by Joe McKinney
The VW was still burning with the bodies of Leo and Sheila inside. Their blackened corpses were frozen in death and still appeared to be wrestling with the now molten seatbelts.
The Bronco leaned on two flat tires, both on the passenger side. After dragging Rawley’s headless body off of the road, one of the men started the Bronco and used it to push the blackened hulk of steel, which used to resemble a car, off of the asphalt. He then drove the useless SUV into the trees and abandoned it there.
It appeared the attackers were getting ready to bug out. Like a ghost, Cade silently moved through the trees, his head constantly scanning, the lethal carbine held at low ready.
*****
Harry stayed concealed, cradling the Mossberg and trying to remain alert. Duncan was on the other side of the median armed with his shotgun. They would be waiting for Cade to make contact, every hour on the hour, either by voice or with two microphone clicks if he couldn’t respond verbally.
Chapter 32
Day 2 - Lumberton, North Carolina
The truck lurched a few times well before the engine began coughing and sputtering. The fuel gauge read only a tick above empty. Carl pointed the truck towards the new car lot two blocks away. They made it only one.
With a deadpan look plastered on his face Carl said, “We’re going to have to get that gas gauge replaced. Never know when we’ll run out of gas in a bad neighborhood.”
Without hesitating, Brook and Carl each grabbed one of the new shotguns. Raven was able to carry the small bag of food they had taken from the vending machines. Reluctantly Brook left her late father’s Ithaca in the stalled truck; she shuddered at the thought of how she had saved their lives with it back in Myrtle Beach.
Weapons in hand, they emerged from the cab of the utility truck. Raven jumped down and hefted the bag over her shoulder, its weight apparent as she hobbled like a little old lady.
There were five walkers between them and their objective. Carl pointed at the blue oval sign a block ahead; it read “Romero’s Lumberton Ford.”
“That’s where we are going. We need to be as quiet as possible. Remember, stealth is our friend.”
The closest walker was a petite elderly woman; she walked hunched over and resembled Yoda from Star Wars. Her skin had a greenish hue and she had the same sparse, wispy white hair. Using the shotgun as a club, Carl bashed her in the head and then stomped it for good measure after she fell. The stuff that came out was black and viscous and stayed on his shoes.
The next undead obstacle looked like a more formidable foe. The large young male wore a gothic get up: flared black jeans three sizes too big and a ripped and faded Marilyn Manson tee shirt. His multiple facial piercings suffered from the decomposition. Some had popped out and the ones that remained oozed yellowish-green pus. Goth ghoul was a bit faster than the little old lady. Brook started name calling to get his attention. He was faster than she had fathomed and somehow managed to wrap one of his cold clammy arms around her neck. Before he could take a bite Carl clubbed him from behind. He fell in a heap at their feet. Gray brain matter soiled the shotgun’s stock. “I hate when that happens,” Carl said as he wiped the brains off on Marilyn Manson’s silkscreened face.
“I owe you one big brother. I would have shot him, but I didn’t want to accidentally hit you or Raven.”
“No worries, Sis. I’m actually proud of you. You didn’t scream like a girl.”
“I tried. Nothing would come out.” She winked at him.
Raven was still rooted to the spot from where she had witnessed the whole melee.
Brook waved her hand in front of her shocked daughter’s face and brought her back to the living. She pulled her along by the arm, helping the trio pick up their pace. Carl did a stutter step feint to get them around the third shambling ghoul and onto the car lot. The pursuing walkers continued their ghostly moans. A very noisy low flying Apache helicopter momentarily drew their attention. It was the distraction the pursued needed as they wove their way between the rows of gleaming cars and trucks. Carl and Brook pulled on door handles as they passed by each of the new vehicles. All were locked up tight.
The moaning from the undead in pursuit attracted more walkers from the Walgreens across the street, causing a stinking exodus of corpses moving towards the dealership.
“Let’s get inside the showroom. Keep your eyes open for keys or preferably a lock box full of them,” Carl said as he reached the glass double doors and yanked on the handles with both hands. To his amazement they were unlocked and swung freely outward.
“Let go and let God,” Carl said, reciting one of his favorite A.A. sayings. “Wow, I haven’t even thought about a drink yet, even with the end of the world looming.”
Pushing Raven through the open doors while staying close on his heels, Brook said to her brother, “This isn’t the time to be twelve-stepping. If we don’t get some wheels soon, I am going to need a drink.”
“Hurry up! They’re getting closer… and there are more coming from across the street!” Raven’s voice was much higher pitched than normal, the overwhelming stress evident in it.
After everyone was inside, Carl felt along the door’s edge, searching for the locking mechanism. To his dismay he found that there was no way to lock the doors without a special key. He groaned when he read the sign that stated, “These doors should always remain unlocked during normal business hours.”
“I can’t find the fucking lock!” Carl blurted out, the exasperation showing on his sweat-soaked face.
The undead were closing in. Two had arrived at the still unlocked doors. Brook poked her shotgun through the open crack and discharged it pointblank in the nearest ghoul’s face. It dropped to its knees and fell motionless, blocking the doors. Carl removed his belt and quickly wound it between the push-bars of each door. As a makeshift lock it might hold for a few minutes, scarcely enough time to search the expansive showroom and offices for the keys to a getaway vehicle. A lone walker impacted the security glass with a loud bang, discharge from its festering face painting a trail of gore everywhere it touched. The undead marched onto the lot, wending their way around the new Fords towards the treats in the indoor showroom.
“I’ll hold the doors while you look for keys,” Carl said as he observed the zombies slam dance with the doors.
“I tried the sales manager’s office… but the door is locked!”
“Where the hell is Raven?” Carl asked Brook, looking around frantically.
A loud earsplitting roar followed by a deep toned, idling engine momentarily deafened them in the enclosed showroom.
Carl and Brook nearly pissed their pants as they both visibly started.
“Found the keys!” Raven said, beaming from the driver’s seat of the bright orange Ford Raptor 4x4 pickup. “The keys were in it already. I hoped it would start.” With a mischievous grin she added, “I’m driving, right…?”
“Move over, squirt,” Carl said to the little heroine.
Brook threw herself into the passenger seat with her daughter wedged in the middle.
How did I not see this big orange monstrosity? Carl thought, shaking his head back and forth. He put the transmission in drive and marveled at the power and torque as he launched the truck at the large glass doors it was facing.
“Brace yourselves.”
Like an orange missile, the race bred off-road truck shattered the glass with a thunderous crash. They all held on as the truck easily mowed down the walkers in its path. Carl let out an adrenaline induced scream as he deftly maneuvered the Raptor through the maze of vehicles and walking dead clogging the lot. After making short work of a dozen undead, the Raptor leapt off of the curb nearly sideswiping a row of brand new Ford F-150 trucks. Good going Dale Jr., we’re trying to survive a pandemic and I nearly kill us all.
Carl took his eyes off of the road long enough to glance at the gas gauge to find that the tank was full. A bit of relief washed over him because he knew this should be enough to deliver them to the mi
litary base without the need to stop again. They headed for Fayetteville, thirty miles to the northeast. Brook made the observation first, that what little traffic there was, streamed from the other direction.
“Honey, that was a good thing you did back there, I am real proud of you. However do not leave my sight from this moment forward!”
“I’ll second that, little bird. When I couldn’t find you, I panicked thinking the worst,” Carl said, patting her softly on the head without removing his eyes from the road.
On the other side of the freeway many of the vehicles heading their way were military, mainly Humvee and deuce and a half troop transports. It appeared the people were finally leaving the big cities, against the President’s recommendation.
The big special purpose off-road production truck was race ready and proved it more than once. It rolled on massive wheels and tires and was sprung with eleven inches of travel. They effortlessly skirted around wrecks, humans trying to flag them down and the numerous walking dead they came across. Carl made a sport of driving over any of the bastards that got in his way; he wasn’t worried about the thirty-five inch off-road tires becoming punctured.
They passed through the cities of Nakina, Bladenboro and Tar Heel. All had a huge undead population and seemed to be void of living humans.
On the outskirts of the farming community Tar Heel, Brook had to once again put the blinders on her daughter. The undead had gotten into an enclosure filled with a substantial herd of cows. While the bovines were still alive, the blood soaked monsters burrowed into their bellies to get at their entrails. The mournful sound of the dying cows caused the hair on Brook’s arms to stand on end.
Their greatest obstacle, Fayetteville, North Carolina, loomed twenty-four miles ahead and was undoubtedly teeming with infected. The traffic was almost at a standstill coming towards them and many more undead attacks were happening on the other side of the median among the slowed line of vehicles. In order to escape the chaos, cars and SUVs started to navigate across the grass separating the eastbound and westbound lanes.
“Are we going to go through Fayetteville proper?” Brook asked.
“What do you think, sis?”
Before Brook could answer, an oncoming Suburban engaged them in a game of chicken. At the last moment Carl wrenched the steering wheel to the right, grass and mud erupting in a geyser from the Raptor’s knobby tires as they were forced onto the shoulder. After the near miss, Brook took a minute to calm down enough to answer Carl’s question.
“I think it would be safer if we were to double back and go around the city. The traffic is only going to get worse and the amount of undead seems to be increasing.”
Carl was very cautious after the near miss. He slowed the Raptor to a crawl, left the paved road and followed the Suburban in the direction they had just come from.
A dull throb in his lower lumbar caused Carl to squirm in his seat; the deep scratch marks on his back started to itch and seep blood. Ignoring the discomfort and the possibility the ghoul may have signed his death warrant, Carl focused on avoiding the sporadic oncoming traffic.
Chapter 33
Day 3 - Outskirts of Boise, Idaho
Cade smelled the undead long before he saw them. They were locked up in a horse trailer secreted inside of the tree line. He was very careful to give a wide enough berth so they wouldn’t start their god-awful moaning and give him away.
He had been stalking the four men for twenty minutes and watched them as they reached the top of the hill, lingering longer than necessary. This slip up confirmed that they had little or no military training. Any soldier would know how to use the “military crest” of a hill to mask their movement and limit silhouetting themselves.
He wondered where these amateurs had stolen their desert ACUs. Using the binoculars he determined they were wearing authentic U.S. uniforms with insignia, name and rank. It appeared they were AWOL Idaho National Guardsmen. His sixth sense was really telling him something different. These definitely were not United States trained soldiers. He was stalking imposters.
The four men crossed the westbound lanes and headed straight for the foothills in the distance. They moved slowly because they were loaded down with all they had looted from the attack.
Cade was going to follow the murderous brigands to their staging grounds and lay dog and observe until he had a firm grasp of how many he would be killing.
The terrain was perfect for tracking. It was high desert and dusty and there were lots of small to medium juniper and other hardy scrub brush to conceal a pursuer. Not only were the men oblivious to noise discipline, they were leaving MRE food wrappers in their wake as they ascended the hill.
The camp was on a large piece of land a short hike from the interstate. On one end of the grassy plot was a giant mound of gravel. Parked nearby were three Idaho Department of Transportation sanding trucks. On the other end of the land was a broad expanse of grass where the biker horde had set up camp. Four fifth-wheel trailers were arranged in a semicircle on the back side of a small hill. One of the pickups was detached from its trailer; the other three were still connected.
To his amazement he noticed two military Humvees, painted in desert camouflage, partially hidden behind the trailers. One of the Hummers was a gun truck with a Dillon minigun mounted in the bed. Cade and his team had used similar ones in the sandbox. The vehicles were positioned for a quick getaway where they couldn’t be seen from the interstate.
There were numerous brightly colored tents of all different shapes and sizes dotting the clearing. The grass was trampled everywhere he looked. Judging by the many old campfire pits and the trash strewn about, he knew there would be scores of people returning to spend the night.
Suddenly a large man with a flowing black beard walked out of the brush to the left of the circled trailers. He wore the same desert fatigues as the men Cade had tracked; a floppy boonie hat was pulled down low over his eyes. His head was constantly moving, scanning his surroundings. Cade could tell at once that this man was nothing like the others; he walked with confidence and purpose, he moved like an operator. Cade recognized the Barrett M-82 sniper rifle the man carried by its distinct outline and large wedge shaped muzzle brake. It was fitted with a high powered scope and could deliver a hefty .50 caliber bullet out to 5,900 feet. Cade had a feeling he was looking at the man who had killed Rawley.
A second man emerged from the brush. He was in civilian clothes and didn’t seem as confident as the first man. He carried a very large spotting scope and slung over his shoulder was an AR-15.
The sniper went inside the unhooked trailer and slammed the door behind him. In response to the loud noise, a man in fatigues poked his head out of another trailer and emerged, appearing to guard the camp. Shortly thereafter the other three men that Cade had tracked to the camp filed out of the same trailer, beer bottles in hand.
The bearded man reemerged into the clearing and although they were out of Cade’s earshot, it looked like he was calling the men over for a group meeting. He was definitely in charge. Cade could tell by the body language of the other men.
The youngest of the group produced a bag with the food and supplies pillaged from the ambush; the big man poured it out on the ground and divided the contents. The kid also handed over the SKS assault rifle and after a cursory inspection the bearded leader handed it back to him.
Cade keyed the Motorola and hailed Henry. Holding the radio so that both he and Duncan could hear, he answered, “This is Henry. Duncan is listening in.”
“I’m laying dog and watching a large camp with at least twenty tents but so far I’ve only seen six personnel, all armed. I’m a mile and a half northwest of your position. It looks like most of the people that were here are out and about, so stay alert. Cade out.”
“OK, roger that,” Henry replied.
Cade watched the camp through his binoculars. The five men arranged folding camp chairs and sat in a semicircle drinking long neck Buds, which they replenished from a b
ig silver cooler.
For thirty minutes they drank and carried on a very animated conversation. He took note; the youngest amongst them was nursing his beer. Judging by the amount of empties, the other men were on at least beer number three.
The door to one of the trailers flew open with a bang. The bearded sniper emerged with a petite woman in tow. She was naked and appeared bruised and battered; her long red hair was wrapped around his ham sized fist. She looked mentally broken, her eyes locked on the ground.
Cade put down the binoculars and retrieved his sniper rifle; through the scope he watched as another man violently took hold of the woman’s wrist and walked her away from the camp towards the woods. Cade recognized him as the same man that had been spotting for the sniper. This mutt needs to die. He kept the crosshairs trained on the skinny man’s neck. If he took the shot while they were moving then it would unnecessarily put the redheaded woman in danger, plus he didn’t want to alert the bad guys to his presence just yet.
The two were nearly at the tree line. A metallic whirring sound carried on the light breeze from the clearing below; Cade recognized it for what it was the instant he heard it. He still had the man and woman scoped and he watched them disappear in an explosion of flesh, organs, bone and pink-misted blood. The bearded leader had covertly made his way to the Humvee and was now manning the 7.62 mm Dillon minigun mounted to the gun truck. He released a 300 round burst, leaving the pile of human remains seeping into the dirt.
Shifting his aim to just below and behind the man’s left eye, Cade adjusted for elevation and windage. He relaxed his breathing. This one’s for you, Rawley, he thought as he gently caressed the trigger. The suppressed rifle coughed once. It was a perfect head shot, and the waste of skin fell atop the minigun, the top half of his head nonexistent, leaving only his bushy black beard and jawbone still attached at the neck.
