I spared a final glance at Cary. She wasn’t looking at me. She was talking to the other people on the roof. Her hands came out and grabbed a young man’s face. The kid stared at Cary like the second coming of Christ, head nodding, mouth hanging open, lungs hauling in panicked breaths. Cary gave him a quick hug, said something to the others, and then the five of them climbed over an upraised angle of Spanish tile and lay down flat, going still and quiet, no longer visible to the ghouls.
Good girl. Stay that way until I get back.
I unslung my axe, turned and ran. Our boots slapped at the pavement for about fifty yards, then I signaled Hahn to follow me around a left turn.
“Do you know where you’re going?” she called out.
“Yes.”
“Well I’m glad one of us does. So what’s the plan?”
We covered close to two-hundred yards before I hung a right on West Clarendon into West Valley Ranch.
“There’s too much space between the houses here,” I shouted over my shoulder. “We need to take them east where there are more buildings. If we run them in circles, they’ll get blocked in. Then we can head west and take out any stragglers. That’ll give Cary and her people a chance to escape.”
“Good idea,” Hahn replied. She was beginning to sound winded. So was I, for that matter. “You ever done this before?”
“Sure. Lots of times.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not bullshitting me, are you?”
I wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up and run. Instead, I risked a look over my shoulder and assessed the situation. The ghouls had fallen behind, but were coming on steadily. As long as they could see or hear me, they would never, ever stop. Ordinarily, this was the undead’s most horrifying characteristic. But at the moment, it worked in my favor. I slowed my speed by half and settled into a steady jog.
“Save your breath, Sergeant,” I said. “We’ve got a long run ahead of us.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
At the corner of West Clarendon and 191st Avenue, Hahn and I stopped, put our hands on our knees, and stood in the middle of the street. My heart was pounding, the clothes under my ghoul armor were soaked with sweat, and my lungs felt like someone had poured gasoline down my throat and lit it. I tore off my helmet, wiped a finger across my forehead, and slung a wide arc of sweat onto the roadside. The parched soil drank it quickly. The little dark spots the droplets made vanished as I watched.
“You don’t…look…so good,” Hahn gasped.
I didn’t say anything. I was too busy wrestling a canteen from my web belt, fumbling the cap off, and pouring it down my throat. I drank the water hungrily, unable to ingest it fast enough. When it was empty, I put the canteen back in its snap-front pocket and pulled out the other one. This time, I drank more slowly. Hahn drew her own canteen and did the same. At some point I had dropped my axe on the ground next to me. I did not remember doing it.
You’re in trouble, Alex, a voice in my brain told me. You’re showing signs of heat exhaustion.
The voice was right. Scattered thoughts, lethargy, a leaden feeling in the limbs, impaired fine motor skills—all symptoms of imminent disaster. I needed to rehydrate, I needed food, I needed rest, and, most importantly, I needed to cool down.
But not until I knew Cary was safe.
“Take a break,” Hahn said. “Those ghouls are going to need a flashlight and a compass to find their own asses.”
I looked toward the neighborhood to my right. The horde was scattered now, ghouls wandering around in all directions, colliding and tripping and trying to figure out which way was up. Hahn and I had led them on a merry chase, first taking them around the community’s perimeter then leading them in a zig-zag pattern through the winding streets. It had taken nearly half an hour, but we had done good work. I nodded to myself in satisfaction, leaned down, and picked up my axe.
“Let’s go check on Cary.”
Hahn put away her canteen. “Sounds good.”
We began walking westward. I had my helmet off, holding it by one strap. It bounced off my leg as we strode along. Dimly, I knew it should have bothered me. I normally found that kind of thing annoying. But at the moment, I could not bring myself to care.
Not good, Alex. Not good at all.
We crossed a few side streets, rounded a large house with a dust-filled swimming pool and a wrought iron gate that must have been gorgeous once upon a time, and turned the corner to the street where Cary waited. I expected to see ghouls there, but only a few dozen. Nothing Hahn and I could not handle.
Instead, I found myself confronted with another horde.
I wasn’t as big as the previous one, but it was big enough to keep Cary and crew from descending the rooftop. The object of my affection sat on a flat spot above an attic window, waved at me, and then raised her palms as if to say, Sorry, folks. Shit happens.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” I dropped the helmet, put down the axe, and sat cross-legged in the street. Hahn stared a second, then joined me. Her elbows found resting places on her knees as she wiped sweat from her eyes and stared at a spot on the ground in front of her.
“Well what the buck-toothed fuck do we do now?” she said.
“Give me a minute.”
I looked left. Looked right. Measured one house, then another, and another. A plan began to form.
“Let’s look in that garage over there,” I said.
Hahn turned her head. “What for?”
“See if they have a ladder.”
Two blinks. “Huh?”
I stood up. “Come on.”
My squad leader said something four-lettered and not at all happy. Gravel crunched under her boots as she stood up.
“Aren’t I supposed to be the one in charge?”
I stopped walking. “Yeah, sure. What’s your plan?”
She looked at Cary, at the house ahead of us, back at Cary, and finally back at me. “Let’s go see if there’s a ladder in that garage.”
“Good idea.”
*****
There was a ladder in the garage.
“Thank God for small favors,” I said. I had used my glove to wipe dust from a window so I could peer at Cary’s long blue fiberglass savior.
“What are we going to do with it?” Hahn asked.
“You’ll see.” I walked to the end of the garage and squared up with the access door. “Cover me.”
Hahn put the stock of her rifle to her shoulder and scanned behind us. There were no ghouls on our side of the house, but they were not far away. If we made too much noise, they would be on us in no time. And I was about to make a lot of noise.
“Here we go.”
I lifted a boot, aimed for the door handle, and threw the absolute hardest push-kick I could muster. A shock went up my ankle, lanced through my knee, and vibrated my upper torso hard enough to make me bite my tongue.
The door didn’t budge.
“Fuck.” I leaned down and rubbed my abused lower leg.
“What happened?” Hahn asked. Her eyes were still forward, scanning for hostiles.
“Goddamn security door. Can’t kick it open. And the window is too small. The ladder won’t fit through it.”
“Great. Just great. So what’s your plan now?”
I thought for a second. Looked right. Looked left. Looked up. A flash of inspiration hit me.
“Help me onto the roof.”
“What for?”
“Just do it.”
Hahn let out an exasperated sigh and let her rifle hang from its sling. When her back was against the wall, she laced her fingers and straightened her spine. “Go for it.”
I stepped into the hands, braced myself against the wall over her head, and pushed myself up. When my left leg was straight, I put my other boot on Hahn’s shoulder, muttered a quick apology, and used her as a step-stool. She made a face, but said nothing.
The edge of the roof was within reach. I unslung the axe with one hand and us
ed the hammer end to smash away at the clay tiles until I had cleared a space large enough to grab onto. Hahn cursed as bits of tile fell onto her shoulders and the back of her neck.
“Hurry the fuck up, will you?”
“Sorry about that.” I tossed the axe up ahead of me, gripped the tarpaper covering the plywood under the tile, and hauled myself upward. After a few seconds of scrambling, I managed to swing my legs up and over.
“I’m going to need a minute here,” I told Hahn. “Keep the ghouls away if you can.”
She shot me a dark glare. “Just hurry up.”
The angle of the roof under my feet was not very steep. I found a spot in the middle where there were not likely to be obstructions and started smashing tiles with the hammer side of the axe. The clay semi-circles were durable and great for keeping the rare Arizona rains from pouring into living spaces, but they were no match for hand-forged carbon steel. In less than a minute I had cleared a three-foot square and kicked the broken fragments out of the way. Most of them skittered down to the edge and shattered on the concrete below. The noise made me grit my teeth. It would not be long before ghouls showed up.
When the last tile was out of the way I reversed the axe, stomped until I found a spot between ceiling joists, and started hacking away at the cheap OSB under the tarpaper. The sharp blade bit deep, making short work of the cheap, compressed particle board. Another two minutes, and I had carved out a hole wide enough to lower myself through. A final stomp of my boot sent the rough circle of wood flipping down into the garage.
“We got contact.”
I looked down. Hahn had raised her M-4 and was sighting through the ACOG. Ten yards away from her, a gaggle of about a dozen ghouls had rounded the corner of the house and sent up a screeching moan.
Shit.
The rifle started firing. Hahn had a suppressor on her weapon, so the shots were not very loud, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before we had the horde’s full attention.
The axe went first. I winced when the blade hit the concrete with a high-pitched clatter. I just had to hope it hit somewhere other than the blade. Otherwise, I would have a hell of a task ahead of me fixing the cutting edge.
A quick peek showed me where the axe was. I squatted down, planted my hands on either side of the hole, and lowered myself through. When I was hanging as far as my arms would permit, I let go and dropped the last few feet. My boots landed astride the axe handle. I picked it up, slung it on my back, and turned to the ladder.
The garage was dark, hot, and smelled like motor oil and dust. Dim orange light squeezed its way through grimy windows, illuminating tiny reflective motes floating in the air. The walls were unfinished drywall with mouse tunnels along their bases like bullet holes. I looked at the ladder. It was dusty from disuse and had cobwebs between the rungs. I didn’t care. It looked to have been purchased factory new and was still in good condition. After dragging it over to the door, I examined the lock. There was a deadbolt. The door opened to the inside. I flipped the lock, then turned the handle and pulled. The door was stuck. I stared for a few seconds, then remembered I had kicked the living hell out of it less than five minutes ago. On the second try, I gripped the handle with both hands, planted one boot against the adjacent wall, and pulled hard. This time, the door opened quickly, nearly causing me to lose my balance.
“Hahn, I’m coming out.”
“Great,” she shouted. “Hurry the fuck up.”
The rifle had kept up its steady cadence throughout my time in the garage, but now the rate of fire was increasing. There was a brief pause where I heard a piece of steel clatter to the ground, followed by the rasp of a full magazine being inserted and the clack of Hahn’s fist smacking the bolt release. The entire process took less than two seconds. Hahn resumed firing immediately.
I dragged the ladder out the door, stood it up, and laid it against the roof. It took me ten seconds to climb up, release the Velcro strap holding my AR-15’s barrel against my belt, and brace the stock against my shoulder.
“Hahn, get up here. I’ll cover you.”
She glanced backward. I beckoned impatiently. She slid her weapon around to her back and started climbing.
I peered through the scope, realized it was on full power, cursed, dialed it down to its lowest setting, and aimed again. The cartridges in my magazine were not the steel-core bullets everyone else was using. They were from my personal inventory of 75 grain soft points. I had used them to hunt wild pigs and antelope for years, and knew they were highly accurate. Additionally, I knew they expanded very quickly upon impact and did not fragment very much. When they struck a target, they widened from two tenths of an inch to over half an inch, essentially transforming a .22 projectile into a high-velocity .50 caliber bullet in the space of a microsecond.
The reticle found the center of a ghoul’s nose. I breathed out and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked against me and I saw a scarlet mist blast from the back of the creature’s skull. My hands shifted left. Another head leapt into view. I repeated the process: aim at the nose, squeeze, assess. Three more shots dropped three more ghouls. Something moved on my left and a hand patted my shoulder.
“I’m up.”
I lowered the rifle. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Other side of the roof.”
I hauled up the ladder and started climbing. We reached to the roof’s peak, scrambled over carefully, sat down, and used our boots as brakes as we scooted to the edge.
“Hold this.”
Hahn took the ladder from me. I slid to the edge and jumped down, keeping one hand on the roof as long as I could to break my fall, then releasing as I dropped the last four feet or so. When I hit the ground, I was confronted with four ghouls less than ten feet away. The Glock was still in my pocket. I drew it, aimed, and fired. Two of them went down on the first shot, but the third round missed. I breathed out, adjusted my aim, and tried again. At the same time I pulled the trigger, a muted crack echoed above me. The last two ghouls dropped simultaneously. The next closest one was thirty feet away. I stuffed the Glock back into my pocket, turned, and held up my hands.
“Come on. I got you.”
Hahn gave me a nasty look. I lowered my hands and backed off. She let the ladder rest against the edge and eased it to the ground, then squatted and leapt down exactly as I had.
“If I need your help,” she said, “I’ll ask for it.”
“Duly noted.”
She looked at Cary’s rooftop. “So what now, smart guy?”
“You see that shed over there?”
“Yeah.”
“I need you to draw off the horde.”
Hahn studied the shed. It was fifteen feet from the back of the house across a stretch of long-dead lawn.
“That ladder won’t reach.”
“It will if I extend it.”
She gave me a sidelong glare. “That’s not a good idea. It could break.”
“I’ll make them lie down flat. None of them are all that heavy. They’ll be fine.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You got a better idea?”
A pause, followed by a long sigh. “No. I guess not.” With that, she checked her rifle and started walking.
“Get out of sight,” she said over her shoulder.
“Will do.”
I picked up the ladder and got moving.
TWENTY-NINE
I hid behind another house, out of sight of the ghouls.
Hahn’s rifle started racking up a tally in short order. The gunshots were much louder now, telling me she had removed the suppressor to better gain the horde’s attention. A memory came to me of a Yoga class I had taken years ago, back in my fighting days. At the end of it, the instructor, a willowy little stick of a woman, had insisted we all sit in the lotus position and clap to gain the attention of the gods.
“We shoot the gain the attention of the ghouls,” I muttered, and started giggling. The giggling stopped when my heart palp
itated, my vision went blurry, and the horizon tilted as I swayed on my feet.
The next thing I remember is sitting on the ground. I did not tell my legs to lower me, and I did not recall how long I had been there. Hahn’s gunfire was farther away now, but still earsplittingly loud. Again, I chided myself for not bringing earplugs.
Water, idiot. You need water.
I drained the last half of my last canteen. Then I remembered I had an emergency reserve in my assault pack. It took me the better part of a minute to strip off the pack, open it, and pull out the stainless-steel bottle. It only contained a liter. I drained it and then held it up over my mouth to let the last few drops fall out. No more water. And the supply train was at least a mile away.
“Whatever you’re gonna do, you gotta do it now.”
I closed the pack, shouldered it, and crept to the edge of the building. I tried to peek around the corner, but my helmet got in the way. So I peeled it off, wiped my face, and looked again. The horde had thinned enough I could get to the shed with no trouble. But I would have to move fast.
The helmet padding was soaking wet, warm, and slick as a greasy sponge. I slid it on anyway and buckled the chin strap. Then I went back, picked up the ladder, checked to make sure all my weapons were in their places, and set off at a run.
My speed wasn’t what it should have been. I was exhausted. My legs felt like they had fifty-pound sandbags tied to them. My lungs were hot. My parched throat made it hurt to breathe. I pushed through it. That was the key. Mind over matter. If I didn’t mind, the pain didn’t matter.
Story of my life.
Cary saw me coming and got her people to their feet. Her hand pointed at me. I could not tell what she was saying, but the tone was authoritative.
When I reached the shed I balanced the ladder against it and climbed up. At the top, I took a few seconds to gauge the distance. The ladder was twelve feet long, and could safely be extended to eighteen feet. Twenty would be pushing it. I stood it on its end, lifted up on the near side until four rungs extended beyond the edge, and then locked it in place.
Surviving the Dead (Novel): The Hellbreakers Page 15
