Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home

by Chesser, Shawn

  Clearing his throat, Duncan said, “A male nurse at Penrose shared it with Glenda. Apparently, some well-to-do families in the Old North End paid Ray a lot of cash to house them here. By the time President Odero requested that citizens shelter in place, Ray had disappeared. Nobody knows where he went. Just chained the doors and stopped coming by. Phones were down by then.”

  Raven said, “Where do they think he went?”

  Daymon said, “He probably let the dead go in the middle of the night then chained the door and skipped town. Took the cash with him.”

  Nodding, Duncan said, “And laid low and let things blow over.”

  “Or he got greedy and was bit. Maybe he’s in there with the loved ones. Maybe even his own loved ones,” Raven said matter-of-factly.

  Silencing the motor, Daymon said, “He’s gotta’ be a real Harry Houdini type, then.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Raven asked.

  “He means,” Duncan offered, "that the doors are still chained and padlocked. Houdini made a living escaping from straightjackets and padlocked chains.”

  “If you could bet with me,” Daymon said, his gaze directed at Duncan, “ten credits says there’s nothing but rats and spoiled food in there.”

  “Well, Mister Glass Half-Empty,” shot Duncan. “I can’t bet with you. So that means there’s only one way to find out what’s inside there.”

  Daymon unbuckled his seatbelt. “Inquiring minds need to know.”

  Flashing a half-smile, Raven said, “We’re doing it?”

  Still staring at each other, the men in the front seats nodded in unison.

  With a certain electric giddiness filling the Bronco’s cab, weapons and magazines were checked and then rechecked.

  “Good to go,” Daymon said, fetching the bolt cutters from underneath his seat.

  Regarding the man, Duncan said, “You’re going in with just the two blades and that?”

  Daymon regarded Duncan with a look that seemed to question the older man’s sanity. Brow furrowed, he pulled a Beretta from his door’s side-pocket and press-checked it. Seeing a glint of brass in the chamber, he dumped and inspected the mag. Reinserting the mag, he threw off the safety and tucked it in his waistband.

  “Actions speak louder than words,” Duncan quipped. “Do I get to tag along this time?”

  “It’s your intel,” Raven said. “Hope the dude knows what he’s talking about.”

  Daymon stepped from the Bronco. Letting the door hang open, under his breath, he said, “Careful what you wish for,” and strode off for Ray’s, Kindness in one hand, bolt cutters in the other.

  Elbowing open his door, Duncan looked to Raven. “Who put the burr under his saddle blanket?”

  Instead of answering the question, Raven cast a glance at a white van sitting in the lot off the Bronco’s left fender. It was a European model with a tall roof, entirely windowless behind the cab. Ray’s Catering was emblazoned on its side in the same yellow font as the lettering on the sign towering over the lot.

  Fingers worrying the Saiga’s nylon strap, Duncan said, “What is it?”

  Smiling, Raven said, “I think I have a plan that won’t require us to go inside.”

  Though she’d only eaten in two of the restaurants belonging to the same chain whose signage Ray’s used to wear, she still had a good picture of their floorplans in her head. She also remembered the pancakes and all the toppings and always looked forward to going there after church on Sundays.

  If Ray had left things the same inside, she had told the others earlier, they could expect to see a waiting area with two opposing benches right inside the front doors. Facing the waiting area would be a low counter used by the cashier. On one side of the cashier’s stand would be a head-high case used to display pies. On the other would be a long, low counter fronted by a dozen fixed stools.

  Behind the cashier stand would be the kitchen, which took up a good chunk of the restaurant.

  Flanking the kitchen would be two wide-open dining areas. It was there she figured they would find the undead loved ones.

  Now Duncan was standing before the door, face pressed against the weathered plywood, trying to peer through the seam where the two doors met. “I’ve been inside dozens of IHOPs in my time,” he said, “and for the life of me I can’t picture the layout in my head. And I sure as hell can’t make any of it out looking through this narrow gap.”

  “That’s why they call you Old Man,” Daymon said. “You probably have that Old Timers disease.” He’d already cut the padlock but had left the chain wrapped around the handles. Setting the bolt cutters down, he went on, “All joking aside, I think Raven is right. I do recall eyeballing a banana crème pie in some kind of a case just inside and to the left.”

  Duncan said, “OK, if you say so, Rain Man. But do you remember seeing a counter full of solitary diners?”

  Nodding, Daymon said, “We all sat there. A bunch of smelly dudes packed in elbow-to-elbow. If I’m remembering things correctly, it was off to the right of the cashier’s stand.”

  Duncan said, “Time to get the formalities out of the way.” He looked to Raven. “Ready?”

  Raven nodded.

  “You ready, Daymon?”

  His shoulder-length dreadlocks bounced as his head bobbed. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Making a fist, Duncan banged on the door.

  Nothing.

  No shuffling sounds. The usual hissing and moaning that preceded hungry deaders slamming into a door did not rise.

  After a long ten-count, and the only sound Duncan could hear was the beating of his own heart, he flashed Raven a thumbs up.

  Seeing the signal, Raven backed away from the door, counting the steps off in her head. Reaching fifteen, she stopped on a faded blue wheelchair symbol painted on the parking lot, took her iPhone from a pocket, then thumbed it alive and tapped away at the screen.

  Duncan and Daymon were now stacked to the right of the door. The former was crouched behind a newspaper box and brandishing the Saiga shotgun. In the black semiauto’s mag well was a twenty-round drum loaded solely with shells containing rifled lead slugs.

  The latter held the coiled chain one-handed and looked to be ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

  Raven placed the iPhone on the ground by her feet, then signaled the men with a splayed hand held high over her head. Starting a countdown from five in her head, she turned and ran for the catering van.

  As soon as Daymon heard the first bars of Joan Jett and the Blackhearts’ I Love Rock and Roll issue from the iPhone, he tugged on the chain with all his strength.

  Nothing.

  The pair of doors flexed in the middle but didn’t part.

  “Again,” Duncan urged through clenched teeth.

  Daymon’s second effort saw the right-side door bow and the window glass pop. A tick later, tiny glass pebbles spilled from behind the plywood sheets.

  “Gimme’ some of that.” Duncan rose and grabbed hold of the chain. “Together on one, two, three.”

  Their combined efforts bore fruit.

  The right door popped free of its hinges and toppled toward them, abruptly coming to rest against the bank of newspaper boxes. With nothing to keep it latched, the left door swung slowly outward, the rubber stop drilled into the concrete finally halting its slow-motion sweep.

  Jett was making a plea for another coin to be put into the jukebox at the same time Daymon and Duncan were ducking back out of sight behind the boarded-over door.

  For a full minute they stayed crouched down, waiting.

  Duncan took a deep breath and held it. Full of nervous energy, he looked to the van where Raven was waiting. Only thing giving her away was her boots showing behind the van’s opposite side rear wheel, and her shadow, which was stretched out to twice her size due to the sun’s low azimuth.

  Again, nothing happened.

  A few more seconds crawled by. There was no sound of bodies jostling against each other inside the restaurant. The ant
icipated squelch of feet treading on broken glass never came.

  Only thing to emerge from the blue-black gloom behind the yawning doors were a couple of bloated houseflies.

  Exactly two minutes and fifty-seven seconds after Raven set the iPhone on the ground, Joan Jett’s teen-angst-fueled ditty ended and the device stayed quiet as the music app shuffled the available songs.

  When the intro to Metallica’s Enter Sandman emanated from the tiny speakers, Daymon rose and poked his head past the door’s edge. “Looks empty to me.”

  Raven’s plan had been equal parts divide-and-conquer and stand-your-ground. It was to have them allowing the dead to march out of Ray’s. Once the things were spread out in a long line, their attention—hopefully—focused on the music, the trio were to attack from the left with blades and bullets.

  Releasing the air trapped in his lungs, Duncan said, “You’re pretty trusting, Daymon. I was half-expecting you to come face-to-face with one of those trussed-up deaders with its voice box cut out. Then one of us would have to cut your hair to free you from its grip.” He shivered. “I do not miss coming up against those silenced fire-and-forget death missiles.”

  “Me neither,” Daymon said. “Who’s going in first?”

  As Duncan was saying “I’ll take point,” a faint rasp sounded somewhere deep inside the restaurant.

  Daymon said, “Still want to go in first?”

  Though the hair on his arms was at attention, Duncan nodded an affirmative.

  “Need to water your balls?”

  “No,” Duncan said, “but since they’re sooo big, I’ll need you to tag along and carry them for me.”

  Cringing at the thought, Daymon beckoned Raven over.

  In response, she sprinted from behind the van and picked up the iPhone on the move. She was just getting the device silenced when she formed up next to the lanky man.

  “We’re going in,” Daymon informed her. “Old Man is running point.”

  Shaking her head, Raven said, “I need the experience. Let me go first.”

  Daymon said, “W.W.C.D.?”

  It took Duncan a second to decipher the acronym. Finally he said, “At this stage in the game, considering how she saved Peter’s bacon back in Utah, and all I’ve seen her do outside the wire since then, I do believe Cade would let her decide.”

  “I’m going in,” she insisted. “Move aside guys.”

  Chapter 42

  Utilizing a technique her dad taught her, Raven heel-and-toed it over the glass and into the cramped waiting area. The stale air inside the restaurant carried on it the faint stink of rotting flesh.

  Alone inside the entry, her eyes still adjusting to the low light, she let her gaze roam her immediate surroundings.

  Opposing benches wrapped in red vinyl flanked her on two sides. Wood-paneled walls plastered with dozens of missing persons notices rose up behind the benches.

  Aside from the wall full of head shots of people and their accompanying heart-wrenching messages, a bare coat tree tucked into a corner to her left, and the wire-frame display holding all kinds of brochures touting activities available in and around Colorado Springs, Ray’s waiting area was no different than the ones she’d seen in similar restaurants in Portland.

  Daymon’s memory of the area just inside the entry was spot-on. To Raven’s left, partially blocking the darkened dining area beyond, was a pie case. Head-high to her, the glass case was home to only empty shelves and wraparound mirrors, the latter of which were reflecting back at her tiny versions of Daymon, Duncan, and the small rectangle of daylight behind them.

  Thumbing on the compact tac-light affixed to her SBR, Raven swept its cone of light over the restaurant’s interior.

  Shadows danced against the vibrantly papered back walls. Fresh air introduced from outside moved gossamer strands of spider webs back and forth. To Raven, they looked like inverted kelp beds. Dust motes skated across the stark-white beam as she raised up onto her tiptoes and aimed her rifle at the area beyond the pie case.

  There were no booths along the walls. Just clean and unworn spots on the carpet where they used to sit. All of the tables and chairs had been stacked and pushed away from the front of the left-side dining area. Creating a head-high wall of turned wood and iron table legs, the warren of furniture cut off a third of the room and blocked entirely a short hall leading to a pair of swinging doors.

  As Raven dropped the beam to the ground, she keyed in on some movement behind the furniture. Just shadows at first. Then a pustule-riddled arm made an appearance. It was small and was quickly joined by more.

  Slender fingers at the end of tiny, pale hands kneaded the air.

  Her light picked up a flash of red and glinted off something metal.

  Causing Raven to start, Duncan said into her ear, “More of the same on the other side. Seven or eight kids. Look to be mostly tweens and teenagers.”

  She crouched and painted a cherubic face with the light beam. The eyes staring back at her were as dead as the pallid face they looked out of. Seeing that the leather straps bracketing the undead girl’s cheeks were attached to a red ball, she said, “What’s that thing in its mouth?”

  Duncan looked a question at Daymon.

  Clearly disgusted, Daymon said, “It’s a fuckin’ ball gag.”

  In unison, Duncan and Raven said, “What’s that?”

  Meeting Duncan’s gaze, Daymon said, “You didn’t see Pulp Fiction?”

  “I did. I was drunk. Don’t remember much of it.” He paused for a beat. Then, face lighting up, he went on, “The Timex in the keister bit was pretty damn funny.”

  Daymon recounted the scene in which Ving Rhames’ character, Marsellus Wallace, and Butch Coolidge, played by Bruce Willis, were in a basement and trussed to chairs with like items strapped to their faces.

  Duncan said, “It’s coming back to me now. Seems pretty elaborate since the ones on the other side just have Ray’s napkins jammed down their throats.”

  Duncan said, “Who uses ball gags?”

  Daymon looked to Raven. “Earmuffs, young lady.”

  Duncan pretended to cover his ears with his hands.

  Raven flipped both men the bird. “You see what’s all around us? Death and destruction everywhere. That being said, I don’t see the issue in me hearing about how people torture other people.”

  Duncan made a face.

  “It’s a sex dominance thing,” Daymon said to Raven. “Shall I go on?”

  She waved him off. “Why the gag balls?”

  “To keep them from making too much noise,” he answered. “And that’s why I doubt Ray skipped town.”

  Eyeing the kids, Raven said, “Where’d he go then?”

  Daymon said nothing.

  Eyes widening, Raven looked toward the swinging doors. “You think we’re going to find him in the kitchen?”

  “That would explain the need to silence the Lord of the Flies gang,” Duncan theorized. “Wonder where he got the gag balls.”

  Raven said, “Maybe Ray had a dark past.”

  “Or maybe,” Daymon said, “he raided an adult toy store and cleaned out their inventory.”

  Raven made a face. “That’s gross,” she said.

  “Are we doing this or not?” Duncan asked. “Because if we’re not, I want to get back and have an early dinner.”

  Intrigued, Daymon said, “Where ya thinking?”

  “That stand on Cascade and Pikes Peak that does up the awesome teriyaki chicken skewers.”

  “I’m down. I say we do this. I still need gas money.” He looked to Raven. “The credits you promised if I took you by to get the stuff for your—”

  “—Art project,” she said. “I’m working on something special for my dad.”

  “How is your dad?” Daymon asked.

  “Doing better. He’s training with his old team right now.”

  Duncan prickled. “Once you’re on a team, you’re always a member. Just because what happened, happened, doesn’t mean he’s a
pariah. Or been excommunicated.”

  “I know,” Raven said. “It’s just that I’m afraid he’s going to be disappointed if he doesn’t get back—”

  “—in the saddle,” Duncan finished. “I know the feeling. Joined the army at seventeen and got in on the tail end of the war. Flew helos in and out of countries we weren’t supposed to be in. Had relations with all kinds of lovely ladies.” He paused. “Damn, I miss those days.”

  Hands on hips, Daymon said, “Enough with the trip down memory lane. How are we doing this?”

  After a bit of deliberation, which was all right by Duncan, he and Daymon left to go to the other side of the restaurant to take care of the teens.

  Determining she would be little help dismantling the “Great Wall” of overstuffed vinyl booths, Raven volunteered to put down the ball-gagged kids.

  Now, with grunts and groans and the noises of furniture being moved filtering over from the east-side dining room, Raven stood before the tables and chairs, counting heads.

  Seven.

  Seven unfortunate kids who had once been the apple of some mom or dad’s eye. Their reason for being. Their sole focus in life.

  Seven more souls to add to the hundreds she had already released from their earthbound shells. Or Hell on Earth, as her mom had described the walking dead’s existence.

  Purgatory was how her dad had once described the plight of the undead.

  There was no need for Raven to move anything to get to the faces staring back at her. She just snaked her arm past the spindles and chair legs and killed them one-by-one by introducing the Gerber to those dead, staring eyes. Unblinking, the black orbs presented her easy targets.

  Finished, she found a linen napkin and cleaned the blade.

  The sound from the other side was ongoing. So Raven removed a couple of chairs blocking entry to the short hall. Standing on one of the chairs she’d left behind, she looked through one of the porthole windows in the pair of swinging kitchen doors.

  The kitchen—if that’s what was beyond these doors—was pitch black.

  Steeling herself for what might await her, she raised the SBR horizontal to the floor and shined the tac-light beam through the right-side window.