The next lift, however, was partially extended, its dual-chromed pistons holding a white Ford 4x4 aloft, the running boards meeting him about chest-high. And hanging off the fully extended long-travel suspension were oversized off-road tires that looked hungry for desert terrain. Off the top of his head, Cade guessed that the snazzy looking components had a foot of travel in them at least. So far, so good. The rig was the closest thing he’d seen capable of giving the F-650 a run for its money, and getting it down off the lift would be one hell of a payoff for him not having to endure two-hundred-plus miles of unchecked sibling rivalry.
Holstering the Glock, he motioned for Brook and the girls to join him. A second later he sensed a change in the air pressure and Raven and Sasha were lamenting the guard dog’s demise in appropriately hushed voices. As their footsteps neared, he looped around the truck’s beefy brush guard looking for some kind of a lever or switch; something obvious to throw that would release the hydraulic pressure and lower the truck to the floor. Halfway around the suspended truck, a low timbre moaning started up, setting the hair on his arms at attention and freezing him mid-stride with most of his weight supported on the sprained ankle and a sheen of sweat beading on his brow.
“Where is it?” hissed Brook, already with the M4 snugged tight against her shoulder, moving in a low crouch and checking the shadowed recesses under workbenches and behind stacked tires—any place she thought a crawler might be lurking. Finding nothing, she stood up straight and peered behind the tire mount-and-balance machine. “Nothing here,” she finally called out.
“It’s coming from down there,” Cade stated, stabbing a finger towards the darkened pit near his feet. He thumbed on his flashlight as everyone crowded around the edge of the sunken work bay, Max included. The beam chased away the shadow revealing an overall-clad first turn, its pallid face staring up expectantly.
Still wearing blue coveralls with the name Kirk embroidered over its left breast and a patch identical to the Mesa View 4x4 sign on the opposite side, and still clutching a large socket wrench in one grease-stained fist, the male first turn looked like it had died and reanimated doing what it loved in life.
They watched in rapt silence for a few seconds as the dead thing paced fore and aft, stopping for seconds at a time either to scrutinize a hanging row of fan belts or bat at the colorful boxes of oil filters scattered on a low shelf.
“What the heck is it doing?” asked Raven, her whisper echoing in the bay.
But before Brook could formulate a vanilla answer to a sight that was freaking the shit out of her, the zombie froze mid-stride, craned its head upward and fixed its rheumy eyes on the fresh meat staring in on it. The moaning began instantly and the creature grabbed a handful of the nylon safety netting ringing the pit and looked to be figuring on a way to get at them.
“I’ll do it,” said Brook, bringing the M4 to her shoulder.
Shaking his head, Cade placed his hand on the carbine’s picatinny rail and gently nudged it down. “No telling what kind of flammable items are down there with it. Unless someone beams him up, Kirk is going nowhere.”
Raven said, “How about we lower the truck over Kirk? That way nobody will fall in and get eaten.”
“I have a better idea. Raven, you and Sasha go into the showroom and find a pen and something to write on, and leave a warning on the counter for anyone else who comes poking around in here.”
“I got it, Dad.”
“And Sasha ... why don’t you look for a set of keys with a paper tag that says Ford or Raptor on it.”
Following a pace behind Raven, who was half a head shorter, Sasha nodded and flashed him a thumbs up.
Brook lowered her rifle and fought hard against the urge to follow the girls as they zippered around the far bay and disappeared into the retail area.
“They are not your own little special operators, Cade Grayson,” she said, facing him square on. “Personally, I think you are giving our daughter too much rope.”
“Gotta see how much she’ll take and run with while we’re still on the right side of the dirt.”
“That’s being a little grim.”
“I call it being realistic. We’re on our own now, Brook. Beeson can’t come help us if we get into trouble. Hell, he alluded he would ... even gave me the number to his sat phone ... but I’m not holding my breath.”
“What about your old team back at Schriever?”
“As far as Nash is concerned, I may as well already be dead. Even though Robert Christian is dead and buried, the nukes he stole are still unaccounted for. And right now, barring another mega horde coming out of Denver or north from Pueblo, finding them is her number one priority.”
“More so than the anti-serum?” asked Brook.
“There’s no denying its importance. But right now, as low as they are on personnel, Schriever is a sitting duck to whoever might want to pop off a nuke right outside their gate.” He went silent for a moment, then, arching a brow, added, “And that person wouldn’t even have to get within five miles to wipe the place off the face of the earth. I could see no better reason than that to get us out of there.”
Brook said nothing. Because deep down she knew that if Nash called in the next second he would no doubt jump. And whether he’d ever admit it or not, getting them out of harm’s way was his way of making amends for leaving them behind while he deployed on the previous three missions.
“All we have now is family,” he said, jarring her train of thought.
She met his gaze. Remained silent and looked towards the open door and listened hard for any out-of-place sounds. “Just be careful with what you ask Raven to do. She’s twelve ... not an eighteen-year-old Ranger candidate.”
Making no reply, Cade looked down at Kirk. The monster locked eyes with him, hissed and thrust its skeletal hands through the netting, leaving traces of flesh and shiny fluids everywhere they touched.
“Done, Dad. What do you think?” Scampering over, Raven held up a yellow sheet from a legal pad. Written in big block letters, mostly colored in, was the warning: DEAD INSIDE! ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
“Very nice, sweetie.”
“What your mom said,” replied Cade. “Sweet and to the point.” He grabbed a roll of black electrical tape. It was thin and easy enough to tear. Handed it to Sasha. “Would you two please go and tape it to the front door.”
Sasha traded Cade a set of keys for the roll of tape. “Found them under the counter. Says Raptor on the alarm thingy ... strange name for a truck.”
Cocking her head as if struck with a thought, Brook walked a full circle around the white pick-up with undead Kirk watching and hissing the entire time.
Watching her, Cade shrugged and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“It looks familiar ... only a different color. Still makes me think of Carl, though.” She looked away and covertly swiped at the forming tears.
Cade was about to confirm what he already knew when, distracting him, a silhouette appeared in the doorway. “We’re done,” said Wilson and Taryn nearly in unison. “But unfortunately there are a few more coming in from the south. We should probably get,” said Taryn, finishing the update for them both.
Taking charge, Cade said, “Wilson, I need you to make sure the drain plug is still on the oil pan and then lower your new ride to the floor. Be sure you steer clear of Kirk, though.”
“I’ll do it,” said Taryn, a measure of insistence to her voice. “I know cars. Ginger here ... Mister Six Banger Lipstick Red Mustang Owner ... does not.”
There was no protest from Wilson and, a couple of minutes later, after tightrope walking around the truck, Taryn confirmed that Kirk had either finished the oil change or hadn’t lived long enough after being bitten to get started. After confirming that all of the appropriate drain plugs were in place, and the fluids were sufficiently topped, meaning the Raptor was good to go, Taryn found the manual hydraulic release valve which was mounted inside the pit and just out of reach of Kirk’s slimy mitts. “Cl
ear,” she said, throwing the lever. There was a soft pneumatic hiss and the lift let the truck down gently.
“Thing was giving me the heebs,” said Taryn as she opened the door and climbed up into the lifted 4x4.
Cade watched her but made no reply.
Raven said, “Cool. She’s driving?”
“Keys please,” said Taryn, her upturned palm wavering near Cade’s face.
Cade shrugged, limped close and handed the keys over without giving it a second thought. “Looks like Wilson’s riding shotgun,” he said.
With a hangdog look on his face, Wilson edged past Cade. “Looks like I’ll be getting the roller door then.”
Grateful there was no pushback from Wilson, Taryn jammed the key in the ignition, more than eager to fire up the truck’s power plant.
While Taryn had been inspecting the truck, Cade had sent Brook off to get some spare gas cans, extra Fix-A-Flat canisters, a few of those vanilla-scented trees he’d spotted near the register, and whatever else she deemed useful. Then, with all of the tasks delegated, he sat down next to Max and closed his eyes.
Muttering under his breath, Wilson manually disengaged the roller door’s drive mechanism, hinged over and took the length of frayed nylon rope in both hands. He tensed his shoulders and was about to start the door on an upward trajectory when Brook, who had just returned with an armload of supplies, hollered an admonishment across the garage. “Wilson,” she said in a matronly tone. “Lift with your knees. Not with your back.”
Making a face, he bent his knees, kept his back vertical to the floor, and inhaled. Then under her watchful gaze, he stood up quickly as ordered and sent the metal door rattling noisily upwards in its tracks.
“Perfect,” exclaimed Brook, dumping the supplies into the Raptor’s box bed. “Wouldn’t want to have to pull the weight of two gimps now would we, girls?” She winked at Cade but kept her face straight for Wilson’s benefit.
“They do good work, eh Max?” Cade said, giving the prostrate shepherd a good scratching between his ears and earning in return a halfhearted yawn for the efforts.
Chapter 21
By the time Duncan had swapped his thoroughly muddied and drenched clothes for a set of well-worn BDUs in woodland camouflage probably issued first during Reagan’s second term, the six aspirins and two bottled waters he’d downed had somewhat numbed his low-grade hangover. After cinching the trousers tight, he transferred the two-way radio, lock blade Kershaw, Zippo lighter and keys to the Land Cruiser into various cargo pockets. Deciding against the cowboy hat, he instead donned a woodland boonie that matched the surplus uniform. And lastly, after pulling on his cowboy boots, the .45 semi-auto Colt went on his hip, riding high in its paddle holster.
Comfortable in the dry uniform, Duncan entered the security container on his way topside. Sitting there on a pair of folding chairs was Heidi and Chief. She was still manning the Ham radio and he was dividing his time there between the still images on the security monitor and a thick paperback by the late Mario Puzo. Curiosity getting the better of him, Duncan stopped behind Chief and whispered, “She picking up anything?”
Shaking his head from side-to-side, Chief lowered his book and mouthed, “Nothing.”
“If she raises anyone, I want you to take over. Interrogate them real good ... get all the info you can while you have them on the horn.”
Shifting in his chair, Chief replied, “I’ll glean what I can. Going back to the quarry, huh?”
“Yep,” drawled Duncan. “Back to the scene of the crime. Just hope all of the supplies Logan uncovered haven’t already fallen into someone else’s hands.”
“What if those helicopters show up again?”
“Doubt they will. All of the empty ammo boxes they left behind ... tells me they probably left with three or four hundred pounds worth. Between that and the girls, they were probably out of room. And judging from the wheel and skid marks I saw in the mud they were running pretty heavy.”
Chief crossed his arms. He said, “They left some weapons behind?”
Nodding, Duncan said, “And food, clothing, Kevlar vests, bedding. There’s a nice solar setup on the roof and a bunch of top-of-the-line security cameras that puts these bastardized trail cams to shame.”
“We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“That we do, friend. That we do.”
“Me and Phil will hold down the fort,” said Chief. “You all hurry back now. You hear?”
Duncan squeezed the stocky Native American on the shoulder. He gently tapped Heidi’s head and mouthed, “Good job,” then continued on topside.
***
Shielding his eyes against the emerging sun, Duncan broke from the tree line and crossed the clearing, the damp grass wetting his boots. The newly arrived Jackson Hole Chief of Police, Charlie Jenkins, was standing alongside the dented and dinged Land Cruiser, chatting up Lev.
Calling ahead, Duncan said, “How are you this fine morning, Chief Jenkins?”
“Charlie,” he answered. “My LE days are behind me.”
“Respect’s due to ya all the same.”
“Lev and Daymon are saying you’re going back up to the quarry.”
Tugging the floppy brim on the boonie lower, Duncan said, “Got some unfinished business to attend to up there. I reckon one of us will be driving the black-and-white back for you.”
“Suit yourself,” said Charlie. “Like I said, my days of protecting and serving are over. Look where it got us all anyway.”
“Jackson falling to Bishop wasn’t your fault, Charlie,” hollered Daymon from the opposite side of the Land Cruiser. Then the passenger door creaked, a resonant groaning of metal on metal, and the rig rocked on its springs as he claimed the passenger seat.
Charlie shook his head and, muttering something unintelligible, then leaned against the unoccupied 4Runner, hand resting on the butt of his pistol.
“Let’s go,” urged Daymon, his muffled voice emanating from inside the Cruiser, the door squealing as he hauled it shut.
“We can take the 4Runner, Daymon ... long as you promise not to wreck it too,” said Duncan. He paused a second waiting to see if Daymon would swap rigs or fire off a surly retort and, when neither happened, turned to Lev and asked, “You coming?”
“Thought that was a given,” said Lev, removing his ball cap, a yellow fabric article sporting a snake embroidered in brown with the words ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ stitched in red directly underneath. The image had been popular on the Internet, Facebook mainly. And Duncan remembered seeing flags with the same image at gun shows in Portland before the event that rendered the government all but useless and the point of the message moot. “You gonna leave that traffic cone here? Maybe don something a little more the earthy side of the color spectrum?”
Lev said nothing. Then a beat later the yellow hat went spiraling off into the woods and the former combat veteran was ruffling his dark hair. Judging by his all-over tan and the fact he’d kept his hair closely cropped and still somewhat high and tight these last half a dozen years, a stranger would think he’d just returned from deployment in one sandbox or another. He was lean, and stood a tad over six feet in boots. He fished a pair of wraparound Gargoyles from a cargo pocket and hid his dark eyes behind the polarized lenses. “Good to go,” he said. “Who’s driving?”
“I got it,” said Duncan. “I’ve seen the topography from the air. Reckon I can find that bluff from the ground. Hop in.”
After placing his M4 in first, Lev took a seat behind Duncan’s.
Handing his combat shotgun across to Daymon, Duncan slid behind the wheel and fired up the Land Cruiser. Then the window pulsed down and he called out to Jenkins. “We’re gonna need you to protect and serve for just a couple of hours until we get back. You OK with that?”
Patting the Sig Sauer semi-automatic riding on his hip, Jenkins replied, “Don’t worry ... I’ll punch the clock.”
***
As soon as Duncan brought the Land Cruiser to a comp
lete stop a car length from the vegetation-covered gate separating the feeder road from State Route 39, the two-way radio in his pocket came alive and in his reedy voice, Phillip stated, “You’ve got visitors.”
After a good deal of squirming and patting his pockets, Duncan was able to locate the device. But in the meantime, Phillip—who was a couple of dozen yards uphill hidden behind a neatly constructed blind that afforded him a commanding view of the two-lane—kept repeating over and over, “Can you hear me now?”
“Copy that,” Duncan finally replied. He then added for a little comic relief, “And I heard you the eight times prior to that as well.” Then he got serious and asked Phillip for a situation report before opening the gate.
“I’ve seen eighteen rotters since you left. Seven from down Huntsville way. All pretty fresh ... maybe a day or two dead. But get this ... all of them were kids. Three boys and four girls. I’m no expert but they all looked less then twelve. The rest were first turns ... pretty messy group. They were heading towards Huntsville, then suddenly about-faced and followed the kids east. My money says the kids were leftovers from the attack on Huntsville and ...”
“I get the picture, Phil.”
“There’s more.”
“I’ll bet there is,” said Duncan. There always is. In fact after eighteen he’d been trying to hold it together while Daymon pretended to slash his wrists with large exaggerated horizontal cutting motions across the bulged tendons and veins there. “We’ve got to get going. Is the coast clear right now?”
But Phil persisted. “Wait ... you don’t understand. You gotta hear this first.”
With the engine idling and burning precious fuel, Duncan said rather sternly, “Sweet and to the point.”
“The one that we saw earlier. Kind of frozen in place down the road.”
“Yeah,” said Duncan. “Is it still playing freeze tag?” He arched an eyebrow at Daymon and then craned around and asked Lev to handle the gate.
“No,” said Phil after a few seconds of dead air. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 10
