said, “Wheels down in ten.”
Chapter 27
Raven followed Max around a corner and saw more people and activity in one place than she had since leaving Schriever Air Force Base at the end of summer. Though she’d been in the new capital for a few weeks, this was her first time seeing the fuel depot up close. It was huge. Larger than she imagined it would be, taking up a substantial chunk of real estate on the city’s west side, maybe a mile or so as the crow flies from the government offices she had just come from.
She paused on the sidewalk by the depot’s northeast corner, under a sign that read Lang and Son Travel Plaza, first and foremost on her mind: locating the man whose name was on the sign.
The former truck stop at the center of the bustling operation featured a trio of buildings, all adorned with colorful signage. The largest of the three buildings was a glass and metal affair with a flat roof bri
stling with antennas and satellite dishes. The building was bracketed on two sides by fuel islands sprouting a dozen pumps each. Parked on cement pads beyond the far island was a fleet of eighteen wheelers. Most of the tractors and massive tanks pulled by them were painted Army green.
The entire facility was patrolled by soldiers wearing dark-green camouflage uniforms. Razor-wire-topped fencing easily twice Raven’s height surrounded the entire facility. The one entrance she could see was manned by two more soldiers carrying heavy machine guns. Behind the soldiers, a lone Humvee blocked the entrance to a Jersey barrier chute just wide enough to accept a single fuel truck.
Outside the north fence sat the remains of a burned tank trailer. It rested on melted tires, its once-gleaming metal skin misshapen and soot-streaked. The ground and foliage all around were scorched black.
As Raven keyed in on graffiti marring parts of the tank’s polished skin untouched by fire and soot, a garage door on a peripheral building rolled up and a man emerged from the gloom. Shielding his face against the rising sun, he crossed the distance toward her. The slow and deliberate gait suggested to Raven the man in charge may have just found her.
Wisps of gray hair wormed from under a trucker’s hat bearing the truck stop’s stylized L&S logo. The man’s face was mostly obscured by a bushy silver beard, his nose and ears red from exposure. And though he looked to be Duncan’s age—pushing sixty for sure—he wore the uniform of a much younger man: black Converse All Star high tops, distressed blue jeans sporting a sharp crease, and a puffy North Face parka one shade south of safety-orange.
“Jon Lang,” said the man even as he was still a dozen feet away. His accent suggested he was from the southwest; Texas or Oklahoma was Raven’s best guess.
Omitting her well-known last name, she said, “My name’s Raven. Pleased to meet you.”
Stopping close enough to the fence to be heard over the daily activities without having to raise his voice, Lang asked her if she was lost.
Raven shook her head. Though she hated liars and refrained from telling even little white lies, what she was about to tell Jon Lang was the type her mom would have called a whopper. Nevertheless, though it didn’t make her feel any better, she figured her dad would put the fib into the work smarter, not harder column.
Pushing all that from her mind, she said, “Miss DeAngelo from Restoration sent me. I’m heading a youth group whose goal is to eradicate graffiti from every building inside the walls.”
Hands going to his hips, Lang said, “DeAngelo, huh? I’ve dealt with her. Amazing your head is still sitting atop your shoulders. She’s a—”
Interrupting, Raven said, “Ballbreaker. I know. Yes ma’am and no ma’am only goes so far with her.”
Having vetted the interloper to his liking, Lang moved closer and threaded his fingers through the chain-link. Nodding toward the wreckage, he said, “We’ve been hit by the taggers. Preceded the bombing, but I’m not entirely sure they’re connected.”
Raven said, “Bombing? The explosion that happened just after Christmas?”
Lang nodded.
“Crier said it was a careless smoker.”
Lang shook his head. “That might be the party line. But it’s certainly not what the Army EOD guy told me. He said it was some kind of limpet-type explosive. It could have been attached anywhere. That it was remotely triggered suggests someone was nearby and watching when it exploded.” He glanced at the blackened sidewalk to his left. “We’re just lucky the driver parked it outside. Another plus … the EOD guy said that whoever did this didn’t know where to place it on the tank to achieve maximum damage. Springs Fire Station is just around the corner. They had it under control in no time.” He paused and returned his gaze to Raven. “Now what can I do to contribute to your cause?”
“All we need is something strong enough to remove paint from wood, cement, brick, and steel.” She made a face, then added, “A wire brush would be useful.”
“You got it,” Lang said, gaze narrowing. “What’d you say your last name is?”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re Raven Grayson, aren’t you?”
“Apparently my dad’s reputation precedes me.”
Lang smiled. “Apparently, it does. And it makes sense what you’re doing. We need more young people like you who care about the little things. Caring about the little things leads to giving a rip and acting on the big picture stuff when you get older. I bet you’re going to follow right in your pop’s footsteps. Do great things for this nation.”
Raven said, “I just try to do my best with what I’ve got.”
Lang regarded Max.
“Your dog made it through all this?”
Raven nodded.
Lang crouched to get to the dog’s level. “What’s his name?”
“Max,” she replied.
Snorting as he rose, Lang said, “That’s mighty original.”
“He adopted us,” Raven noted. “And he arrived with his undead human family. I put them all down and freed him from his duty. His name was stamped on his tags.”
Lang smiled at that and shook his head. “Strange times we’re living in. I’ll collect your supplies. I think I have an old pack my son brought back from the Sandbox. He’ll never use it again. Be right back.”
Raven said nothing. However, the younger Lang’s fate was on her mind as she watched the dad walk off toward the same garage he’d emerged from.
Chapter 28
As Ari threaded the Ghost Hawk between a pair of opposing palms, in his mind’s eye, he was seeing Evel Knievel’s red, white, and blue motorcycle hitting the very spot on the ground he was about to put down on. He remembered the daredevil flying over the handlebars when the bike’s rear tire came up a yard short on the landing. And much like the rider Axe had just winged, when Evel and his bike parted, the bike continued on by itself for a short distance before gravity and inertia working together brought it down on its side and sent it spinning away, out of control, toward the gloomy maw of a nearby parking garage.
The same parking garage he could see out Haynes’ cockpit glass. Doing a quick double take, he learned the garage was home to a dozen or more high-dollar supercars. There were Lambos, Ferraris, Aston Martins, and Bentleys. All were backed in and lined up contrary to the painted-on yellow lines.
Haynes whistled. Pointing to the garage, he said, “Looks like Iron Mike’s been doing some car shopping.”
Concentrating on nestling the Ghost Hawk on the limited real estate still a dozen feet below her wheels, Ari acknowledged that he’d spotted the shiny, multi-colored collection of rides each costing six and seven figures before money and the status that came with being wealthy lost all meaning. Craning to his right, he went on, “How’s the seam in the fence, Skip? Is it holding?”
Over the shared comms, the crew chief said, “Affirmative. But barely, and more Zs are inbound.”
“Cover the no-man’s land,” Ari ordered. “Pay attention to the blind corner at your two o’clock.”
Skipper nodded, then turned all of his attention and the Dillon’s still-smoking business end on the narrow slice of Caesar’s Palace courtyard he was tasked with covering.
“Pale Riders are ready to deploy,” Lopez said. “Egressing starboard. Griff and Cross will secure the lobby. Me and crack-shot Austin Powers will prep the rider for transport.”
As they gave their weapons and gear a final once-over, Griff and Cross couldn’t help but snicker at the Austin Powers reference.
“Not very original, boss,” responded Axe just as the helo’s wheels came into contact with the ground. “But way better than the bullshite Benny Hill remarks Griff was going on with during the Salt Lake mission.”
Griff was out the door first, saying, “At least I stopped short of giving you a few fanny slaps to the back of your head.”
Hitting the ground running, a severe forward lean to his upper body, Cross followed in Griff’s footsteps, M4 at a low ready, head on a swivel.
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sp; M4 in one hand, medical kit in the other, Axe said, “Good thing for you, mate,” and bailed out after Cross.
Patting Skipper on the shoulder as he jumped from the helo’s open door, Lopez said, “Schriever TOC, this is Whiplash Actual. I have the ball.”
After a brief pause, there was a short burst of static on the open net and a captain identifying herself as Jensen acknowledged the handoff.
“Whiplash Actual,” came a second female voice, “this is Oracle Actual. We’re working hard to get a bird in position for you. For now, though, we do not have eyes on you. Proceed with caution.”
Recognizing the call sign as that of freshly minted One-Star Brigadier General Freda Nash, commander of the 50th Space Wing, Lopez said, “Good copy … Whiplash Actual out.”
In Jedi One’s left seat, Haynes divided his time between watching the fence off his left shoulder, the garage entrance, and Griff and Cross as they picked their way across the courtyard fronting Caesar’s Palace.
Now and again, as the two-man team covered the hundred yards or so to the short stack of stairs fronting a covered valet area, they would stop and take cover behind the trunk of a palm tree or one of the massive stone planters dotting the property and conduct a hasty visual recon of their entire surroundings. To say the pair of Pale Riders were methodical in their approach would be a vast understatement. And though Skipper’s short burst from the Dillon had likely killed the other rider or injured him so severely that he was knocked out of the fight, Griff and Cross were taking no chances as they made their way to the covered drive.
Weapons shouldered and horizontal to the ground, the Delta shooters entered the shadow of the covered area and pressed themselves flat to a supporting column. Haynes watched the point man, Cross, communicate something to Griff using only hand signals. After Griff nodded in agreement, he fell in behind Cross and together they set off across the covered drive.
The two shooters moved in unison, rapidly covering the twenty feet or so across ground littered with broken glass. After a barely discernable pause at the threshold to the gloomy lobby, one at a time, their movement fluid and smooth, the men poured through the opening nearest to them and disappeared from sight.
Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home Page 15
