Unable to stand another second of Phil beating around the bush, Duncan hit the talk button and said, “What in God’s name is the rotter doing that is so damn special?”
“Trying to unlock the gate.”
Used to taking most everything Phillip said with a grain of salt, Duncan said nothing at first. Then after a few seconds of silence, with everyone in the rig staring and the skeptic’s voice in his head crying bullshit, he remembered that the dead had arisen and were walking the earth. Therefore, he concluded, Phillip’s observation warranted further investigation.
Meanwhile, in the passenger seat, Daymon was tilting back an imaginary bottle, feigning drunkenness.
“Phil ... have you been drinking?”
After finding the one assertive bone in his body, Phillip said, “Quit busting my balls, Duncan. Get out of the rig and walk fifteen feet and see for your damn self what I am looking at. Rotter just started fiddling with it. And you went through last. Means it’s got to be locked ... right?”
Ignoring the implied indictment, Duncan turned the volume low and slipped the radio back in his pocket and the Toyota’s transmission into Park. Then he and Daymon piled out with the passenger door making that god-awful noise and joined Lev, who had a good head start and was now winding his way through steaming puddles of leftover rainwater.
Duncan was closing on Lev when Phillip’s voice emanated faintly from his thigh pocket. “I think it hears you. It just stopped what it was doing ...” Then after a second’s pause, the play-by-play continued, “... and now it looks like it’s on to you.”
Slowing his pace, Daymon looked at Duncan and mouthed, “Fucking squeaky door.”
Lev, M4 at a low ready, rounded the camouflaged gate just in time to see the rotter looking around, its head on a slow swivel. He ducked back and poked his head ever so carefully around the gate and witnessed the monster take the lock and chain up with both decaying hands. And as he watched it seem to inspect each of the links individually, the thought came to him: If I’m not imagining this we are fucked, fucked, fucked! With the pessimistic mantra looping in his head, he wondered if maybe they should try and trap this apparent genius-level rotter. Maybe study it. Look for any weaknesses they might exploit. Then the sound of footsteps behind him, coupled with the absurdity of keeping a flesh eater in captivity, quickly brought him back to reality. That kind of shit was for the movies. And how’d that work out for them?
Having just formed up next to Lev, and carrying a heavy load of doubt towards what Phillip believed he saw, Duncan witnessed it with his own eyes. “Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” he exclaimed. To which the rotter stopped fondling the lock, pivoted its head slowly to the left and fixed a blank hungry stare on him. Instantly the ubiquitous dry rasping universal to the first turned reached their ears. Devouring the newly arrived meat with its soulless eyes, the seemingly semi-self-aware abomination lurched along the gate, arms held horizontal. From the west a mellow breeze kicked up, rippling the linen shirt draped on its body and delivering Duncan and Lev and Daymon each a dry-heave-inducing lungful of carrion-polluted air.
The thing had been undead for quite a while, of that Duncan was certain. Dirt was ground into the fabric of its shirt and once-plaid Bermuda shorts. Showing the miles of wear and tear from pounding asphalt during its never-ending search for prey, its feet, worn to the bone, produced a hollow clicking noise with each step. And though the rotter was on the opposite side of the fence, the fact that it was but an arm’s length away and it had just been doing what could only be described as problem-solving—albeit on a primitive level—jumpstarted a tingle of dread deep in the pit of Duncan’s empty stomach. Then, standing the hair on his arms at attention, the volume of its rasping increased and it hinged over the barbed wire and stalked sideways toward him, dragging its abdomen along the sharp bits of metal and leaving scraps of rancid flesh skewered on the rusty barbs.
Having just caught up with Duncan and Lev at the gate and finding himself face-to-face with the male rotter, Daymon let out a low whistle and said, “Ugly bastard, ain’t he?”
“It’s not the outside that’s got me concerned. Something else is happening between that thing’s ears. And I don’t like it. Watched it messing with the lock until Old Man caught up and it heard him.”
Shaking his head, dreads whipping the air, Daymon said, “Bullshit. These things are nothing but brain-dead sacks of rotting organs.”
“Believe it. I saw it too,” proffered Duncan. “Wasn’t a figment of my imagination.”
“Reminds me of that eighties movie where a bunch of Jarheads try to tame the zombie.”
Lev smiled at the memory. “Bub was its name,” he stated. “Prettier than this one though. Bub was more green than gray. And his neck wasn’t chewed half-off, if I remember right.”
“Didn’t see it,” said Duncan. “But I’m dying to know how it ended.”
Excited by the sound of their voices, the nearly disemboweled rotter leaned in further, bowing the barbed wire, and took a lunging swipe at Duncan.
Daymon shouldered his shotgun and said, “Not well, I’m afraid.”
“Give me that,” said Duncan, pointing at Daymon’s blade.
The machete changed hands and, without a word, Duncan cleaved the monster’s skull nearly in two. Behind the full swing, the machete traveled clean through its crown and scrambled its brains before sticking fast against the ethmoid bone. Releasing the nylon handle which was already being ripped from his grip by the dead weight, Duncan said dryly, “Didn’t want to chance ending up like the Jarheads.”
Taking the embedded machete along for the ride, the rotter crashed onto the shoulder and splashed muddied water over all three men.
A tick after the walking cadaver died for the final time, the two-way radio sounded in Duncan’s pocket. “Turn yours on,” he said to Lev. “And tell Motor Mouth he was seeing things. No reason to alarm everyone else at the compound until we know whether this one was an anomaly or not.”
“I’m from the seeing it is believing it camp, so I’m not sold. But if you aren’t drunk ... and really saw what you say you did. Then I think they all deserve to be told about it,” argued Daymon.
Holding up one finger, the universal signal saying he needed a moment to think, Duncan removed his aviator glasses and rubbed his temples one at a time. He replaced the bifocals and said, “Make a deal with you. If we see anything else like we just did, then I’ll shout about it from the mountaintop.”
After a few seconds’ consideration, Daymon nodded and said, “OK.”
Duncan shifted his gaze to Lev, who was holding the radio near his mouth, thumb hovering expectantly near the call button. “Lev?” To which the Iraq War veteran replied, “That’s fair. The scientific method it is.”
“The hell does that mean?” Daymon shot back.
“Natural science 101,” said Lev. “Seek out empirical evidence that either proves or disproves our theory. It’s all we got since Old Man here went and offed Bub.”
“Eleven-Bravo my ass,” said Duncan. “You were some kind of egghead scientist looking for WMDs over there, weren’t you?”
“No sir,” replied Lev. “I learned how to listen to my high school teachers by following Logan’s lead.”
Duncan made a face and said, “Lie to the man.”
Lev depressed the button. Said blandly, “You were seeing things, Phil.”
“You sure?” asked Phil in a skeptic’s voice, much higher-pitched than normal.
Feeling a remote tinge of guilt, Lev said, “Positive, Phil. We’re heading out now. Back in a couple of hours. Maximum.”
“Copy that,” said Phil. Then the two-way went silent and Lev said to Duncan, “That wasn’t cool.”
Leaving Daymon to tend the gate, Lev and Duncan walked back in silence to the waiting truck and clambered inside.
Putting the truck into Drive, Duncan glanced at Lev. “Lying to Phillip couldn’t be helped. It just is what it is,” he said, letting the idling
power plant pull them forward. “Let’s put it behind us and get a move on.” Watching Daymon haul the gate open, he tromped the gas and felt the motor pulling against all that unnecessary added weight. He thought: Leather, wood, and stainless steel. Navigation systems and Bluetooth and stereos you can hear from Mars. Who needs ‘em.
From his post on the hillside, Phil trained his binoculars on the trees to the west. Clear. He swept them all the way to where Route 39 crested a rise and disappeared on a downslope heading towards the quarry. Five minutes later, the rotter had been deposited in the ditch and the Land Cruiser was nosed east with the gate closed and locked up tight. Then he watched Daymon climb aboard and it pulled away. steadily picking up speed. Heard the gears cycle through as Duncan wheeled east, two wheels on either side of the dotted yellow line. Then the exhaust note dissipated as it motored down the slight grade and the burble got louder as it crawled up the other. After cresting the hill’s apex the tires disappeared, then the tail lights, and finally the SUV’s rear end and white roof slipped completely from view on the lee side and then silence, thick and brooding, was Phillip’s only company.
Chapter 22
A throaty roar resonated inside the garage the second Taryn started the Raptor. Then a smile, the first Cade had seen in days, formed on the teenager’s face as she rattled the transmission into drive. She pressed the accelerator and chirped the tires as it bumped over the splayed-out lift arms and then shot out of the garage, leaving undead Kirk bathed in the bright rectangle of sunlight shining in through the open roller door.
“Let’s go. I want us all loaded up and oscar mike in five,” Cade said, his words nearly drowned out by the Raptor’s throbbing engine as it rolled past him. Her smile never-ending, Taryn responded with a thumb up and edged the white Raptor up close to the black F-650. Yin and Yang, thought Cade as the brunette hinged her door open, vaulted to the ground, and began transferring gear from the other truck. He shifted his gaze up and regarded the frayed rope dangling twenty feet overhead. Then, after deciding that closing the roller door without a very tall ladder was too much of an undertaking he instead directed Wilson to help Taryn and Sasha transfer their gear and some of the food and bottled waters into the newly liberated truck.
Noticing that Brook had already taken the initiative and was hunched over and shouldering the rolling gate open, he limped over to the F-650 and let Max into the cab. He climbed in behind the wheel, stuck the keys in the ignition, and powered the passenger window down and called Wilson over. Once the redhead was standing on the running board and peering in, Cade handed him a two-way radio and said, “Power it on and think of a number that you won’t forget and set it to that channel.”
There was a burst of white noise and Wilson tapped repeatedly on the rubber buttons. “OK. Now what?”
“We test them. What number did you choose?”
“Seventeen dash one.”
Cade switched his radio on and cycled through the channels up from 10-1 that it had been set to and locked it in on channel 17-1. He looked up, made a face and asked, “Why seventeen?”
“Todd Helton.”
“Todd who?”
“My favorite player. He plays ... played for the Colorado Rockies. I have a bat personally autographed by him.” Realizing that he was obviously trying to maintain a tenuous grasp on his old life, Wilson flashed a pained smile and looked towards the gate to where Brook was waiting for him to help her. Noticing the kid’s moist eyes, Cade pretended to care about the long-dead baseball player. “Helluva slugger, that Helton.”
Blinking away tears, Wilson made no reply.
Changing the subject back to matters pertaining to their survival, Cade added, “Lock the channel and leave the radio on and the volume up. Make sure someone who isn’t easily distracted monitors it at all times.”
“I won’t let Sasha near it.”
“For the best,” Cade agreed with a smile. “The range on these older models under perfect conditions is four or five miles—but I’d bank on no more than half of that. That being said, there should never be more than fifty yards separation between our vehicles.” Then he nodded and looked past Wilson and into the Raptor’s cab at Taryn, who had just finished loading her gear and had reclaimed her spot in the driver’s seat. Following Cade’s gaze, Wilson peered over the shorter man’s shoulder.
Cade reached into the side pocket and wrapped his fingers around the knurled grip of the pistol he’d stashed there. Turning, he asked Wilson in a low voice, “Think she’s ever going to give up the wheel?”
“Who knows what Taryn’s going to do from one minute to the next. Hell, one second to the next for that matter,” Wilson conceded.
Arching a brow, Cade shot him a look that said Welcome to the club. He glanced quickly at Brook and Raven and added, in a near whisper, “Better get used to it.”
Nodding, Wilson said, “Thanks for the advice ... I think.” Shoulders drooping, he stepped down from the running board and turned towards the Raptor.
Cade nearly let him get away but changed his mind and called him back.
“Yeah?” asked Wilson, stepping up again and poking his head into the open window.
“Take this,” Cade said, passing a black nine-millimeter Beretta to the redhead. “And these.” He pulled four magazines, each containing nine rounds, from the center console. He looked over at Brook, who was standing near the gate both arms up thrust at an angle—like a ‘Y’—a signal he took to mean Hurry the hell up. Then, inexplicably, an old Village People tune began playing in his head and he wished he was back in Portland attending a Trail Blazers’ game at the Rose Garden with Raven and Brook beside him and not a single dead thing in attendance. Still smiling at the absurdity of the thought, and going against his better judgment, he reached back into the console and handed Wilson a second identical Beretta. “For Taryn,” he said. “Be very careful with those.”
“I know. I know. Your wife’s been hammering us on the rules every chance she gets.”
Still smiling at the prospect of Brook following her ‘Y’ up with an ‘M,’ a ‘C’ and an ‘A,’ Cade said, “And?”
“Why are you smiling?”
Erasing the grin from his face, Cade answered, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you." Intentionally changing the subject, he went on, “Quick, tell me the fundamentals of gun safety.”
“Always keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction.”
“Good ... optimally at the Zs,” said Cade.
“Always keep my finger off the trigger until I’m ready to shoot.”
“Good. And?”
To help with his concentration, Wilson crushed his boonie hat down tighter over his head. Screwed his face up trying to remember if Brook had covered another point. Shrugged his shoulders and said, “You tell me, Mister Delta Force.”
“Former,” said Cade. “Always assume the weapon is loaded and don’t chamber a round until you are ready to shoot. But if she told you that ... forget the last part. We’re playing by different rules now. Locked and loaded is the new gold standard. One in the pipe. Safety on ... at all times.” He pointed to the ambidextrous thumb-thrown safety.
“Copy that,” replied Wilson.
“Now get on over there and help my wife with the gate or she’ll stare enough daggers this way to kill the both of us,” said Cade. He started the engine and was struck by another thought. He reeled Wilson back to the window for the second time in as many minutes and added over the throaty roar of the engine, “You better move enough of those dead Zs to give us a clear path out of here. Last thing we need is to have a femur go through a sidewall and have to swap tires with Captain Kirk supervising.”
Applying his mom’s sage advice, Wilson said nothing. Instead, he nodded, jumped down from the running board, and steeled himself against the gruesome task ahead.
Chapter 23
As soon as they had crested the first ridge, the rotters Phillip had described could be seen doddering along the centerline, a small knot o
f pint-sized creatures in the lead with another eight or ten forming an undead Congo line a few yards behind. And in the ten-minute interim since Phillip’s sit-rep, the dead had only covered a quarter mile—give-or-take.
Treating the dead like little more than an annoying swarm of gnats, an anomaly of nature that he’d only recently learned to tolerate, Duncan changed the Cruiser’s forward motion by a scant few degrees and blew by them on their left, spinning a few around and sending more crashing to the asphalt, arms and legs batting the air in the process. And as the fast-moving SUV screamed past the undead kids, Daymon was the unfortunate soul who saw their ashen faces turning at once and the lifeless eyes meeting his, then the sharp crack as the passenger mirror brained one of them real good.
“One down ... seven billion to go,” said Duncan grimly as he swerved back to the right and lined the center of the hood up with the oncoming yellow dashes.
Daymon couldn’t resist. “Have ‘em mopped up by Christmas. No problem.”
Duncan looked from Daymon to Lev. “Keep your eyes peeled for the quarry sign or some kind of unmarked access road which will be shooting off to the left and climbing the bluff to the quarry.”
Lev asked, “How many miles ahead do you figure that will be?”
“Not close enough for the rotters to catch up to us — if that’s what you’re getting at.” Duncan glanced down and noted the current odometer reading, then, from memory, pulled up a mental map of the area based on what he remembered seeing from the air the day before which, considering his deteriorating mental state at the time, was very little. Because he had been so saddled with worry and guilt after allowing his little brother to go out without him, even the pertinent details of the initial search were muddled and ethereal. In fact, as soon as the first shred of discovery had been made, everything after seemed unreal, like viewed from out-of-body through a thin veil of gauze. He could see the patrol Tahoe in his mind, lonely on the gravel, its doors ajar, nobody present—living or dead.. He shook his head, trying to recall the flight from the quarry to deliver the bodies back to the compound, but that too was mostly blurred. Rage had prevailed then, and now the byproduct of that anger—the experienced bout of tunnel vision—was coming back to bite him in the ass.
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