A beat later, one of the pilots called out over his shoulder, “Twenty minutes out.”
Carson nodded at the pilot. Then he looked at Jamie and pointed to the cuffs.
Message received. Jamie smoothed her dark hair behind her ears, left the empty sack in her lap and worked one of the interlocked cuffs over each hand, then took the stray end of the tie between her teeth and pulled it taut.
Shaking his head disappointedly, Carson said, “Good try.” He leaned over and cinched the cuffs. Then, spit and stink and all, he eased the stifling hood over her head but, showing a little bit of compassion, left it loose around her neck. The tie binding her wrists, however, was as tight as it had been before.
Cursing under her breath, Jamie sat and stewed and fantasized once again about how she’d kill him if she ever got the chance.
Chapter 12
Seven minutes after Cade pulled the Ford up in front of the double-wide, the pick-up’s cab was brimming with six people, a Todd Helton Louisville Slugger, two stubby M4 rifles—one equipped with a suppressor—and Sasha’s precious designer bags.
Taryn, Sasha, and Wilson were in the backseat while Brook was up front riding shotgun. That left Raven, who was by far the smallest of the group, stuck riding up front next to her dad who, for reasons he was keeping to himself, was hell bent on driving the first leg of the trip.
Max, though relegated to riding in the box bed, found himself a spot amongst Raven’s purple-and-white mountain bike, some boxes of food and water, and the two hard-sided Pelican cases containing the additional weapons, ammunition, and gear Colonel Shrill had allowed Cade to select prior to them leaving Schriever.
Cade started the Ford and, before he’d completed the K-turn to get them headed back towards the front gate, a lively debate broke out over why the dead were walking.
“I think the Rapture backfired or something,” opined Sasha with all the authority of a theology professor.
“Whoa ... hold on to that thought for a second. I need to know if I heard you right ... or if you’re thinking of an old Blondie song,” countered Wilson, twisting in his seat to address his sister who was occupying the center spot between him and Taryn. “So the big event ... the Rapture happens and instead of us seeing all of the clothing and personal effects of the chosen scattered all over the place, you are telling me only their souls were taken and their husks remained behind to rot and walk the earth ... and eat those that weren’t called home?” He took a deep breath and waited for her response.
Meanwhile Cade bounced the truck over a curb and straightened it out and drummed his fingers on the wheel as the gate came into view.
The silence killing her, Brook twisted around and opened her mouth to speak but was beaten to the punch by the feisty teenaged redhead.
“What’s your theory then, Wilson?” Sasha said in a petulant tone. “You’ve got an opinion on everything anyways ... and you’re always telling me what to do.”
Peering past Sasha, an impish grin on her face, Taryn said to Wilson, “Let’s hear it, just for shits and giggles.”
Looking over her left shoulder, Brook shot the tattooed young woman a look that said, Watch your language and then shifted her gaze to Raven, who was trying very hard not to laugh.
“All right,” answered Wilson. “I bet some a-hole in a bunker somewhere let the Omega bug out.”
“You mean like in the Stand?”
“No Sasha ... I mean like in some greedy-upper-crust-bastards who wanted all of this for themselves before the eaters and breeders sucked it all up ... purposefully released the bug on the population.”
Not far from the truth, kid, thought Cade as he hung a right and brought the rig to a halt a number of feet from FOB Bastion’s front gate. He killed the engine and shrugged his shoulders in response to a look delivered by one of the soldiers, who was obviously nonplussed at having to repeat the time-consuming process of extending the mobile bridge again. Then, as Sergeant Andreasen approached the truck on the driver’s side, Cade opened the center console, reached in and came out with a black plastic case, about a foot in length. Once the no-nonsense soldier was at his door and looking up, he handed the case down and said, “Hopefully this will make do until Beeson’s boys return from Salt Lake.”
Knowing precisely what was in the box without having to open it, Sergeant Andreasen cocked her head and tried to pass it back to him. “Are you sure you won’t need it?”
He put his palm up. The universal semaphore for I’m not taking no for an answer. “It’s OK, Sergeant. I’ve got a couple more where that one came from. Besides,” he explained, “they’ve got more gear than personnel at Schriever.”
She nodded. “Understood. I was at Carson ...” Bingo, thought Cade. “... and the Zs sure did a number on us that first weekend.”
“Did a number on everyone, everywhere, that first weekend,” replied Cade. “I’ll make a call to a guy I know at Schriever ... a first sergeant named Whipper. He’s been pretty good about seeing to my needs lately. I’ll ask him to make sure some more of those come out on the next supply bird.”
“Thank you, sir ... er, um ... Cade. Colonel’s already requested replacements and extra gear for us—” She paused and looked away as the hydraulic system hissed and the bridge began to fold out across the dirt chasm. Meeting his gaze, she went on, “Can’t blame Colonel Beeson though ... you and I both know how slow the wheels of the Big Green Machine turn.”
“Copy that,” said Cade as a hollow thud diverted his attention to outside the wire just as the five ton aluminum bridge made contact with the soil, starting a dirt devil spinning. Nodding at the sergeant, he turned the key and put the transmission into gear.
“You stay frosty out there,” said the sergeant over the engine noise. “Heard the 70 is thick with them due west of here. Green River’s not safe either.”
“Colonel Beeson briefed me,” replied Cade. “But thanks. I figure we’ll be doing most of our driving on the back roads.” He untangled the coiled power cord and plugged one end into the sat phone and the other into the accessory outlet. Eased off the brake and, as the Ford rolled through the gate and over the fully extended bridge, he cast a quick glance towards the makeshift FOB and noted Old Glory popping in the wind over Beeson’s quarters. What he failed to see, however, was the salute—totally unwarranted and against regs—given him by Staff Sergeant Andreasen as he left the relative safety of the base for the second time in less than an hour.
Inside the cab, a slightly robotic and totally unnerving female voice emanating through the Ford’s over-the-top sound system said, “In two hundred feet, turn left.” Then she rattled on the distance to I-70, instructing whoever was listening to take the on-ramp west.
Two hundred feet ahead Cade did not turn left. He did just the opposite. And it was an action that sparked an immediate and explosive outburst from Taryn. Gesticulating wildly with her tattooed arms, she called out from the back seat, “Where in the hell are you taking us?”
Cade looked into the rearview just as Taryn launched herself part-way over Brook’s seatback and began shouting at him, “Grand Junction is this way and I do not want to go anywhere near that place ... seeing it from the safety of the helicopter was barely tolerable.”
Having never heard her husband dressed down in such a manner, Brook stared wide-eyed at him, waiting for a response.
Saying nothing, Cade turned off the navigation system, a move that silenced the piped-in female voice. Half a block later, Taryn crawled back into her skin when, without warning, Cade turned north, halting further progress toward her former home.
There was a brooding silence in the cab, as if each of them, save Cade, had some kind of a preconceived notion of where this deviation was taking them but were afraid to ask.
Finally, Cade pointed to the Craftsman-style house on the northeast corner a block distant. “Anything look familiar?”
Brook walked her gaze along his outstretched arm and when she finally picked out the two-story ho
use with the shiny SUV parked in the drive, a wide range of emotions welled up inside of her.
“Looks like our old house, Daddy,” blurted Raven. “And there’s one of them on the porch.”
“Keep driving, Cade Grayson,” said Brook icily.
Craning his head, Wilson added, “Looks like it’s got a hold of the door knob.”
After doing a quick double-take and corroborating Wilson’s observation, Cade recounted out loud for everyone’s benefit the behaviors he’d observed the Zs exhibit at the cemetery in South Dakota. However, he had to work extra hard to convince everyone that the Z at the crash site had in fact been stalking him. And then when he mentioned that one of the monsters had tried to open the door to Jasper’s truck, he ran into a five against one roadblock with Wilson saying that it had to have been some kind of an anomaly.
“It was probably just its body coming into contact with the outside latch ... accidentally jiggling it or something,” Brook reasoned.
Shaking his head and slowing the truck to a crawl, Cade answered her challenge, “No way. I’m pretty certain the door handle on that old truck was the kind that you reach under and pull up on. No way leaning on something designed like that is going to move the handle on the inside. Take a look.” He applied more brake and peered across Raven and Brook. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” The Z’s form now filled up the doorway and the wooden door was swinging slowly inward.
“Your point is?” said Sasha, joining the pile-on-Cade party.
“I was inside that house forty-five minutes ago.”
“And you left the door ajar ... right?” queried Brook.
“No,” he said. He thought hard for a few seconds, wondering whether he wanted to open the Pandora’s Box of worry by disclosing what he knew. Finally he decided full disclosure was what he owed everyone. He looked Brook in the eye and added, “I left it exactly how I found it. Door latched ... but unlocked.”
There were a couple of gasps from the back seat, then it went deathly quiet inside the Ford. First, Brook shot Cade a look of displeasure to which he merely shrugged. Then, she looked away and all eyes were on the zombie on the porch as it entered the house through the shadowy doorway. Finally, after Cade had seen enough, he released the brake—an action that started the familiar-looking house gliding by on the right—and everyone decided to speak at once.
Brook asked, “What does it mean?”
“Can they learn to drive?” asked Raven.
“Or shoot a gun?” added Sasha breathlessly.
“What with the tattered clothes and hanging flesh on that one ... it looked like the kind of zombie I’ve heard people calling a first turn,” was Wilson’s only take on the spectacle.
Cade looked over at Brook and said, “I don’t know yet.” He shifted his gaze to Raven. “Not in a million years ... especially not a stick shift.” And to Sasha, whose eyes he met in the rearview mirror, his answer, and the way he delivered it, left them all speechless. “If they learn ... or more likely remember how to operate a firearm, then all of mankind is doomed. So instead of worrying about what-ifs, let’s focus on staying alive for one more second. Then try stringing a few more of those precious seconds into minutes and then those minutes into hours and so on. Before we all know it the sun will be down and we’ll likely be at the compound safe and sound.”
“What my dad is trying to say—in way too many words—is that he wants all of us to stay frosty.”
Smiling, Cade gave Raven a playful nudge and said to Wilson, “I think you’re on to something. Maybe more of their old lives and memories creep to the surface the longer they’re walking around. And if that’s the case ... I hope to God it’s just rudimentary low-motor-skill-type of stuff they regain.”
After another long moment of palpable silence, Cade disclosed the new behaviors that Sergeant Andreasen had witnessed at the gate. Startling new revelations about the walking dead that kept them all thinking inwardly until Mesa View 4x4 and the mini-herd of zombies seemingly guarding it came into view.
Chapter 13
The turbine ratcheting up in pitch was Jamie’s first clue that something was up. Then the falling sensation that came next instantly transported her back through time and she was twelve with her father at Disney’s Space Mountain and being flung around like a rag doll in pitch black aboard the noisy rollercoaster—a feeling of spatial disorientation and utter helplessness that had not been surmounted until now.
And just like that she snapped back to reality and was in the helicopter—probably somewhere over Idaho—the craft in the middle of a one hundred and eighty degree turn and seemingly about to crash. She began to panic, her head spinning in the claustrophobia-inducing hood, until finally, after what felt like an eternity, the craft leveled out and she was reduced to dry heaving and begging to have the hood removed.
“Only long enough for you to empty your stomach”—Carson growled as he yanked the sack from her head, turned it over and arranged it on her lap atop her numb hands—“then it goes right back on.”
Squinting against the sun, she looked down and saw rivulets of blood seeping from the deep cuts where the plastic ties bit into her wrists. Then, in order to see the full picture, she shifted sideways and accidentally spilled the makeshift airsickness bag on the cabin floor near her captor’s feet.
“Better not puke yet,” hissed Carson as he leaned over and snatched the hood from the cabin floor.
Swallowing hard, Jamie caught sight of her fingers, puffed and purple and turning black at the tips. She moaned and pitched forward and, just as Carson replaced the bag on her lap, let go with a torrent of jaundice-colored liquid the viscosity of ten-weight motor oil. She heaved and convulsed and felt the warm bile soaking through the greasy burlap and into her pants. No time like the present, she thought as she hinged forward and crushed the soiled burlap between her breasts and knees and flexed her arms in a calculated and covert effort at loosening the zip tie.
The crushing backhand came out of nowhere, sending her head spinning. Then, adding insult to injury, the helicopter abruptly bottomed out, and with the engine’s whine diminishing, there was the hail-like noise of small debris pelting the fuselage. The rotor blades overhead slowed to a steady chop and kerosene-tinged air and dust swirled inside as the pilot in the left seat unbuckled and exited the gently shimmying aircraft.
Glancing sidelong at Carson, she realized he’d been ignoring her. He was looking out the window to his right, and beyond him, through the hazy swirls on the glass, she could see several more helicopters land and from them disembarked a half-dozen armed men. She craned her head and was able to see enough to conclude they were conducting a raid similar to the one on the quarry. A target of opportunity had presented itself, and like a raven swooping to collect a shiny bauble, the human predators were on to new prey.
There were yellow-white flashes lancing from the mercenaries’ muzzles as they advanced on the log-cabin-like structure. Then a heartbeat later, Carson’s men fanned out into a rough semi-circle and one of them began motioning towards the building and yelling what she guessed must be orders to surrender. And this was confirmed on the back side of that heartbeat when the front door opened and a grizzled-looking older man emerged, holding aloft some sort of long rifle, and was instantly cut in half by a hail of bullets. Jamie closed her eyes and worked on her bonds and asked, “Why?”
“Because he might have something that we need,” replied Carson coldly, his eyes glued to the action taking place twenty yards away.
“And taking it is OK ... after all they’ve gone through to survive this long? You just snuff them out like that?”
“Dead men tell no tales. And they can’t come seeking vengeance either.”
“Well that’s where you fucked yourself.”
“How so?”
“Because the men you killed ... Logan and Gus—”
“You mean the homo with the bowler hat?” He paused for a second and looked out the window, focusing all of his
attention on the two camo-clad men who were dragging a blonde woman along the ground.
Burning with hatred for the man next to her, Jamie said nothing. Instead she bit her lip, drawing blood, and leaned forward to get a better angle on the helicopter that looked strikingly similar to the DHS Black Hawk parked at the compound.
“That had to have been Logan,” continued Carson. He sat back in his seat. Fixed a cold stare on Jamie. “Only a guy named Logan would feel the need to accessorize to the point of looking like one-half of Laurel and Hardy.” He shook his head in disgust. “And the handlebar mustache. G-A-Y.”
Ignoring the baited trap, Jamie said nothing and watched the looting taking place, grateful that the raiding party hadn’t dragged out any young boys or girls.
Disappointment showing on his face, Carson continued his verbal barrage. “So, the other one was Gus, eh? Typical middle-aged former cop. Paunchy around the waist from sitting in a cruiser. Clouded in the head from toeing the line for most of his adult life. Gotta give it to him, though. He almost got a shot off. Logan on the other hand ... he wet himself.”
Pursing her lips to hide the self-inflicted wound, Jamie said quietly, “Gus was ten times the man you are. And Logan ...” Her voice trailed off. She ran her tongue over her dry teeth and finished her sentence. “Logan was a gentle soul. He didn’t deserve whatever you did to him.”
Carson chuckled as he watched his men loading cardboard boxes into the idling helicopters.
“You’re not finished with them. You know that ... don’t you? His brother and best friend are hunting for you as we speak. And when they find you you’re going to wish you were never even born.”
“On that, my lady, you are sadly mistaken. All of your friends’ corpses were cooling thirty minutes before Logan and Gus bought the farm,” he said smugly. “Hell, maybe big brother gave Logan the guided tour when they were reunited ... in hell.”
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