“What if they do make it to the porch before we’re done in here?”
“Simple, Oliver. If Max can’t handle them, you’ll have to step in.” Daymon opened the door. “You got our six, Max?”
The dog just stared at the creatures fumbling around at the bottom of the two flights.
“Sorry, Max,” Daymon said, slamming the door for effect. Stabbing a thumb at the ceiling while speaking softly in Oliver’s direction, he added, “We think we have ourselves a Goldilocks wannabe upstairs. Just stay here. Keep your eyes open and be quiet. Max can handle himself around those things.”
Before Oliver could protest or fire off a second barrage of questions, Daymon was padding quietly down the hall.
***
It took Daymon a full three minutes to scale the stairs with any semblance of stealth. Then, a full five minutes after leaving Jamie, Taryn, and Lev alone upstairs, he was heel and toeing it down the hall and looking a question their way.
“Nothing moved up there,” Taryn whispered. “I think you’re right about us spooking them. Whoever left the blood trail did so on their way out.”
Chapter 22
The answer to Cade’s mouthed question about the Screamer came three long minutes after he posed it.
Ari continued the slow clockwise orbit over the undead horde, drawing them along all the while tightening the circle until the helo was at a steady hover just a hundred feet above the multitudes of pale faces leering expectantly skyward.
Once the monsters were packed in tight a good distance from the state route and anything the Screamer might get trapped underneath, Ari came in over the comms. “Half-moon-shaped clump of sage. Taking her down close.”
“Copy that,” replied Skipper, turning away from the window through which he’d been observing the creatures’ movements. He hastily unhooked a safety line from the bulkhead, then secured one end of the three-foot-long cable to a waist-high anchor point a few inches left of the minigun. He clicked the carabiner on the other end of the lifeline to the D-ring on his flight gear. While the port-side door slid aft, letting in the pong of death and decay, he retrieved a gear bag from the nylon webbing, securing it to the front bulkhead. From the bulging bag came a round, grapefruit-sized device painted in bright safety orange. The sphere had two black panels the size of a pack of Wrigley’s gum inset one to a side. Running vertically between the shiny panels, the letters “SCRMR” had been stenciled in black. No doubt an Army acronym, Cade thought. Then, as the helo slowed and fell into a steady hover a few feet off the deck, Skipper opened one of the panels on the device and began fiddling with its internal workings. A tick later he snapped the panel shut and instantly a shrill scream emitted from inside the orb. It was high-pitched and warbling, the kind of death knell Cade had heard coming from the mouths of way too many real people as they died at the hands of the Zs. The hair-raising keening was also loud enough to trump the muffled helicopter turbines and rotor blades and eerily enough came across to Cade as authentic, not a special effect created by a computer in some sound studio. Which then made him wonder how the ten seconds of audio filled with the sounds of some anonymous person’s intense suffering had been captured in the first place.
Pushing the morbid line of questioning from his mind, he looked at Lopez and said, “What does SCRMR stand for?”
“Self-contained … rolling—”
Cutting Lopez off, the usually quiet crew chief said, “I’ve forgotten what the M and R stand for, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you all about it.” As the Ghost Hawk made a final hundred-yard sideslip maneuver away from the auto-choked state route, Skipper held the device at eye-level. “The panels are the latest generation of mini solar collectors. Inside this baby is the battery pack and motion sensor. If I’m not mistaken, it’s some kind of a jury-rigged mercury switch that starts it making that noise.” Then, like a short, old, and melanin-deficient version of a Harlem Globetrotter, Skipper rolled the Screamer in his hands and spun it on one gloved finger like a mini basketball. “That it’s round makes it nearly impossible for the Zs to accidentally crush it.”
“I’ve seen a group of them chase one as it rolled around the ground screaming bloody murder,” Lopez interjected, a half-smile curling his lips. “Damn if it didn’t look like a bunch of drunks chasing a beach ball.”
“The Zs are one hundred yards off port and turning back,” warned Haynes, craning hard over his left shoulder, voice all business.
Skipper glanced out the door, then went on, “The scream is on a timed loop. Ten seconds on, fifty off.”
Crunching numbers in his head, Cade figured he had just north of thirty seconds until the sphincter-puckering noise again assaulted his ears. With Eden and the coming winter in mind, he asked, “Is it waterproofed?”
“Can’t take one in the pool with you,” Skipper said, as the vibration from the Ghost’s landing gear motoring into place transited the bulkhead under his feet. “So far we haven’t had one fail from getting rained or snowed on. We lost one down by Green River recently. My theory … the effin Zs kicked it under a vehicle and with no sun to charge it the battery eventually died.”
“They’ve acquired us again,” Haynes intoned. “Ninety-five yards and closing.”
“They’re persistent bastards, aren’t they,” Cade stated, seeing the distant biomass halt and pause for a beat, a slow rippling action that preceded them turning their heads in unison and fixing all eyes on the dust-shrouded helo just as it touched down softly.
Skipper nodded at that. “If they think they have something trapped they’ll stick around for awhile. But more and more,” he said, as he reached out and rolled the device into a wiry shock of ankle-high scrub brush, “if they don’t get a kill or hear anything that tells them prey is nearby, they’re going to move on. We’ve been seeing them herding up and staying in constant motion for days and weeks.”
“Hunting the living,” Ari said over the comms. “In mega hordes, Wyatt. Like that million Z march we witnessed during the Castle Rock mission.”
“Witnessed?” Skipper said, hitting a switch on the bulkhead that started the side door powering shut. “With all due respect, sir. I think you mean decimated.”
After validating the statement with a thumbs-up directed at his long-standing crew chief, Ari said, “Wheels up,” and there was a brief whirring sound followed by a solid clunk as the landing gear rotated back inside the airframe and seated into place. A tick later there was a soft thud as the radar-absorbent panels covering the gear wells locked down. An increasing turbine roar was quickly quelled by the side door seating. Finally, Cade felt his stomach roil as Ari powered the helo vertically off the desert floor and banked hard to port, lining the nose up with the distant Rocky Mountains.
Addressing Cade, Skipper said, “Beeson’s come to the conclusion that it’s better to be proactive. Catch the Zs in groups small enough that a couple of truckloads of Pikers can roll in and neutralize them on the spot. Leave the bodies for the elements to take care of.”
Though Cade had a good idea what Skipper meant, he still felt compelled to ask. “Pikers?”
“They’re the poor bastards among the volunteers who happen to draw the short straw. Playing piker means you get to ride exposed in back of whatever vehicles are available—usually deuce and a halfs. Driving the rigs, I hear, isn’t a choice assignment, either. They do the old Pied Piper thing by either leading them in a straight line and letting the pikers do their job from the rear. Or, if they’re out in the open I’ve heard of them driving around the herd in a big circle … three or four trucks and a dozen pikers. Pretty effective, but finding the Screamer under all of the corpses afterward tends to be a bit of a bitch.”
“Wash. Rinse. Repeat,” Cade said.
“Yep. They don’t look it, but they’re real durable,” replied Skipper, casting his gaze on the herd which was already packing in tight around the Screamer. “We scoop ‘em up and dust them off then go find the next manageable pack of deadheads and
start all over. Record stands at an estimated six thousand Zs culled in one day.”
Cade nodded. “Saves on ammo, that’s for damn sure.”
“We’re still not making much of a dent in their numbers,” Cross said soberly.
“Every dead demonio is a step in the right direction,” Lopez said, crossing himself.
A silence filled the cabin as the helo nosed down slightly and picked up speed.
Bracing against the maneuver, Cade heard Ari talking to someone at Schriever. He looked across the aisle and saw that both Cross and Lopez had their arms crossed similarly over their load-bearing gear. Already Agent Cross was chin down and eyes closed, his head bobbing with the motion of the ship. Now and again his face would brush the butt of his SCAR rifle trapped between his legs, causing him to start and mumble something, the words “Zs” the only thing intelligible.
Face aimed skyward, the tactical helmet framing his closed, vein-snaked eyelids, Lopez started to snore.
“Couple of regular Sleeping Beauties we got here,” Skipper noted.
Cade nodded. Then, following advice Desantos had offered up so long ago, something to the effect of, “You’re Army. You have to sleep when you can get it,” he wrapped his arms around his M4, shut his eyes, and thought about his girls.
Chapter 23
The first warning sign of the impending claustrophobic attack struck Daymon the moment he had spotted the overhead door and came to realize where it led. Instantly, his throat had clenched tight and his mouth had gone dry as a piece of day-old toast.
Standing rooted for an additional ten minutes with the knowledge of what had to be done bouncing around in his brain had whipped his guts into a churning mess. And while the second hand on the clock in his mind had proceeded ahead on its steady metronomic march to the decided-upon time, the putrid smells and wails of the dead he’d endured for hours while trapped in the farmhouse attic with Cade and Hoss came rushing back to him with mind-numbing clarity.
Now, the agreed-upon time having slipped into the past with not so much as one attic board creaking overhead, Daymon shook his head to clear the haunting visions and looked at the others. “I don’t think anyone’s sleeping in my bed, Baby Bear.”
Jamie smirked and asked, “So how do you suggest we get the thing open without a chair to stand on?”
Lev edged close to Daymon. He intertwined his fingers into a stirrup and leaned forward, offering the man a leg up.
Daymon’s dreads bobbed as he shook his head and waved Lev off. Squaring up to the attic access hatch, he withdrew Kindness, reached up and started probing the edges of the flush panel with the long blade. Getting nowhere with that tactic, he pried at the rubber T handle with the machete’s rounded tip. Finally, after a little effort and with his craned neck beginning to ache, one side of the handle popped out and it freefell eye-level to him before the orange cord securing it to the door snapped taut and arrested its fall.
“I got it,” Taryn said, grabbing for the handle.
Beating her to the punch, Daymon snatched the handle from midair. “Everyone stand back.”
Once the other three had backed down the hallway, he yanked down on the cord and stepped clear.
The hatch was spring-loaded and swung down with ease, the bi-fold ladder extending downward and stopping a foot shy of the floor with a resonant bang.
As if expecting a flurry of gunfire or guillotine to come scything from the attic entry, the four inched forward, necks bent at unnatural angles and guns aimed at the dimly lit portal.
“It’s all yours,” Lev said.
Swallowing hard, Daymon whipped his head back and forth. Then, as if they’d never gone away, all of the usual symptoms of a mounting claustrophobic attack were back. Dry mouth. Tight throat. Racing heart. And worst of all, the cold sweats started. “Hell no! I’m not going up there,” he said, taking a step back from the ladder.
“I’m small,” Jamie said. “I’ll do it.”
She put a hand on Taryn’s forearm. It was far from smooth. On the contrary, though they were fully healed, the dragons, skulls, and skeletons tattooed on the teen’s arm—sleeve style, Jamie thought it was called—were basically just scar tissue: raised and welt-like. “I’ll go first. You follow me,” Jamie said, starting up the ladder.
“Be careful,” Lev called. In fact, he wanted to pull her from the ladder and go in her stead, but knew that wouldn’t fly. Like Taryn, Jamie was strong of will and didn’t take no for an answer. So he didn’t push it. He simply watched her disappear into the gloom.
There was no medieval executioner’s blade awaiting. Bullets didn’t cut his girl to ribbons. And most comforting of all was Jamie calling down and saying she was all alone up there and urging everyone to join her.
Everyone wasn’t joining Jamie upstairs.
Taryn holstered her weapon and monkeyed up the creaky ladder.
Swinging his M4 around to his back, Lev climbed the stairs and disappeared into the attic.
Daymon grabbed a rung and stared up into the dark, listening as the others described what they were seeing.
Jamie first noticed the stench of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Because the four gables, each facing a different point of the compass, were built into the roof pitch, the attic was much smaller than she had expected. The attic itself was maybe three or four hundred square feet, max. The roof was angled so that one could only stand erect near the center of the storage area. Cobwebs clung to everything at eye level. Open-topped boxes filled with dusty books, mostly old leather-bound bibles and hymnals, were pushed against the sloped roof. And piercing the plywood sheeting overhead, rusty nails protruded into the space at crazy angles.
“Careful,” Jamie warned, putting a hand on Taryn’s shoulder while pointing out the nails. “One already nicked me.”
Taryn bent at the waist and made her way to the east-facing window. “Just cobwebs over here,” she said, staring out the window at a tangle of gnarled branches.
Staying on his hands and knees, Lev made his way to the west-facing window. The first thing that struck him was the fresh wood shavings piled on the floor below the sill. Even competing with the other odors, the faint smell of newly carved attic-cured old growth reminded him of high school wood shop.
Oddly, the name ADRIAN that he found carved into the sill brought back memories of art class. The letters were scribed with care. They weren’t cursive nor connected in any way. They were of an old-school font, yet fancy all the same. Then he saw the blood intermixed with the wood shavings and called out his find. Two plus two just became four in his mind. When combined with the blood trail downstairs, the spongy mess on the floor here told him that the person responsible for both had been watching them. He also concluded that the culprit or culprits’ exit had been hasty. Then the probability that they might still be nearby, or perhaps going for reinforcements, hit him broadside.
“Tell Wilson and Oliver to ratchet up their alert level,” he called out loudly enough so that Daymon would hear. “The bleeder was spying on us and rabbited when we crashed the place.”
“Copy that,” Daymon replied.
Hearing Daymon clomp down the hall, Lev peered out the window. He could see the body shop parking lot where they had parked their vehicles. Nothing was amiss, or so it seemed. However, due to the steep viewing angle from the rooftop dormer, he could only see the top two-thirds of their trucks. So there was no real way of telling if their tires had been slashed or whether any other kind of booby traps had been set.
“Check this out,” Jamie called, her voice carrying from the front of the attic where mounds of winter clothing, no doubt donated to the church and awaiting distribution before the outbreak, sat crowding the south-facing dormer.
“Looks like your lady has found a clue,” Taryn said.
***
Downstairs, Daymon stood beside Wilson, both of them staring at the back yard through the rectangular window inset into the back door.
“It was locked when Jamie
got to it,” Wilson stated.
“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Daymon said.
“I know,” Wilson whispered. “I think I saw something moving over there … beyond the fence.” He nodded and then traced his finger on the glass. “See that?”
“See what?” Daymon asked, a hint of irritation creeping into his tone.
“The trail in the grass. It’s like the game trails around Eden.”
“I saw it earlier,” Daymon admitted. “Figured it was just made by some nosy rotters. But seeing as how the front porch was covered with cobwebs when we got here, it’s pretty obvious that when we banged on the door our bleeder came running down here and squirted out the back.”
“Think they’re gone?”
“I’d put money on it,” Daymon said in a low voice. “Would you stick around?”
Wilson shook his head no.
“I wouldn’t either. My guess is the movement you saw was likely just the wind bending the grass.”
“Or someone beating feet,” Wilson proffered.
Daymon made no reply. He just continued staring at the overgrown backyard.
The sound of heavy footfalls filtered down the hall a tick before Oliver, breathing hard and wild-eyed, burst into the kitchen babbling about rotters on the porch.
“—and they’re turning the doorknob,” he added, gesturing toward the perceived threat with his rifle muzzle.
“Take a breath,” Daymon ordered. “Is the door locked?”
Oliver nodded an affirmative. “Deadbolt was good, so I threw it.”
“Do rotters use keys to open doors?”
Oliver shook his head side to side, then ran a shaky hand through his hair.
“Then what’s the problem? There’s only two of them … right?”
“I haven’t looked recently.”
“Some help you are. Follow me.” Daymon led Oliver down the hall. At the foyer he told Oliver to wait while he split off and made a beeline for the living room window.
District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 14
