“Cross,” Cade said, motioning the taller operator forward. “Watch our six.”
As Cross turned and trained his MP7 on the executive personnel entrance, Cade sent Griff off to an equally muddy area of ground beside the extended part of the building in order to cover their flanks to the east and south.
Saving the best for last, he caught Axe’s eye. Motioning to the northwest corner of the glass cube rising above them, he said, “I want you to go see how the undead football match is going. Maybe get us a score if you can.”
Cracking a little half-smile, Axe nodded and was off and running, his M4 trained on the distant, blind corner.
Feeling, more so than hearing, the beat of the Ghost Hawk’s noise-defeating rotors punishing the air ahead of its approach, Cade sprinted toward the camouflage-clad corpse and overturned dirt bike that had drawn his attention to the lee side of the muddy knoll abutting the main NSA building.
Chapter 61
Five miles northwest of the zombie-corpse roadblock and burned-out wagon, Duncan began to feel small pangs of regret for a couple of things. First, acting against a strong gut feeling, he’d shrugged off what he saw in the field—even going so far as to only tell Daymon and Lev the true extent of the barbarity the dead man had faced in his final moments. Second, letting his feelings for Glenda, and to a lesser extent, Oliver, dictate his next move, he had told the others that the man in the field had been murdered—shot in the head and stripped of his clothes–to be exact. It was a half-truth at best. Or if splitting hairs wasn’t your thing, a lie by omission.
Duncan couldn’t lie to himself on this one. Every moral fiber in his body was telling him the latter was the truth in this matter. When to come clean to the others was the nut that needed cracking.
Thankfully he had a few more miles before the point of no return to gather the rest and tell them about what he had seen. What he knew based on the sheet of paper found stuffed in the corpse’s gaping mouth. And what he suspected they would find if and when they caught up with Oliver’s captors, who seemed to have their hands in all kinds of trouble up and down the Bear River Range.
On the passenger side of the Dodge, Tran had been sitting in silence for the duration, content to watch the range level out to the north, all the while the gray smudge of another rain band making its way south by east towards them loomed larger by the minute.
Finally, after yet another mile had gone by with the man driving the rig still as quiet, and seemingly inanimate as the radio on the seat between them, Tran cleared his throat and asked Duncan what was on his mind.
The what on Duncan’s mind, though it hadn’t been left to reanimate, was far worse of a spectacle and warning than the crucified rotter could ever be. In fact, what had been done to this man was worse than anything he’d seen done to a man during his time in Vietnam. It was much worse than seeing a couple of kids burn to death strapped into a Volkswagen. And though he had no idea what could trump it, he was sure, given time, that some madman out there in the vast wasteland America had become would do it in spades.
How a man could bleed another man slowly and then strip the flesh from the bones of his still-warm body was incomprehensible to Duncan. Even the Viet Cong hadn’t been that ruthless—they usually desecrated American soldiers after they had been shot dead. And they weren’t cannibals, that was for damn sure.
Proof that the man had been bled slowly came in the shape of a bloody mud angel. Wide arcing wings made by the flailing arms of a person being forcibly held down. Two knees on the shoulders, no doubt. And mud where the corpse’s denuded leg bones had been positioned spoke of at least one accomplice who had helped to hold the bucking man down as the lower extremities responsible for the disturbance were relieved of their flesh. None too successfully, nonetheless, judging by the trenches worn into the muck by the doomed man’s losing battle to get free.
The discarded clothes—a pair of worn blue jeans and black microfiber long-sleeved shirt—had sopped up some of the blood. However, the ground had failed to accept the rest, leaving a man-shaped puddle of viscous crimson liquid an inch deep.
Speaking slowly while enunciating every syllable, the usually demure Tran repeated his question. “What’s on your mind?”
Duncan started visibly, which caused the truck to veer the better part of a foot toward the right shoulder.
The radio on the seat came alive with Daymon’s voice. “Looks like you hit the rumble stripes just now. Back to hitting the Jack Daniel’s, Old Man?”
I wish, thought Duncan. Tightening his grip on the wheel, he looked sidelong at Tran. “Nothing is on my mind,” he lied.
“You’ve been quiet,” Tran added. “Real quiet. Ten minutes of dead silence … at least.”
“Be grateful I’m not Phillip,” Duncan shot back. Quickly realizing how callous that sounded, he signed himself out of the respect he held for the dead motor mouth.
Tran shook his head and returned his attention to the road.
Still wrestling with his newly created moral dilemma, Duncan scooped up the radio and told Daymon where he could stick that kind of discouraging talk—even if the other man did consider ribbing him about his former propensity for the drink little more than jocular, ball-busting banter.
“It’s not gonna happen,” Duncan declared. “Me and Jack aren’t lovers no more.” He chuckled at his clunky choice of words. “Hell, we’re not even friends,” he finished, all of it half-truth. The reality though, as of late he’d been thinking more and more about how sweet the few hours of oblivion one square, clear bottle of Old No. 7 could afford him. But that thought was fleeting. Because as Glenda had taught him to do when euphoric recall began to morph into what sounded like a good idea to a garden variety drunk like him, he played the tape forward. And nothing that came up on that movie reel in his mind when he did so ever ended well. Not. One. Single. Time.
“I’ve been thinking,” Duncan finally admitted after another half-mile of silent contemplation, “that I need to come clean with you and the others … right now.” He tapped his brakes to warn Daymon, who’d been running the Chevy tight to his bumper ever since leaving behind the burned-out car and dirt knoll that they all suspected would be the perfect place to spring the ambush that, thankfully, had never materialized.
Parked on the shoulder, warning flashers blinking a cadence, Duncan spoke slowly and clearly into the two-way radio and came clean about the corpse in the field.
“What do you mean he had been rendered clean to the bone?” Taryn asked over the open channel.
“Butchered for his meat. We’re not only dealing with murderers … I’d be willing to bet the farm that they’re cannibals, too.”
This time it was Daymon doing the questioning. “You sure of that?” he said. “How do you know the birds didn’t pick him clean? I’ve seen what they can do to a corpse if you give them a few days.”
“They were still working on the meat between the joints. Even had most of his hands and feet taken apart. Lots of little bones go into making those work,” Duncan said. “But last I checked, birds don’t use tools.”
“What are you trying to tell us?” Jamie asked from her perch in the F-650 three vehicles back.
“There were marks on the bones made by something sharp and serrated.”
In the Dodge, no stranger to field dressing a deer, Tran leaned forward to get Duncan’s attention. “Like traces a boning knife would leave behind?”
“That’s more engaged in conversation than I’ve seen you in two months … combined.”
Under Tran’s watchful eye, Duncan pulled the crumpled sheet of lined paper from his pocket. He carefully unfolded it, being mindful not to tear it where it was still damp and creased. Keying the radio, he announced to everyone listening what he was about to do. Stressing where he had found the note, lest some of the gang hadn’t heard him the first time, and making clear the words were not his, he read the thing verbatim, never pausing along the way.
“We stole and drove and
ended up caught. It seemed smart at first, but in the end it was not. And for your sins, nobody ever wins, and Nancy paid the ultimate price. Most of it naughty, none of it nice. In the end, Sid, you failed us as a friend.” Finished and feeling uncomfortable in more ways than one, he sighed audibly.
“Far from Rudyard Kipling,” Jamie commented.
“It was signed ‘The sisterhood of CB4,’” Duncan said, before quickly insisting on forging ahead before anybody read into the words any further. And much to his surprise, Daymon was on board at once, which had the effect of instantly bringing the others into the go ahead column. But there was one catch: Lev insisted they radio the compound and see if Brook could get on the satellite phone and ask Dregan to bring some backup north before they moved on.
“I propose a compromise,” Duncan said. “If Dregan agrees to Brook’s overture”—which Duncan was certain he would, blood oath and all—“I want to move as close to the lake as possible without giving ourselves away. Looks like that storm is heading right for us. Figure it’ll mask our approach. Let us get close enough to see what side of the lake they’ve put down roots.”
“Why not wait here until we know for sure what we’re working with?” Jamie asked.
Duncan thumbed the Talk button. “Because I want to have a plan in place when we do meet up with Dregan and his men,” he explained. “It’s what Cade would advocate. If we get close enough, we can watch them and study their movements.”
“If their AO really is Bear Lake,” Lev stated over the open channel.
In the Dodge, brow arched, Tran mouthed, “AO?”
“We only have the bleeder’s matchbook to go on. Better than nothing. However, if Bear Lake isn’t their”—he matched Tran’s gaze—“area of operation … we’ll know almost immediately and can call Dregan off.”
Tran nodded and broke eye contact.
“Good call,” Daymon said. “That way we won’t have to share any of the food and supplies we find with them.”
“Calling Brook now,” Duncan said. “Back in a moment.”
Already one step ahead, Tran handed over the long range radio. Giving voice to the look that accompanied the radio, Duncan said, “I hope we’re not out of range.”
“I’ve been keeping track of the miles,” Tran said. “I think as the crow flies we may be by a dozen miles or more.”
“Damn it all,” Duncan spat. “And I don’t have a satellite phone. Better add one to my shopping list.” Shaking his head, he rolled up the volume and thumbed Talk.
Nothing.
He tried again and released the Talk key, listening hard for anything coming through the static.
Five seconds passed.
Another sign, the first three feet of its white-painted post hidden from view by a mound of corpses, blipped by on the right. As if the corpses weren’t warning enough, TURN BACK NOW was spray-painted over the UDOT-supplied information.
Another ten seconds ticked into the past and still no reply came from the Eden compound.
Just as Duncan was about to give up and curse Cade’s nemesis Mr. Murphy up one wall and down the other, a wizened voice usurped the white noise. “Ray Thagon here.”
Hearing the familiar gravelly intonation spring from the tiny speaker instantly started the wheels in Duncan’s mind to grind out a workaround to their lack-of-satellite-phone dilemma. He took a moment to lay out his plan to Ray and then waited for an answer.
More white noise.
Conferring with the boss, thought Duncan, as a grin parted his lips. Lately, Glenda had taken to wearing the pants on occasion, and that wasn’t all bad.
“You there?”
“I hear ya loud and clear, Ray.”
“Helen says her Con Edison operator days are over, but she’s agreed to go ahead and help out with this party line idea of yours.”
***
Ten minutes after setting in motion the series of back-and-forth satellite phone and long range CB radio calls, Duncan scooped up the two-way radio and informed the rest of the group following in the three vehicles the location of the agreed-upon rendezvous point. In his side mirror he saw the headlights on all three trucks flash in acknowledgement. A moment later Daymon’s strained voice broke the silence in the cab. “How is Brook?”
“I didn’t talk directly to her, Ray and Dregan did,” answered Duncan.
“Did they mention her?”
“Neither one of them said a thing. So I assume she didn’t tell them about her condition.”
“And you didn’t?” shot Daymon.
“Not my place,” Duncan replied. “And I doubt if she did. Hard to see Dregan honoring his lifetime pledge of allegiance to her if there was an outside chance the Omega antiserum might turn on his son’s immune system and finish what that roaming rotter’s bite started.”
The interior of the Dodge was morgue silent for a full minute.
“I see your point,” Daymon finally admitted. “When we get to the rendezvous, I’m the one going forward on foot to recon the situation.”
“I’m coming, too,” Lev said over the open channel. “Be just like old times. You and me and a lake.”
“I’m going, too,” Tran said, his voice rising over the banter coming from the radio.
“You’re both big boys, suit yourselves,” Duncan said, acknowledging Lev and Daymon simultaneously. He set the radio aside and looked sidelong at Tran, an unspoken question lingering on his lips.
“I’m a big boy, too,” Tran said. “It’s about time I started to learn what it’s really like out here. So I can do more than just garden and cook and occasionally ride shotgun feeling like a trapped mime.”
A shield-shaped State Route sign with ADRIAN spray-painted on it in red passed by outside Tran’s window.
Duncan drew a deep breath and swung his eyes forward, fixing his gaze on the angry horizontal scar passing for sky. The distant Wasatch were obscured, as was most everything above treetop level for as far as he could see.
Finally, as he began to brake and pull onto the gravel lot surrounding a rundown drive-in called Merlin’s, he asked Tran in a funereal voice, “Have you killed a man?”
“Two,” Tran admitted. “Burned one of them alive, I think. The other I killed indirectly by letting the demons into a house the two human animals had broken into.”
Gravel crunched under the tires as Duncan applied the brakes.
“These the guys who did the stuff to Heidi?” he asked, wheeling around the sign post and aiming the Dodge for the drive-in’s covered parking.
Tran nodded.
“And they hurt you, too?”
Again with the subtle nod.
“Well I’ll be dipped in shit,” Duncan said gleefully, his trademark cackle punctuating his statement. “Never had you pegged as a cold-blooded killer.”
“They earned it.”
“And you delivered, Tran, my man. You delivered them to where they needed deliverin’ … in spades.”
Tran said nothing.
Duncan asked, “Do you have a two-way radio?”
“I’m quiet,” answered Tran, “not stupid.”
Duncan reached over and punched the glove box open. “In there … nine-millimeter Beretta. Keeping your finger away from the trigger, I want you to pull it out. And the two mags.”
Tran plucked the three items out and laid them on the seat. There was a great deal of respect conveyed by the way the slight Asian handled the weapon. He had instinctively practiced proper muzzle discipline, keeping the semi-automatic pistol pointed away from him and Duncan as he set it down gingerly.
Very good, thought Duncan as he began detailing the weapon’s particulars: Its rate of fire. Magazine capacity. How the double-action operated. Finished, he stilled the Dodge’s engine. “There will be a test in a minute,” he informed Tran.
“This is the place?” Lev asked, his voice coming out of the speaker a little garbled.
Duncan plucked the Motorola off the seat and said into it, “This is where Dregan in
sisted we meet him.”
“What now?” asked Wilson, his pale, freckle-addled face a yard away and staring through the Raptor’s open passenger window as Taryn brought the bigger rig to a slow, smooth stop underneath the drive-in’s canted roof.
“You and Pixie there arm yourselves and take up positions on either end of this little oasis while I take a look inside,” Duncan answered.
Still staring down at the Beretta, Tran said, “May I come?”
“Your job is to watch the Kids’ six. If you see anything they don’t, radio them at once.” He reached into the center console and came out with a black nylon holster. “It’s not made for that weapon, but it’ll do in a pinch.” He handed it to Tran, then turned to open his door.
Fingers wrapping around the pistol’s knurled grip, Tran nodded and sat up straight.
The big Ford and smaller Chevy slid onto the lot one right after the other and parked in the two spaces left of the Raptor. In no time Duncan was entering the drive-in alone, while Lev, Jamie, Daymon, and Foley were fanning out around the building perimeter on the lookout for any rotters drawn around by the noisy engines.
***
Five minutes after pulling into the deserted parking lot, the four trucks were parked side-by-side under cover and Taryn and Jamie were sitting inside on vinyl stools before a long white counter. As if Duncan had not done a thorough enough job initially, Foley was traipsing through the restaurant and checking every nook and cranny for anything of use.
After having cleared the thoroughly looted building and put down the pair of Zs someone had locked inside the rank-smelling walk-in cooler, Duncan was back in his Dodge and dividing his attention between the state route south of them, and the trio not twenty feet to his fore sitting inside the drive-in’s gloomy, but dry confines.
As the rain began pelting the windshield with soft little patters, Wilson returned from his latest recon around the diamond-shaped block Merlin’s drive-in sat upon. “The perimeter is rotter-free. What do we do now?” he asked, pulling his parka hood over his boonie hat.
District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 35
