Instead of breaking the glass, he jumped to the browned lawn and curled around front. After scaling the same number of steps, he stood in front of a wooden door sporting a posted notice of foreclosure. Someone didn’t pay their note, thought Elvis. He noticed its posting date was two weeks before the outbreak. Bad for the previous occupants. But good for him. He ripped the notice in two and broke into the house.
For a foreclosure, someone sure left a ton of shit behind.
But that was a good thing. He liberated a chair from the kitchen. With its chromed legs and a red vinyl seat brittle with age and showing more fault lines than California, it was plain to see why it had been left behind. The same could be said for the few pieces of furniture in the living room. There was a side table and coffee table—both far from Amish quality. A lamp with a pea-green tasseled shade. Definitely not a keeper.
He dragged the chair across the scarred wood floor. Spun it around and planted it in front of the grand west-facing picture window. Cracked seatback pressing against his chest, Elvis propped his chin on steepled fingers and watched the dead march south.
Chapter 73
For a long while they continued on, the Black Hawk keeping roughly the same heading. The new GPS numbers, Cade said, were going to leave them south and east of the McCall airport where they would need to find a place to safely secrete the helo for future use.
The miles ticked off quickly and the closer they got to their final destination the lower Duncan seemed to fly. The drop in altitude was gradual, but if another fifty miles were added to the trip the big UH-60 would eventually plow into the earth.
Cade looked to his right and said, “Hey Dunc, how are you liking your new glasses?”
Keeping his gaze locked dead ahead, Duncan replied, “The VA hospital couldn’t have nailed the prescription any better. Guess I owe you a big thanks.”
“Or a sloppy kiss,” said Daymon.
A broad smile formed under Cade’s smoked visor. “Wasn’t my idea,” he conceded. “Yesterday I received a message from Daymon saying Mister Magoo needed new glasses and that I was supposed to pillage a LensCrafters.”
Daymon chuckled. “I just said to bring glasses. And Sarge here came through with flying colors ... orange and yellow with streaks of red.”
“I’d wear a pair of Groucho Marx shades if they helped me see up close like these ones do.”
Laughing, Lev said, “With the big plastic nose and bushy black ‘stache and brows?”
“Affirmative,” Duncan shot back.
Lev said, “Logan would have gotten a kick out of that.”
“And Jamie and Jordan and Gus. Hell, if we find Jamie alive ...”
Setting his jaw, Cade said, “We will.”
Duncan made no reply. Jordan’s death grimace had just flashed in front of his eyes. He saw her wildly contorted form, bird-ravaged and tangled in the briars. Consumed with rage, he suddenly found forming a coherent thought let alone some kind of positive affirmation way too much work.
Save for the thumping blades and hardworking twin turbines, the cabin remained deathly quiet as Duncan threaded the bird through the jagged Sawtooth mountains.
***
Duncan covered the final twenty miles to the end waypoint with an impressive bit of near NAP-of-the-earth flying. And considering that Cade had informed him earlier of the presence of two AH-64 Apache attack helicopters parked on the tarmac at the nearby McCall airport, who could blame him.
In fact, Cade was rather pleased that from his perspective in the left-hand seat it appeared that Duncan was flying well within the edge of the envelope, not beyond.
Seeing the lake dead ahead reflecting the afternoon sun, Cade said, “At least Tran got the lake part of this right.”
“That’s not saying much,” said Duncan. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
“That’s not fair,” said Daymon. “If it wasn’t for him fingering the getaway plane I’d still be wrestling with the charts and we’d all be crisscrossing the state with our dicks in our hands.”
Cade nodded. The dreadlocked man has a point.
“Five minutes,” said Duncan.
Cade flashed an open hand at the passengers. Universal semaphore reiterating what the pilot had just said verbally. Then added, “Lock and load.”
Lev said, “You can take the man out of Delta ... ”
The other men, Cade included, finished the thought by saying in unison: “But you can’t take Delta out of the man.”
Cade used the duration of the flight pondering the mental image he’d spent five uninterrupted minutes memorizing. In his mind he saw Payette Lake, an inverted ‘V,’ the west half larger by half than the east. The three-mile-long forested peninsula splitting the lake stretched south to north. At its south end, from shore to shore, the finger of land which was mostly all State Park was a little over a mile wide. Three miles north of that it gradually tapered off, leaving a narrow passage between the two halves of the lake at the point of the inverted ‘V.’ He recalled the arrows and notations overlaying the precisely rendered imagery, presumably put there by the wizard of Schriever’s 50th Space Wing herself. On the southeast side of the peninsula were a dozen very large lake-front homes, each with their own wooden dock and narrow stretch of beach. And directly across the lake from the homes bordering the State Park were three dozen west-facing houses, all with big lots and beaches and docks offering the same instant lake access.
But the biggest tell of all had been the four black helicopters sitting atop a rectangular landing pad gouged out of the forest northeast of and equidistant to the west-facing homes.
Yes, he concluded. Nash came through once again. And now it was his turn to put the intel to use. So, as he’d done hundreds of times in the past, he drew up the battle plans in his head, ad-libbing for the time being the bits and pieces of the puzzle she hadn’t been able to provide. Time to practice patience, he thought. Because very soon, if Mister Murphy behaved, they’d be close enough to have eyes on their target.
Duncan flared the Black Hawk a split second before the flight computer chimed letting him know he had arrived on target. Hovering seventy-five feet above what appeared to be a thirty-six-hole golf course with the nearly dead closely cut fairway grass rustling in the down blast, he asked, “You sure this is it?”
Cade pointed to his ten o’clock and said, “Affirmative. Put her down there on the green.”
As the helicopter side-slipped over the fairway, Daymon elbowed Lev in the ribs and said, “You bring your sticks?”
Lev said nothing for a half-beat as he stared out the window at the browned grass and stark-white sand traps gliding by below. Then he shifted his gaze to Daymon and then the crossbow before patting his own carbine. He smiled and said, “You use your stick and I’ll use mine.”
“I meant your golf clubs. Some people call them sticks,” Daymon explained.
Lev made no reply as the Black Hawk began its descent.
With the gently undulating green rushing up, Duncan began his countdown. “Five, four, three, two, one. We are wheels down.” And as soon as the helicopter settled on its suspension and the turbine noise dissipated and the rotor slowed markedly, he looked to Cade and asked, “Shut her down?”
“Affirmative,” said Cade. “Lev, you and Daymon unload your gear first. I’ll pull security while you three cover the bird.” He drew his Glock and twisted the suppressor onto the threaded barrel. “From here on out we have to be as quiet as possible.”
“Copy that,” replied Lev, passing a Kevlar helmet over to Daymon.
Nodding his affirmative, Daymon tore off his flight helmet and shook out his dreads. Tucking them behind his ears, he scrunched the Kevlar helmet on and muttered, “These things have got to go.”
Hearing this, Duncan halted his shutdown procedures and looked over his shoulder and said, “You better not. Haven’t you heard? The hair makes the man.” Then, after delivering one of his trademark cackles, he removed his own helmet to rev
eal a wispy tangle of sweaty graying hair.
Sliding open the door, crossbow in hand, Daymon answered back, “I see your point. Nice glasses by the way.”
***
Five minutes later they’d concealed the helicopter with the swath of tan camouflage netting.
Now wearing his tactical helmet with a pair of NVGs affixed and flipped up out of the way, Cade knelt on the edge of the green, head and eyes moving constantly. On his back was his desert tan pack with the MSR sniper rifle folded down and secured on the outside by a couple of bungees. In his MOLLE gear, six spare magazines rode diagonally on his chest in easy-to-reach pockets. And in his gloved hands was his trusty M4, a stubby tan camouflage suppressor secured to its business end.
After setting all four of their comms headsets to the same frequency, Cade passed them out along with the other two pair of NVGs—Duncan going without the latter. “These are voice activated,” Cade said, tapping the mike. “Just talk softly and everyone will hear you.”
Slipping the headset on, Duncan said, “Keep the chatter down, though. I’m still nursing a headache.”
His voice containing a measure of I told you so, Daymon said, “You mean still nursing a hangover.”
Duncan made no reply. He snatched up his shotgun and walked away.
Lev said to Cade, “Want me to grab the Panasonic?”
“Negative,” Cade replied. “With that bulky dish it’s too much to carry. Besides ... odds of an updated map coming in this late in the game are slim to none.” Tapping his helmet he went on, “It’s all up here anyway.”
Duncan said, “Better hope your ‘up here’ doesn’t take a bullet.”
Cade said, “OK Duncan. Grab only the laptop. Hump it along if that’ll make you feel any better.”
Waving one hand in a shooing motion, Duncan said, “Forget about it.”
“I’ll grab it,” said Lev. He hustled back to the chopper and was back in a matter of seconds, stuffing the rugged Panasonic into his ruck.
Daymon looked to Cade and asked, “Wheels?”
Shaking his head, Cade replied, “Five miles on foot. And no complaining ... I’m three days removed from one hell of a sprained ankle.” He regarded the map in his head and then the sun over his left shoulder and struck out to the northeast.
They walked as if on patrol. Cade on point with Duncan and Daymon in the middle, and Lev bringing up the rear and tasked with watching their six.
They were barely two fairways removed from the landing zone when the first wave of Zs found them.
Vectoring in from the north and east, the pallid corpses trickled from the trees in small groups at first and then in seconds their numbers increased exponentially; dozens of lurching Zs were spread out across the fairway, a moaning, moving wall of decaying flesh completely hampering any chance of forward progress.
So with the odds of backtracking and outrunning these kinds of numbers dwindling, Cade made a hard and fast decision. He chose their present location—one particularly wide spot in the dog-leg right—for them to make their stand.
He dropped his pack on the dying grass and went to a knee. He passed the suppressed Glock to Lev, then waved Daymon and his crossbow to the left where the creatures were fewer and farther between. Then, feeling a trickle of sweat tracing his spine, he snugged the M4 to his shoulder and settled the Eotech’s holographic pip on the closest Z. As he clicked the selector to fire, there was a flash of movement in his side vision and a quick glance over told him Lev and Daymon were in position.
Together, Lev, Daymon, and Cade formed a rough semi-circle with Duncan in the center, rear-facing, his combat shotgun to be used only as a last resort.
Opening fire first, Cade engaged the Zs taking up space in an imaginary slice of the green directly in front of him. His first suppressed volley sent a half-dozen shamblers to a second death. Brass tumbled lazy arcs through the sky as he emptied the thirty-round magazine in a matter of seconds.
At the apex of their position, the proverbial tip of the spear, Lev wisely held his fire, opting to wait until the monsters were within effective range of the Glock—which for him, a fan of the long rifle—was going to be much too close for comfort.
Meanwhile Daymon was firing and notching fresh arrows as fast as possible. But these weren’t bear and he found that the trifecta combination of their sheer numbers, inconsistent and hard-to-predict actions, and stilted movement made targeting their brains a little difficult. Shooting a little under fifty percent, he poured through a dozen arrows in just a couple of minutes without making much of a difference on his side. Five rotters down and out of arrows, he cursed at the creatures and fell back.
Just as Cade cast a glance over his left shoulder, the fight on that flank devolved to hand-to-hand combat. He saw Daymon drop the bow and backpedal to tighten up his side of the arc. In the next instant the dreadlocked man brought his neon-handled machete into the fight. Then, kicking and slashing, Cade witnessed him kill another half-dozen abominations. In fact it seemed as if Daymon was going to be fine until one creature grabbed ahold of a strand of his dreads and he was toppled off balance.
Hearing Daymon cuss into the comms and then call for help in the next breath, Lev took his eyes off of his sector and rushed over.
Seeing this, Cade dropped an empty magazine and slammed a fresh one home. With the rising carrion stench assaulting his nose, he snapped the bolt forward and resumed firing, fully content to let Lev help where he could. And as he double-tapped another three Zs, sending a trio of frothy pink halos airborne, he heard three distinct closely spaced booms directly behind him. Duncan. Forcing himself to concentrate on the task before him, he put down another three Zs, shifted left a few degrees and engaged the ones Lev had been forced to abandon.
With a berm of death building in front of the tiny force, and a haze of cordite wallowing in the still air, Cade turned to help the others and was surprised to see an equally large drift of ashen-faced corpses with Lev in the middle swapping out magazines.
“So much for quiet,” said Daymon as he rushed forward to harvest his arrows.
Cade said, “Cut the small talk. “We have to move out, now.”
Loading fresh shells into his shotgun, Duncan quipped, “You change your mind about the wheels yet?”
Saying nothing, Cade engaged the flip-up 3x magnifier, leveled his carbine, and glassed beyond a burbling water feature a fairway over and spotted another wave of Zs staggering from the nearby gated neighborhood. Letting his rifle hang from its single-point sling, he accepted the Glock from Lev. Then, rethinking the driving thing, he stepped around the pile of leaking corpses and led them due east towards the clubhouse—a massive stone and wood structure that looked as if it had been plucked off the slopes of the Swiss Alps and dropped right here smack dab in the middle of Nowhere, Idaho.
Chapter 74
For three hours, wondering where in the hell they were coming from, Elvis watched the steady procession of dead trudging south towards McCall. Surely, he thought, the two cities to the west, Lewiston and Clarkston, with a combined population of thirty-one thousand couldn’t possibly be the only source. Then he remembered that the Tri-Cities were just over the Idaho border in eastern Washington. And though it had been a number of years since he’d been there, if his memory served correctly, before the Omega outbreak those cities combined were home to two or three hundred thousand people. Which went a long way towards explaining what he was seeing now.
But still a couple of other things nagged at him. One, the base, purported to be nearby, should be attracting the dead like moths to a flame. And two, though he wasn’t complaining—because one man, a pistol, and an AK-47 were no match against a squad of soldiers—where in the hell were the patrols? He hadn’t seen so much as a single Humvee or helicopter all day. Hell, this close to a base of any size there should have been some kind of activity. A mission or two outside the wire to forage for supplies or sweep for survivors. He half-expected to see columns of black smoke presumably c
aused by some lowly private setting fire to fifty-five-gallon drums containing diesel-soaked human excrement. Or maybe the rising exhaust from tractors working hard to dig enough holes in the ground to bury the infected. Even the fools at Schriever were running similar operations during every second of available daylight.
Then he had a fleeting thought. Maybe he’d followed the directions wrong. Given what little he knew of the technology involved, it still seemed next to impossible to him that a satellite overhead beaming directions straight into the navigation box would have led him off course.
So he got up for a second and meandered to the tiny bathroom and dropped a load. “Fuck,” he bellowed. “No ass wipes.” Look before you leap, genius. He punched a hole in the lathe and plaster wall and then finished the necessary task with his left hand. Considering that he’d been rooting around elbows deep inside infected cadavers just a few days ago, being soiled with a little of his own shit was no big thing.
Walking a little funny, he went back to the window and retook his perch. He glanced at his watch and smiled wide and then resumed his lonely vigil with a giddy anticipation welling within him.
Chapter 75
With the moans of the pursuing dead rising in the background, the four-man team scaled the steps in single file. In wispy flowing font, the word Whitetail was etched in the glass atop the massive oak double doors, and when Cade reached out to grab the wrought iron pull the opposing door swung slowly inward. In disbelief, Cade stepped back and leveled his Glock at the figure responsible.
Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 35
