Glenda asked, “What are you all up to at this ungodly hour?”
Demeanor softening, Raven brought Glenda up to speed. She left out nothing.
Playing Devil’s advocate, Glenda said, “I don’t think your dad is going to be very happy when he learns you went outside the wire.”
“It’s not the first time,” Raven said.
“First time alone,” reminded Glenda. “Last time you and Sash got an extended tour of dish duty.”
Wilson cleared his throat. “I’m thinking the backpacks had bolts and ball bearings in them. Add those to a homemade bomb and you got an assload of shrapnel flying around.” He removed his boonie hat and scratched his head. Fixing Raven with a hard stare, he added, “You have to take this to the law. You also need to get your dad involved so he can tell his people to warn President Clay.”
“First things first,” said Duncan with an added wink. “One step at a time. We need to see what’s on Bird’s phone. If there’s no evidence, Chief Riggleman won’t listen to a word Raven has to say. She goes blabbing everything with no evidence, at best she’ll have to speak to a juvenile judge about her leaving the wire alone. Best case … she’ll come away with a slap on the wrist. Worst case … she loses her Golden Ticket and the right to open carry inside the wire. Can’t risk all that on a bunch of assumptions.” He paused for a couple of seconds. “What’s that your dad says about assuming?”
Without missing a beat, Raven said, “It makes an ass out of you and me.”
“Exactly,” Duncan shot, waving his hands.
Thinking the man looked a bit like a crazy version of Gandalf the Grey, or, better yet, crazy Doc Brown from Back to the Future, Raven cracked an ill-timed smile.
“What’s so funny?” Duncan asked. “For all we know, based on your description of what was happening in that garage, the Tattoo Gang are brewing beer. I feel like I’m stuck in a gosh darn episode of Scooby Doo.”
Daymon finished pouring boiling water into the press. Meeting Duncan’s gaze, he said, “C’mon … you and I both know that’s not gonna happen … no matter who she tells. She’s Captain America’s kid, for Christ’s sake.”
Raven clapped her hands together. “We have signs of life.”
“The zombie phone is turning,” quipped Duncan. “What do you got?”
After swiping and poking at the screen, Raven’s shoulders slumped. “I got the driveway outside the garage. I got the garage door. Then as I was reaching up to film the inside of the garage, right before the stinking battery died … I got some noises that could be power tools … or a blender or—”
“A radio control car,” interrupted Daymon. “You’re going to need more than that to convince Chief Riggleman to investigate.”
“I agree,” Duncan said. “How about we all use our Golden Tickets and go have a look-see for ourselves?”
Daymon started pouring coffee into Antlers’ mugs.
Glenda waved him off, declaring, “I’m going back to bed before I share my opinion and get myself in trouble. You all have fun playing Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys.”
Gladly accepting a mug of coffee, Wilson said, “I’m game.”
Lower lip jutting, Raven said, “Half a cup, please.”
Doing the gimme hands thing, Duncan accepted a full mug.
Sitting down at the communal table with a mug of his own cradled in his large hands, Daymon said, “So what’s the plan?”
Raven was about to give Duncan the floor when the Iridium sat-phone in her room emitted its unique electronic trill. She said, “Only person who would call that phone at this time is—”
In unison, Duncan, Wilson and Daymon said, “Captain America.”
Portland, Oregon
Cade was sitting at his dining room table, elbows resting on a laminated map of Portland, working the beginnings of a plan over in his mind.
The air in the main floor no longer reeked of death and mildew. It had been usurped by the sweet nose of Hoppes Number 9 gun oil.
On the table beside the four-by-four map of Portland, surrounded by the remnants of a Spaghetti and Meatball MRE, was a similar-sized image of Target Alpha. Taken by a KH-11 Keyhole satellite the previous day, the overhead of the main target bore a number of markings put there by Cade.
The first, a black square beside Target Alpha, denoted pens constructed by the Chicoms to hold prisoners. In the pens were an unknown number of American civilians as well as a former soldier very important to President Clay.
Denoted by a number of purple Xs positioned in a semi-circle west of the holding pens, essentially turning the prisoners into human shields, were the multiple components of a Chinese HQ-9 Red Banner Long Range Air Defense Missile System. It was this piece of hardware that had to be rendered inoperative before the chopper carrying the QRF could get anywhere close to the target.
North of the holding pen, arranged side by side, was the pair of singlewide trailers the thirty or so PLA soldiers were said to be housed in.
Cade moved the satellite image aside and arranged the Portland map so that it was front and center.
Snaking vertically across the map, cobalt blue and maybe half an inch at its widest point, was the north-flowing Willamette River.
At the bottom of the map, near the first of three bridges crossing the visible stretch of the Willamette, was where the team was to rendezvous with assets knowledgeable of both the target and how best to approach it without drawing enemy contact.
In order to remain ahead of the curve in the event the Chicoms had recently changed their patrol times or moved prisoners or personnel around, Cade had sent Cross and Griff downrange to perform as advance recon of Target Alpha.
With ten minutes remaining until Cade was to wake Nat, he plucked one of the Star Trek novels from the table.
Examining the cover on which the USS Enterprise was squaring up to engage a Klingon Bird of Prey, he had a sudden epiphany.
Casting the novel aside, he pulled his Iridium sat-phone from a pocket and placed a call to Raven.
Chapter 67
Colorado Springs
Saturday, March 17th, 2012
At 7:07 a.m., just as the sun was breaking the horizon to the east, Raven was poking her head out the Bronco’s window and imploring the gate guard to return their papers.
“It says on the tickets that we are allowed outside the walls from sunup to sundown.” She pointed east. “That big orange and yellow thing is on the rise.”
Already taking his own sweet time returning from the guard shack with the group’s four Golden Tickets, the wiry specialist responded by slowing his gait and taking a long, hard look at his watch.
Under her breath, Raven said, “Come on, dumbass. We don’t have all day.”
Approaching the Bronco from the passenger side, the baby-faced soldier, whose name tape read Fogle, waved a finger menacingly in Raven’s direction.
“I heard that,” he said, stopping a foot from the SUV and tucking their papers under his arm.
Having none of it—mostly because her “half a cup of coffee” had become two cups before they had left the Antlers—Raven waved a finger back at the soldier. “You’re being a jerk,” she insisted. “If you don’t stop yanking our chain, I’ll have my dad come and pay you a visit.”
A question ghosted across Fogle’s face.
Turning toward the backseat, Daymon said to Duncan, “Remind me to never again offer her coffee.”
“I kind of like to see her in spitfire mode,” Duncan replied.
“I’m new to this post,” admitted Fogle. “Who is your dad?”
“Cade Grayson.”
Though Fogle said nothing, his demeanor changed. Wearing a put-upon smile, he handed the papers back to Raven and motioned to the crew manning the gate.
Raven stared at Fogle as the gate swung open.
Before Daymon could pull through, the gate guards allowed the truck full of Pikers to enter.
“Long night,” noted Daymon.
“Good thing
,” Wilson said. “Means it should be smooth sailing through the EZ for us.”
Looking to Daymon, Raven held her hand horizontal near his face. It was vibrating almost as much as the hula dancer on the dash. “Does coffee do this to you?”
The gate guard waved Daymon through.
Catching second gear, Daymon said, “Not like that. Then again, a cup and a half is barely enough to open one of my eyelids.”
“When will it wear off?”
Wilson said, “Four … maybe five hours.”
Raven made a face.
“Relax,” drawled Duncan. “They’re giving you a rash of crap. You’ll be fine in an hour or two. Since you stayed up all night, when you do come down you’re going to be tired as all get out.”
Brows meeting in the middle, Raven said, “How am I going to shoot straight?”
Daymon wrestled the wheel and steered the Bronco onto the newly graded road skirting the greenspace. Getting the rig tracking straight, he met Raven’s gaze. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. If we get into a gun fight, chances are none of us will be shooting straight.”
“Adrenaline will do that to a fella,” Duncan added.
“Adrenaline or no,” Wilson said, “my hands always shake.”
Raven said, “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
Daymon said, “We’re almost there. Can you hold it?”
Raven nodded. Pressing a finger to her pursed lips, she hung her head out the window.
Daymon braked and downshifted. “Almost there.” Regarding Duncan in the rearview mirror, he said, “You sure rolling up all hard and acting like we’re undercover agents or some shit is the right approach?”
Duncan shrugged. “You got a better idea?”
Now a block from the house and approaching from the opposite direction as Raven had, Daymon noticed there was no van out front. He said, “Looks like the Norma Jean pie van is gone.”
“Loretta Jean’s,” Raven corrected.
Suppressing a chuckle, Duncan said, “Daymon, my man … Norma Jean was Marilyn Monroe’s real name.”
Shaking his head, Daymon said, “Still can’t believe Nixon and Babe Ruth both hit that.”
In the backseat, Duncan and Wilson made eye contact. Neither had the heart to correct their driver.
The house was on their left and coming up quick. The hedges rising up beside the drive cast a shadow over the bungalow and blocked everything from view save for the lawn and front porch. On the former, a van-sized rectangle of grass was mashed down. Deep furrows that could have easily been made by spinning tires bracketed the disturbed patch of lawn.
As they drew even with the house next door to the bungalow, Daymon slowed the Bronco to walking speed.
Craning to see past Wilson, Duncan said, “No van in the driveway.”
Raven said, “It could be in the garage.”
Daymon said, “Only one way to find out,” and pulled the Bronco hard to the curb across the street from the bungalow. He was cutting the engine when Wilson began to protest.
After stilling the hula girl with the customary finger atop her head, Daymon twisted in his seat until he was facing Wilson. “Water your balls and gun up, Red. ‘Cause I’m over this not knowin’ bullcrap.”
Wilson said, “What if they’re in there right now loading the van? Raven said the pirate-looking guy had a hand-cannon fitted with a suppressor. That tells me he knows how to handle himself. I really think it would be better if we let the police handle this.”
“If they’re in there loading a bomb onto the van,” shot Daymon, “we need to put them under citizen’s arrest and hold them at gunpoint until we can get the authorities on the radio.”
With his bad back still acting up, it took Duncan a little longer than the others to extricate himself from the Bronco’s cramped backseat.
Looking like gunslingers in a Spaghetti Western, the four of them stood in the street and watched the bungalow for nearly a minute. When nothing moved behind the windows and no sounds arose from the garage, Raven raised her rifle to the ready position and advanced toward the driveway, head on a swivel and exuding all kinds of frosty.
Moving slower than a tree sloth with bad sciatica, Duncan made it to the garage a minute after the others.
“No twice-dead rotters,” noted Wilson.
Breathing hard and bracing a hand on his back, Duncan pointed out dark spots on the ground in front of the garage door. “There is blood here. Tells me part of Bird’s story wasn’t lost in translation.”
“I know what I saw,” Raven insisted. “Daymon, you’re tallest. Take a look in the window and tell us what you see.”
Saying, “I’m not going to get my head blown off,” Daymon stalked toward the breezeway, Beretta in hand.
Seeing him go, Duncan trained his semiautomatic shotgun on the house rising up on their right.
Daymon took a quick peek around the corner, then slipped from sight.
He was only gone for a few seconds, returning with a hangdog look on his face.
“Bullcrap,” Raven said. “Nothing?”
Daymon holstered his gun. Shaking his head, he said, “No van. No cans. No Pirate mans.”
Resting his Saiga over one shoulder, Duncan said, “Thanks for nothing, Dr. Seuss. Is there any evidence?”
Raven made a face. “If they were using fertilizer, like Duncan suggested, shouldn’t there be some that had gotten spilled on the floor?”
“Just a couple of stains on the floor. Could be oil or diesel. My nose isn’t good enough to tell the difference.”
Duncan said, “It’s a garage. Unless it’s Richard Petty’s garage … there’s bound to be some oil drips on the floor.”
“Great,” Raven shot. “Now all we have to go on is my dad’s theory.”
Nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, Wilson said, “Cade pushed it up the chain of command, right?”
“That he did,” confirmed Duncan. “If that graffiti was in fact Klingon, or whatever he called it, it’s got to be in a database somewhere.”
Raven said, “A show I watched on Nickelodeon mentioned that every book is supposedly recorded into the Library of Congress.”
Daymon said, “Sounds legit.” He looked the length of the driveway, then regarded dark clouds forming overhead. “We better go before we draw a crowd.”
Chuckling, Duncan said, “What? Big bad rainstorm going to flatten your hairdo?”
“I’ll be cranking up Heidi’s heater before the first drop strikes the ground.” Daymon started down the drive, adding over his shoulder, “You, Old Man, will be the only one of us who gets rained on.”
Chapter 68
Working efficiently, the nurse and soldiers manning the infection checkpoint had Daymon and the others scanned for spikes in body temperature and inspected for bites in record time.
When Daymon finally pulled Heidi up to the gate, papers in hand, he had a story in mind to tell anyone who asked why they had only spent an hour outside the walls.
The gate guard, a tall Hispanic sergeant whose name tape read Flores, was cordial with them as he collected their Golden Tickets and IDs. He said, “Wait one,” and strode off for the trailer.
The sergeant exited the trailer five minutes later. As he walked back to the Bronco, documents and clipboard in hand, nothing about his body language or gait told Daymon he was going to have to tell the man that “car troubles” was the reason for their trip being cut so short.
Instead, he received their papers and IDs along with a green light to drive forward.
Having lost her shotgun position to Duncan on account his back was acting up again, Raven had gotten stuck sitting behind Daymon. Poking her head past the Bronco’s headrest, she called the sergeant by name.
Shaking his head, Duncan said, “No … no, no, no. Do not show him your cards.”
Raven made eye contact with the sergeant. Her mouth opened, but instead of posing her question, she withdrew from the window and slumped back into her s
eat.
A confused look landed on Sergeant Flores’ face. After a beat, he craned and said, “Is she OK?”
“Bad clams,” quipped Duncan.
“In all seriousness,” Daymon answered, “she’s been wondering how one goes about joining the Army. She aspires to be a gate guard one day.”
Flores smiled. “It’s no glamourous post, Miss Grayson. This is just a stop on the road to where I really want to be. Why not go the Ranger route like your dad?”
Under his breath, Duncan said, “Drive, Daymon.”
Speaking loud enough to be heard through Daymon’s open window, Raven said, “That’s some great advice, Sergeant. What I really want to know is if you saw a black van come through here shortly after we left? Loretta Jean’s Pies was written on both sides … in white, I think.”
“You were the early birds this morning.” He glanced at his clipboard. “And so far, only one other group has gone outside the wire after you. They definitely weren’t rolling a pie shop van.”
Raven asked, “Does your clipboard show anyone missing over the last couple of days?”
The soldier shook his head. “No missing persons in the last two weeks.”
Now that the box was open, Daymon said, “Any new arrivals come in this morning through one of the other gates?”
“Friends of yours?” Flores asked.
“Sure,” Raven lied.
“Well,” Flores said, “if they made it here this morning, they would have been processed. You know, checked for infection. After that they would have been taken to see Chief Riggleman for photos and fingerprints. You should probably check with her.”
Daymon said, “That’s exactly what we’ll do, right, Raven?”
Wilson looked to Raven. “BERR opens at ten today. That’s ninety minutes or so. I’ll go with you.”
Raven shook her head. “Thanks, but no thanks. I work best alone.”
“Like father, like daughter,” Duncan said.
Pressing a radio handset to his mouth, Flores said, “Good to go. Open the gate.”
Slow-rolling the Bronco for the open gate, Daymon threw Flores a mock salute. “Thank you, Sergeant. Have a nice day.”
Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home Page 35
