One of the pilots called back, “Five mikes.”
Carson flashed the pilots a thumbs up. After shooting Jamie a wolfish grin, he repeated her own words. “A marriage of convenience my ass. You were an integral part of that group.” He looked her over from head to toe and fished a four-by-six-inch scrap of paper from his chest pocket. It was creased and tattered around the edges and had uniformly spaced words printed in light blue on the back. He held it up, long side vertical, oriented like a portrait, then craned around and looked her full in the face. His eyes flicked back to what had to be a photo and back to her face, lingering there for a moment until the pilot called back a one-minute warning. Finally, holding the photo at arm’s length, Carson made one final side-by-side comparison before putting the paper back in his pocket. Shattering the Hallmark moment, one of the pilots shouted back, “We’re wheels up.”
Carson nodded and looked Jamie in the eye and said, “You’re right up his alley.”
As the engine whine and rotor chop increased, Jamie cocked her head and asked, “Whose alley?”
“My friend’s.”
“Over my dead body.”
“That’s what the other girl said. And somehow through all of the whimpering and screaming that came afterward we got a name out of her. Said her name was Jordan.” A knowing, almost conspiratorial smile creased his face. “You know, as in Air.”
Instantly the puzzle pieces fell into place. The fresh scratches and recent comment combined with the fact that she hadn’t seen Jordan since the quarry led her to the heart-wrenching conclusion that she was never going to see the impressionable young lady again. Fucker is going to pay if he lets me near that pistol, she thought as she watched him extract a knife and flick it open. Her hopes welled but were instantly dashed when he retrieved a new zip tie. After fashioning it into a dinner-plate-sized ‘O,’ he maneuvered it over her hands which by now were an angry shade of purple, and secured it somewhat loosely before slicing off the old ties. Then, with a sly grin, he mouthed, “You’ll do,” and pulled the soiled hood over her head.
Breathing in the acidic stench of her own bile, Jamie called out, “Do I have a choice?”
She sensed his presence first and then felt his body pressing against hers. Then he whispered through the burlap. “You have two choices. Unfortunately a quick death isn’t one of them.” Jamie didn’t indulge him with a response. Then as the helicopter became light on its wheels and wavered subtly, Carson spoke again, his words filtering into the hood. “You can give yourself to one. Or be taken by many.”
Chapter 14
“Under my seat,” Cade called over his shoulder as Wilson popped open the rear passenger door. “Snip the lock and then wrap the chain around the posts once we’re all inside.” He dangled a zip tie out the window and added, “Secure the chain with this once we’re inside.”
Grunting an affirmative and none too happy to have been conscripted for the job, Wilson hit the pavement at about the same time Brook, who was armed with a short and lethal-looking carbine, emerged from around the front of the truck.
After taking the zip tie from Cade, Wilson cast a furtive glance at the Zs they’d just passed. Thinking, Hope it holds, he stuffed the thin plastic fastener into a pocket, rummaged under the seat and came away with the biggest pair of bolt cutters he’d ever seen. He slammed the door, then, with Brook close on his heels, looped around front and approached the wheeled gate. Once there, Brook spun on her heels and squatted next him. Wavering on her haunches, she leaned in close and said in a low voice, “Cade says there may be dogs inside ... so watch your six.”
Without skipping a beat, Wilson ran the long-handled cutter’s gleaming jaws back and forth over the chain-link. He locked his gaze on the distant building and when the discordant jangling finally ceased, looked back at Brook and said, “No Fido.”
Focused on the approaching dead, Brook said nothing. Instead she urged Wilson to pick up the pace with a slight nudge from the collapsed butt stock of her M4.
After shooting her a sour look and again eyeing the walking corpses that were by now only a handful of yards away, Wilson went to work on the industrial strength Schlage padlock.
In the box bed, teeth bared and hackles up, Max was growling and spinning circles atop one of the Pelican containers. At the gate, attacking the lock with the bulky bolt cutters, Wilson heard the guttural growling at his back suddenly become a veritable Hounds of the Baskerville’s kind of baying.
Hearing the commotion, Cade looked into the rearview and saw pale hands reaching for the snarling and snapping dog. Not good, he thought. In his experience there were a handful of noises the dead were especially drawn to. Mechanical sounds and gunfire and especially anything associated with fresh meat: people’s voices, a baby’s cries, or a dog’s bark—the latter of which he decided needed to be silenced.
After threading the hefty cylindrical suppressor to the business end of his Glock, he checked for a round in the chamber and powered down his window. The stench slapped him in the face as he called out, “Max, quiet now!” Then after a quick two-count he added, “Max, down!” Then he waited, hoping two things would result from the barked orders. The first of which depended solely on whether Max had received any kind of command training from his original owners. And the second part of his plan was directly correlated to the outcome of the former. In theory, Max would cease howling and lie down out of view. Then Cade would quietly deal with the handful of dead that had been getting after the dog—which were a pittance compared to the numbers likely to be drawn if Max continued to bark.
Suddenly, as if Max knew the battle was lost, he went silent and disappeared from sight.
Then Cade’s prediction came true and the dead lost all interest in the dog and filed towards Wilson and Brook, who by now had her carbine trained on them. Cade met her gaze and waved her off with a vertical finger pressed to his lips.
While all of this was unfolding, Taryn had crawled across the bench seat and sat up behind Cade just as the tops of the zombies’ heads passed outside her window. “Do something,” she hissed.
Cade whispered over his shoulder, “Gotta have faith ... and a lot more patience.”
“Thanks, Yoda,” she mumbled, casting a worried look at her man.
Cade flicked his eyes from Brook, who was now crabbing around the front of the truck, and then back to the side mirror and watched and waited as the trio of Zs tramped through the colorful flower beds. Without taking his eyes off the Zs, he gave Raven’s forearm a reassuring squeeze and eased the Glock out the window. A tick later he extended his arm fully and pressed the cold steel to the first flesh eater’s equally cold skin, barely an inch behind its right ear, and squeezed off a single shot.
The pistol bucked and the creature collapsed into a vertical heap, scrambled brains dribbling from the quarter-sized exit wound. The report, though not as quiet as portrayed on TV or in the movies, garnered the next Z’s full attention, and before Cade could react, the monster had grabbed ahold of the suppressor and was drawing it into its open maw.
Smiling, Cade simultaneously caressed the trigger and said, “Careful what you wish for.” Instantly a pink mist vented from its neck as the 9mm Parabellum caromed off jawbone and lodged somewhere in the monster’s spinal column. Before the now paralyzed flesh eater hit the ground, Cade had swept the pistol to his left and double-tapped the straggler, putting one bullet into each eye socket. Lastly, he shifted in his seat, leaned out the window aiming down and delivered the coup-de-grace: a single shot to the prostrate Z’s forehead.
In all, from Max’s first bark to Cade’s final shot, only a dozen seconds had ticked into the past. And while those twelve seconds elapsed, Wilson had cut the lock and unwrapped the length of chain.
“Let’s go,” Brook hissed through clenched teeth. “There’s more coming.” Then, leading by example, she placed the M4 at her feet, grabbed the chain-link in both hands and drew in a deep lungful of carrion-infused air.
“On three
,” said Wilson, grabbing some fence as well.
Eschewing the countdown, Brook bellowed, “Now!” and leaned forward, driving her feet furiously against the asphalt driveway.
Behind both of their efforts a grating sound emanated from within the channel and the wheels began to roll; finally, after what had seemed like an eternity, the entrance was clear and Cade was driving the Ford over the threshold.
Seeing the tailgate glide by, Brook grabbed her carbine and placed it on her side of the fence. Then, summoning the strength necessary from somewhere deep inside her, she grabbed hold of the fence and drove it forward until it clanged shut. She fell to the asphalt, winded and totally spent.
After looping the chain and securing it with the zip tie, Wilson called out to Brook who was now sitting Indian-style on the cracked asphalt and breathing hard. “You know that thing is supposed to be motorized.”
She said nothing at first. Kept her head bowed, back arched.
Wilson didn’t know if she was praying or staring at the weeds growing up through the frost-heaved cement. Finally, after a few long seconds, she said, “Just our luck,” and rose shakily on rubbery legs.
Walking slowly side-by-side towards Mesa View 4x4, Wilson said matter-of-factly, “I’m afraid to find out what your husband is getting us into.”
“Copy that,” mumbled Brook.
Chapter 15
For the better part of an hour, as Elvis put the dozer through its paces, curling layers of topsoil away to make room for Bishop’s small fleet of helicopters, the former Navy SEAL had been observing from the elevated porch behind the massive lake house. After casting cautious glances and never seeing a change in his boss’s rigid stance or stoic facial expression, Elvis began to think that Bishop had somehow slipped away and left a lookalike mannequin in his stead.
Eventually Elvis put the fact that he was being watched to the back of his mind and finished clearing the main rectangle. He was dutifully plowing the splintered and broken trees to the periphery when he happened to cast an absentminded glance towards the porch and noticed that Bishop—or his doppelgänger mannequin—was no longer scrutinizing his work.
Where did you go? Elvis thought, bringing the clanking dozer to a halt. With the throbbing engine rattling his bones he took off his Husker’s hat with its newly acquired band of sweat, craned his head left and, in the distance, near the north gate, spotted a pair of mercenaries hacking the arms off a newly arrived pair of walking dead, but no Bishop. He looked right and saw a flash of light off of chrome beyond the lake house. A beat later a vehicle whose profile looked vaguely familiar cut the corner, trailing a turbid cloud of dust, brown and gauze-like. Finally the boxy front end and gleaming bumper was aimed at him and he recognized the hydraulic boom protruding like a shark’s fin from the bed. In the next instant he heard the engine and exhaust note and squelch of tires on gravel and it became obvious that the tow truck he’d driven non-stop from Nebraska was now approaching fast along the lake road. Then, as if it couldn’t get any stranger, the light bar flared on, strobing orange and yellow as it geared down and disappeared again behind a staggered grouping of A-frames and hewn-log structures and boat houses stretching west away from Bishop’s lake house.
Because of the way the light spilling through the canopy played off the approaching vehicle’s windshield, Elvis had no idea who was behind the wheel until he saw the thick neck and high brow and coal black hair of the driver, which told him unequivocally that it was none other than Bishop himself.
The tow truck crunched to a complete stop a dozen yards beyond the dozer, and the backup warning sounded even before the trailing dust cloud caught it. With a discordant beeping filling the air, the window powered down and Bishop hung his head out and expertly reversed down the thirty-foot-wide corridor Elvis had gouged out of the forest.
The annoying backup warning ceased and the emergency lights went dark. Elvis watched Bishop spill out and shoulder the door shut.
Unsure what to do, Elvis remained seated and watched Bishop walk the length of the makeshift driveway, pacing off dimensions front to back and then left to right. Apparently satisfied, Bishop flashed Elvis a thumbs up and made his way slowly towards the idling dozer, grinning.
Mired in indecision, Elvis silenced the big diesel and was preparing to dismount when he saw Bishop halt at the newly created ‘T’ junction, gaze west down the road and begin talking into a small radio of some sort.
Following his first impulse, Elvis walked along the tractor’s muddy tread, hopped to the ground and took a few tentative steps forward, straining to hear what Bishop was saying.
But before he could get within ear shot he was met with a glare and an open palm that could only mean one thing: Keep your distance.
Faking an air of nonchalance, Elvis leaned against the tractor, cracked open a warm bottle of water, and fought to stay awake. Barely a minute had passed when he heard the distinct braaap of a big rig’s compression braking coming across the narrow finger of lake from the northwest.
A short while later an eighteen-wheeler and its accompanying cacophony of engine noise and rattling couplings appeared momentarily some distance away. Trailing a tail of dust and dragging fallen pine needles along the ground in its wake, flashes of chrome and glass were evident between the houses as it traced the arc on a southeasterly heading. A minute later it passed directly in front of Elvis and there was a metallic gnashing of gears as it slowed and made the same run out to the left as the tow truck had earlier. A blast of dusty air washed over Elvis and then there was the hiss of pneumatics and the big rig lurched and shimmied to a full stop.
Then with the radio pressed to his mouth and his free hand offering additional visual cues, Bishop directed the olive-drab Kenworth into the flag cut where the driver snugged it cheek-to-jowl next to the tow truck, leaving both rear bumpers lined up perfectly.
Elvis watched on as Bishop conferred with the driver, who was wiry and compact and wore his ball cap creased and flannel shirt cut at the sleeves. In Elvis’ estimation the silver-haired man was aged a hair north of fifty and was probably born in the sleeper cab of a big rig.
As the conversation ensued, Elvis regarded the two trucks of disproportionate size and functionality and racked his brain trying to figure out why Bishop had wanted them shoehorned in there in the first place. After kicking it around for a minute and coming up with no logical explanation, he leaned against the dozer’s track and waited for his next task.
Elvis didn’t have to wait long. He watched a wide Cheshire Cat-like grin appear on Bishop’s face as he slipped the radio into a pocket and clapped the smaller man on the shoulder and sent him scurrying off across the road in the direction of a nearby garage.
After the driver was gone from sight, Elvis watched Bishop cross the road and found his gaze shifting from the man’s no nonsense, hard set eyes to the semi-automatic pistol holstered low on his thigh.
Still a dozen feet separating them, Bishop called out, “You just about finished with your break?”
Swallowing hard, Elvis tried hard to think of a way for someone in his position to say no without getting himself killed. But nothing brilliant came to mind, so instead of offering potential fodder for Bishop’s legendary temper, he simply nodded.
“Good,” said Bishop, his disarming smile returning. “Because I’m going to need you to step it up and knock out the rest of the landing zone. Carson and the boys should be arriving within the hour.” The smile faded as Bishop noticed the driver returning from the garage.
With his upper body swaying unnaturally to and fro, the graying driver walked across the road, through the golden bars of light spilling from above, in one hand a battered and dinged red toolbox, and in the other what looked like an automotive battery. And clamped under the arm lugging the battery was some kind of satchel about the size a doctor would have carried back when they still made house calls. As the driver walked the length of the cut he began to slow and favor the side with the toolbox, a clear indic
ation that the thing held some serious hardware.
Elvis caught Bishop’s eye and hitched a brow, then nodded at the man doing a Sherpa’s work. A safe way to break the ice, he supposed. Not quite a prying question. And not the meek stance of silence he’d been practicing. A perfect move that left the ball in Bishop’s court.
But Bishop didn’t bite. Instead, he shouted, calling the driver over. Exchanged a few words with the smaller man, gripped his shoulder briefly and sent him on his way again.
What happened next made Elvis question his decision of not following his gut and fleeing to another point of the compass—any other point in the compass—instead of rejoining Bishop and his band of mercenaries. For when the driver turned to walk away, a boxy pistol appeared in Bishop’s fist and without pause, smile widening, he fired a single shot that entered behind the man’s ear and sent the hat flying one way, the body crumpling the other.
Still wearing the smile, Bishop crossed the road. Forcing a smile of his own while doing his best not to acknowledge the execution that he’d just witnessed, Elvis said, “Looks like the cut turned out OK?”
“Perfect fit,” answered Bishop, holstering the pistol. “Now fire that thing up. And when you’re done with the LZ,” he nodded towards the house. “You see those fir rounds along the back there?”
Shifting his gaze to the breezeway between the lake house and what he guessed was a combination garage and boat house, Elvis noticed what looked like an entire forest’s worth of knee-high fir rounds, each the circumference of a manhole cover. Retaining the faux grin, he nodded and asked the obvious, “What do you want me to do with them?”
More out of habit than to make a point, Bishop put a hand on his semi-automatic and said, “I’m going to need you to split those rounds down and then stack the finished product under the porch. Think you handle that?”
Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 7
