Looking south down Unlucky 13, he spotted the same herd of monsters, now adjacent to the house next door, and on a collision course with the parked Ford.
With a certain urgency dictated by the events unfolding, he clunked down the stairs and through the lava rock, relying less on the crutches and placing more trust in his bad ankle. By the time he had reached the truck, the dead were stumbling over the curb, their calls becoming increasingly louder. With seconds to spare, he hit the unlock button, hauled the door open and tossed the crutches across the seat. He had just gotten inside and closed and locked his door when the Zs encircled his truck. As he sat there serenaded by the sounds of the dead worrying the truck’s exterior, he closed his eyes and relived the ride along with Beeson. He retraced the route from FOB Bastion, passed by the Craftsman he was parked in front of and continued on until a four-wheel-drive shop somewhere down the road entered his mind’s eye. The details were vague but the still-darkened sign shone like a Klieg light in his memory. He started the truck and powered on the navigation system, bringing up a colorful map denoting the recommended route from his present location to the GPS coordinates he’d inputted earlier. He looked at the myriad of buttons and switches and repeatedly pressed the one marked +. Up popped a new map, zoomed in, and not as cluttered with arterials and Interstates and side streets as the previous. He hinged forward and looked closely at an overhead view—rendered in colorful pixels—of maybe two square miles of his surroundings. Running east to west were the oddly labeled streets, all named after letters of the alphabet and each followed by the word Road. Some of them had fractions attached after the corresponding letter; most did not. He looked over the names in small font. To the right was an entry for the Loma post office. There was a restaurant named Lola’s, presumably a greasy spoon, definitely closed for good. Then the out-of-place numbers caught his eye and he matched the rest of the text with the sign he saw in his mind. Mesa View 4x4, here I come, he thought as he checked the time on the Suunto. Deciding he had a couple of spare minutes to burn before Brook set the hounds after him, he selected Drive, tromped the pedal and bulled through the desperate throng, completing another one-eighty. With its off-road tires throwing rock and cactus thorns at the pursuing Zs, the Ford swallowed up the curb and Cade steered north, the two-lane leading him further away from FOB Bastion.
Chapter 7
A mile north of the Craftsman, Cade spotted the darkened signage casting its long shadow beside a rectangular steel prefab. Emblazoned in red on a yellow background were the words Mesa View 4x4 and a phone number below. The building itself was situated smack dab in the middle of a sea of dingy gray asphalt on which a dozen spots were lined out in the same faded yellow as the sign. To Cade, the place looked like it once had belonged to one of those large nationwide outfits that used to regularly send glossy catalogs disguised as an enthusiast’s magazine to his home in Portland. Far from the immaculate store represented on the catalog cover, this place had fallen into a sad state of disrepair. He reached into the center console, coming out with his Bushnell's. Placed the cups to his eyes and manipulated the center wheel, bringing the once-white building into sharp focus.
The operation looked like any other rural garage Cade had ever seen—only this one apparently specialized exclusively in off-road vehicles—which was a good thing seeing as how the two hundred miles and God knows how many Zs they were likely to encounter between FOB Bastion and the compound would chew up a normal passenger car.
Parked haphazardly on the oil-stained cement beside the garage were a half-dozen pick-ups of all different makes and models. “Gotta be keys for one of them inside,” Cade muttered to himself as he swept his gaze to the glass and metal door on the far right hand corner of the building where a handwritten sign was taped to the glass. CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE had been printed meticulously in three-inch-high block letters. He ventured to guess the person who had made the sign had taken their time in hopes that the outbreak playing out live on television that Saturday would be revealed as some kind of an Orson Wells War of the Worlds-type of prank and everything would reset to normal after the weekend. But that hadn’t been the case. Closed forever was the reality of the situation, he thought morosely, remembering his indoctrination to the outbreak on that Saturday in July. Killing his infected neighbor Ted with an ice axe had been the most surreal experience of his life, and thankfully his survival instinct kicked in and overrode his brain as it tried to process what he was seeing at the time.
Striking the troubling thoughts from his mind, he panned left to the plate window, where, below a set of horizontal blinds, drawn half-way up and far from level, a number of sun-faded placards hawking six-inch lift kits and Warn winches and all manner of aftermarket 4x4 parts leaned out against the glass.
Left of the office window were two dirt-streaked roller doors tall and wide enough to accommodate a monster truck of Bigfoot’s stature. Inset on the nearest door was a smaller two-foot square opening with a rubber flap that Cade assumed was a dog door. Stacked vertically at the top of each roller door was a pair of fairly large windows through which Cade could see a white vehicle up on the lift; the sun entering the building’s skylights glinted from the curvature of its windshield.
Next, he eyed the driveway, which, unlike the rest of the operation, was a scene of order. The thirty-foot stripe of asphalt was lined with beds of recently spread mulch dotted with hardy desert flowers that lent a colorful contrast to the shop’s rundown exterior.
He scrutinized the sturdy wheeled gate at the end of the drive and grimaced upon noticing the chain and padlock put there to keep people like him out. And that was good and bad, he supposed. Good if nobody had come back seeking refuge from the dead the weekend Hell decided to open up. Bad if a couple of guard dogs had been left behind to watch over the place. More so for the dog’s sake than his, for with three weeks without food or water he supposed they’d be long dead anyway.
As he sat in the idle truck while watching a trio of Zs amble his way, the fact that he was going to need to ask for help (one of his least favorite things to do) in order to crack this nut became painfully obvious. On the other hand, having six people—two of them bickering siblings—and a dog crammed into the Ford would be painful in its own special way doled out like a thousand paper cuts over the course of the upcoming trip.
Weighing the pros and cons of the latter scenario in his mind, he put the truck in reverse and backed up, bouncing over the curb and flower beds in the process. Then slapping the transmission into Drive, a quick look at the Suunto told him he’d been gone too long. Shit, he thought, wheeling left and destroying a good portion of Mesa View 4x4’s only redeeming asset, sending multicolored petals airborne as he tore off in the direction from which he’d come.
Chapter 8
Like a speakeasy patron working a bottle of bathtub gin, the hip-high mound of dark earth was greedily soaking up the rain. The first shovelful had been nothing. Number fifty was a different story altogether. Daymon’s muscles burned from the exertion, therefore, number fifty-one seemed exponentially heavier and more cumbersome than the previous. But he didn’t stop. In between scoops he cast a sidelong glance at Duncan who was moving a degree slower and had just cast another load of thick mud into the grave, fully concealing Logan’s upturned profile. Bowing his head, Daymon followed suit, depositing number fifty-two near where he imagined Gus’s feet were.
With their combined efforts, the backbreaking work filling the graves took only a fraction of the time that Duncan had spent digging them, and when they had finished, both men were muddied and tired and hungry and all alone.
***
An hour earlier, as it turned out, Lev and Chief were the ones who’d answered Daymon’s mayday and rushed from the compound armed to the teeth. And after the rotters were culled, they had tossed the bodies in the ditch to be burned later.
Afterward Duncan declined their offer to help bury Logan and Gus and instead redirected their good intentions and had them go bac
k and ready a couple of vehicles for a return trip to the quarry. And start some coffee, he had called out to Chief as he closed the gate to the compound feeder road behind the waiting Toyota with Lev at the wheel.
***
“Coffee sounds good right about now,” Duncan said, still staring at the spot in the forest where the Toyota had entered earlier.
There was a long minute of silence during which the drizzle let up and the clouds parted to reveal a sliver of blue sky.
Daymon leaned in and said, “Don’t you want to say some words first?”
Duncan removed his glasses and wiped them for the hundredth time. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, “God already knows my feelings for Logan ... don’t see a need to tell him again.”
“And Gus?”
“Didn’t know Gus very well but I did think good thoughts for the both of them while I was digging.”
Daymon said, “Two birds with one stone ... pretty efficient.” After which he held Duncan’s gaze for a second and then flicked his eyes up at the retreating clouds, trying to resist the urge to forget about the subject he wanted to broach and instead go with some bullshit comment about the weather. Nothing doing. This was life and death type of stuff, he reasoned. So instead of praising Mother Nature for the sunshine, he dove right in and spoke from the heart. “I’m worried about you, Old Man,” he conceded. “The Duncan who I’ve gotten to know wouldn’t have sent Lev back to the compound without restringing the barbed wire behind him. Truth be told, I’m kinda pissed that Lev didn’t string it up on his own accord, but I’ll cross that bridge later.”
“It was a long cold night for the kid,” drawled Duncan.
“No excuse for slippin’ up like that.”
“Hell, Daymon. His friend ... my brother ... he was murdered yesterday in cold blood. Can’t blame Lev. Besides,” added Duncan, nearly shouting, “I told him to git and then ran him off.”
“You know ... you almost bought the farm today,” Daymon said through clenched teeth. “What if you left the gate leading to the compound wide open? More lives at stake than your grizzled carcass.”
Duncan remained silent, his gaze fixed on a clutch of rotters emerging from the gloom where 39 exited the forest.
“What’s your excuse?” asked Daymon, feeling oddly like a father dressing down his kid. He glanced over at the empty Jack bottle. Said nothing more as the impulse to scream and vent his anger grew exponentially.
“I had some forgettin’ to do.”
“Well mission-fuckin-a-complished,” said Daymon, veins bulging in his neck. “I wanted to go get us some kind of critter for dinner. Instead I’m damn near ready to host a frickin’ intervention for you. What do you think of that idea? Am I out of line?”
In response, Duncan picked up the empty and tossed it into the woods out of sight. Without making eye contact, he said, “Come on. Let’s hash it out over coffee.” He turned and, with Daymon staring holes into his back, made his way to the crippled Land Cruiser, reached inside and came out with the half-empty bottle of Jack. Without making eye contact he unscrewed the cap and paused mid-decision, the bottle in limbo, mid-air at a forty-five-degree angle, one bend of the elbow from touching his lips. But instead of giving in to the craving for the booze and its unique ability to dull the pain brought on by the unforeseen murders and the thought of what the girls were enduring at the hands of the killers, he rotated his arm and let the amber liquid spill out onto the grass at his feet. Then, seemingly channeling the ghost of Catfish Hunter, he threw the empty overhand. It sailed at least fifty yards, a graceful arc diagonally over SR-39, bounced once or twice on the shoulder without breaking and skittered into the ditch.
Seeing this, Daymon snatched up the pair of muddy shovels, walked to the Cruiser and stowed them in the rear. Still fuming, he asked, “Who’s going to cover the rest of your shift?”
“Let me see your radio.”
Daymon handed it over.
Thumbing the talk button, Duncan ordered Phillip up to the road to pull a few extra hours of watch.
Cocking his head, Daymon said, “Why Phillip? I thought you had your reservations about him.”
“He’s capable. But if he’s up here keeping watch he won’t be able to tag along with us to the quarry,” explained Duncan. “And that’ll spare everyone’s ears ... ‘cause that boy can talk.”
Daymon nodded, unamused, then straightened up and looked west, the low sun at his back throwing his shadow long and exaggerated. He watched the flesh eaters negotiate the slight dip in the road, and when their gaunt faces broke the crest of the rise he asked, “You have some binocs?”
“In the rig. Let me get ‘em.” Duncan ducked in and came out with a pair of oversized black Bushnell’s, unwound the strap and handed them over. Squinting into the distance he asked, “Whatcha seeing?”
Daymon said nothing at first. Then he stepped onto the SUV’s running board to gain a better viewing angle.
Watching all of this, Duncan failed to understand why the taller man was focusing on something in the shadows behind the rotters. So he asked again, “Whatcha got?”
“There’s one of those things hanging back. Where the road curves and comes out of the trees.”
“What is it doing?”
“Probably nothing,” replied Daymon. “Let’s move this thing and restring the wire.”
Grabbing a rusty strand, Duncan asked, “Are you as sick of these goddamn things as I am?”
Finished wrapping the lower run of wire around the post, Daymon unsheathed the machete, smiled mischievously and replied, “Let’s wax some rotters.”
Chapter 9
FOB Bastion
“Up and at em,” bellowed Brook. In fact she was up shortly after Cade and had already dressed in a pair of weathered tan camo fatigue pants she’d dutifully tucked into her boot tops. Over her heavy black T-shirt was a thin cotton long-sleeved blouse, once white, but now a dingy tan and buttoned mid-way up. Anticipating a long day in the sun, she’d rummaged through the drawers and found a tan kerchief which was knotted loosely around her neck. A black ball cap was pulled down low, her high pony tail sticking through the hole out back. And strapped on her hip was a compact Glock similar to Cade’s that had been a gift from Colonel Cornelius Shrill, her big intimidating friend back at Schriever. Unaccustomed to hearing the female master raise her voice, Max yelped and bolted from under the cot and immediately went into search mode, ears perked, teeth bared, looking for the threat.
“Everything is OK. Stand down, Max,” said Brook, a half-smile curling her lip. She glanced at her watch as the liquid crystal numerals flipped from 9:10 to 9:11. “It’s these other sleepy heads who need to fall out and fall in.” Although all was said tongue-in-cheek—delivered gruffly using Cade’s army-speak-infused lexicon—all humor was lost on both Taryn and Sasha as the two came up swinging, lobbing verbal barbs of their own.
“Last time I checked I wasn’t enlisted,” blurted Taryn, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
Sasha whined, “You’re not my mom ... what time is it anyway?”
“9:12,” answered Raven after checking her recently acquired Timex.
Wilson’s head poked from his sleeping bag and he planted one elbow on his cot. After craning around, he fixed a no nonsense glare on his sister and said, “Time to do what the lady says ... that’s what time it is.”
“Looks like I’ve got a lieutenant doing my light work,” quipped Brook. “Now someone pass the ice cubes so I can get the bed hog off my cot.” The fact that there wasn’t so much as an ice crystal for hundreds of miles didn’t register in Raven’s analytical brain. The mere mention of ice cubes used in conjunction with the words wake and up, had an instantaneous effect on the twelve-year-old, causing her to sit ramrod straight, her eyes instantly scanning the room for incoming. “Mom,” she called out. “Not fair. You had me thinking Dad was up to his old tricks.”
“Just making sure you stay frosty, sweetie.”
Raven scrunched her f
ace up. “Not funny,” she said, flopping onto her back while pulling a big handful of blanket over her head.
Just then, sparing Brook from a full scale all-girl mutiny, the distinctive sound of their new ride reverberated outside and the Ford’s shadow darkened the front of the single-story double-wide.
“Total eclipse,” said Wilson. “I frickin can’t believe we’re going to Utah in Pug’s old ride.” He looked towards Sasha just as a shudder of revulsion wracked her small frame.
“Had to remind me, didn’t you.”
“Sorry, sis,” he answered sheepishly, cheeks going crimson.
The door opened a moment later and Cade’s silhouette was framed in the doorway. He said, “Gassed up and good to go.” Then he looked around and saw that everyone was packed, for the most part, then went on, “Raven, will you bring me my rifle?”
“Sure Dad,” she said, sliding from her bag fully dressed. “Where is it?”
“Under my cot,” he said, watching his impromptu test play out.
Raven found the M4 under the cot next to hers. Pulled it out one-handed by the butt stock and then pivoted and sat on the bed with it between her knees. What she did next, while keeping the weapon’s muzzle pressed against the shag carpet, made Cade very proud of her and doubly grateful for the time Brook had spent teaching her the basics.
First, Raven ejected the magazine and placed it on the floor. Then she pulled the charging handle a couple of times before leaning the rifle over to visually check that the chamber was indeed empty. Lastly, the diminutive twelve-year-old slapped the magazine home and made sure the safety was engaged before bringing it over to him, muzzle down.
“Great job, sweetie,” he said. Then, already knowing the answer, he asked her, “Did Mom teach you all of that?”
Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 4
