Nation Undead (Book 2): Collusion
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COLLUSION
Book 2 of the Nation Undead series
Paul Z. Ford
COLLUSION is a work of Fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously
paperback ISBN: 978-1-983177-10-1
Independently Published Exclusively on Amazon
Email the author at pzford.author@gmail.com
Collusion
Text Copyright © 2019 by Paul Z. Ford
All Rights Reserved
Contents
Prologue
PART 1
Chapter 1 - Orderly
Chapter 2 - Regression
Chapter 3 - Attention to Detail
Chapter 4 - Hunger
Chapter 5 - Remedial
Chapter 6 - Burned Woman
Chapter 7 - Reunion
Chapter 8 - Visitors
Chapter 9 - Evil
Chapter 10 - Odyssey
Chapter 11 - Stadium
Chapter 12 - Wilderness
Chapter 13 - Trek
Chapter 14 - Cancellation
Chapter 15 - Caught
PART 2
Chapter 16 - Silver
Chapter 17 - United
Chapter 18 - Road Trip
Chapter 19 - Day Hike
Chapter 20 - Quarry
Chapter 21 - Gray Ocean
Chapter 22 - Gray Skies
Chapter 23 - Bounty
Chapter 24 - Stone Wedge
Chapter 25 - Hurricane
Chapter 26 - Resident
Chapter 27 - Little Bites
Chapter 28 - Split
Chapter 29 - Welcome
Chapter 30 - Attack
PART 3
Chapter 31 - Collusion
Chapter 32 - Broken Home
Chapter 33 - Allies
Chapter 34 - Missing
Chapter 35 - Friends and Neighbors
Chapter 36 - Separation Policy
Chapter 37 - Licensed
Chapter 38 - Negotiation
Chapter 39 - Comrades
Chapter 40 - Separate
Chapter 41 - Fall
Chapter 42 - Aftershock
Chapter 43 - Tower
Chapter 44 - Burning
Chapter 45 - Directive
Acknowledgements
Advanced Reader Study Questions
Prologue
Prologue
The gray pre-dawn light barely illuminated the man, kneeling across the stomach of another. Several shadowy figures stood near him and watched as he slowly swung his right fist and struck the other’s face, rested momentarily, and then repeated the action with his left. The violence went on and on, and the sharp sound of each contact echoed around the courtyard.
SMACK…
SMACK…
SMACK…
Each hit squelched like the liquid explosion of a tomato stomped under an unforgiving boot. The air was thick and humid with the smell of the dead and the heat of the South Texas summer. Rotten and fetid, like the bodies that prowled the fenceline. The long days began hot and became blistering by the time the sun was high in the sky. The atmosphere was stifling, even early in the day. Now, pre-sunrise darkness hid the death surrounding the group. The punctuating sound of the one-sided fight with the supine man distracted them from the bodies they left in their wake to get here.
A soft wail echoed. In the shadow of a nearby truck knelt a large man. Dark, crimson wetness stained him black in the shadows. His soaking shirt clung to his massive chest and it stuck as he rocked back and forth with each cry. The large man’s chest heaved, sucking in oxygen through blood-stained nostrils. He was sobbing quietly, pulling on his own hair and face, smearing blood from his hands with mouth agape in near-silent agony. His black-red skin glistened in the disappearing darkness. The wailing man prostrated himself, refreshing the stains on his skin and clothes with the torn body he embraced.
The sky was gradually lightening as the remaining victors stood in shock. The brightening morning had begun to illuminate the rest of the fallen bodies in the courtyard. The shock of the battle and the ensuing bloodshed had forced them into a semi-catatonic state in this quiet hour. The only movement came from the attacker continuing to strike his victim. Their small clique watched as the ferocity of the attack began to wane and the pauses between hits grew.
Three corpses walked up to the chain link fence enclosing the squad in the courtyard. Days or months in the hot sun had faded their shredded clothing to a muddled gray-brown, matching the dead flesh. Low growls of hunger from their undead throats went unnoticed by the group. The metal fence jangled loudly with each blow from the creatures. The noise would soon serve to attract any others, dead or alive, that might be near.
SMACK…
…
...
SMACK…
Silence rang out as the attacker finally stopped. He rested his bloody hands on the ground on either side of his victim’s shoulders. He was panting hard and leaning far forward with exhaustion, his stringy hair almost touching the man’s decimated face. He was drenched with sweat. As his chest billowed, beads swelled at the split mop-tips that hung down and dripped into the blood that covered the broken man. The victim was opening his mouth and wet gasps escaped as he fought for air through broken front teeth. Both eyes were bloodshot and rolling wildly within the broken orbits. Swelling had distorted all facial features and he was blowing black gore from his nose with each lurching breath.
“Where the fuck is she?” the man on top suddenly shouted. The unexpected noise made the sobbing, blood-covered man stop and look across the courtyard at the echoing voice. The dead figures at the fence were joined by several more as they grabbed and shook the metal enclosure. Dawn started to bring definition to the small group: a tough-looking soldier in uniform, a Middle Eastern man with the beginnings of a beard, and a petite brunette woman leaning on a wooden-stocked carbine rifle. They watched the scene before them in shocked silence.
“Where the fuck is she?” he repeated, following with another punch to the right. The man’s head was jarred to the side and then he slowly returned it to center. Suddenly, he was smiling through his bloody, toothless mouth.
“Piss off,” he spat through damaged lips, propelling blood up into his assailant’s face with the first syllable. The man didn’t flinch as the crimson liquid splattered his lips and cheek. A long sigh escaped from his lips and the victim’s smile disappeared.
Still hands rested flat on the ground to the side of the other’s shoulders, raw and bloody. The attacker exhaled, lifting his hands and leaning his weight onto the man’s midsection. The man on the ground groaned as the attacker shifted his knees back and forth on the hot blacktop. He slowly worked the man’s left wrist out from under his right knee and stretched the arm out, making a L-shape with the victim’s body. He was too injured to resist, resting his arm on the ground as he gasped against the weight on his chest. Suddenly, the aggressor reached over to the outstretched hand, took a grip on the index finger, and wrenched it up with an audible snap.
The man yelped, high-pitched, and then again as his long-haired assailant dropped the broken hand back onto the ground. The man’s body began to convulse and seize as he struggled against the crushing figure keeping him trapped. His left index finger was crookedly pointing toward the L-shaped building’s far corner. He was spitting and crying now, the tears leaving streaks down his face. He suffered loudly for a minute, turning his head and inspecting his broken finger through swollen eyes.
“Tell me where the fuck she is,” the man on top hollered. He punctuated his bristling statement by unsheathing the six-inch knife hang
ing on his belt with a dramatic flourish and holding it to the man’s throat. The man shifted and made a guttural cry, but he seemed barely able to squirm, causing the knife to cut into the flesh of his neck.
He cocked his head up, raising his chin and ignoring the sharp blade cutting into him. He carefully turned his head, eyes rolling to the far, dark corner of the courtyard’s lot where the edge of the main building met the chain-link fence. There was an overhang there protecting two rolling garage doors, closed and blanketed in the pre-dawn shadow. The man carefully lifted his injured left hand and pointed in that direction, whispering forgive us before letting exhaustion pull his arm to the ground. His eyes closed and jaw went slack as his assailant resheathed the knife and stood. He and his companions stared at the dark garage doors.
The sky had become rimmed with pink and orange, turning the wispy summer clouds into flames painted from the horizon. The dead frenzied and fought to get through the fence as the small group moved slowly toward whatever lay hidden behind the grim, darkened entrance.
PART 1
Chapter 1
- Orderly
Orderly
“Orderly!”
Halwende Kahn startled awake. He rolled from his side and swung his legs off the edge of the small mattress. The room was dark, but he easily found his boots lined up next to the cot. He quickly slipped his feet into them and began to lace them, tucking his tan coveralls into the top of each boot as he did so. He was working on the second when the order beckoning him was repeated.
“Orderly!” It was pronounced oh-dah-lee in a soft southern accent by the man shouting. Kahn cringed at the voice but worked no quicker than he was prior to the second command. He stood and stretched, groaning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He scratched the smooth skin of his face and neck with one hand and grabbed a wristwatch off the small desk in the room with the other.
“Zero-five-fifty,” he said and yawned. The small office that served as his quarters was located in the supply area of the military outpost where he now resided and worked. Its official name was Lone Star Outpost, and it served as an evacuation center for a period after the outbreak hit San Antonio. Before the dead walked, one small battalion at a time was rotated into the garrison at Lone Star Outpost, LOSTOP, and it served as an overflow repair center for vehicles that couldn’t fit in the main motor facility in San Antonio itself. After the dead began to rise and attack the living, LOSTOP’s commander lost contact with the main military based in the city first, and then each of the other six small regional outposts one-by-one over the course of the first month. He ordered the gates opened, and rigged up a radio transmission to encourage displaced civilians to come, saving and protecting the lives of hundreds in the almost eight months since.
LOSTOP’s soldiers were cooks and mechanics, not infantrymen, but they had held the outpost using the limited weapons and ammunition stored there. The colonel proudly referred to them as the Army’s Lost OP, but Kahn often overhead soldiers and civilians mocking the colonel’s nickname for them as the Army’s Lost Cause.
Kahn’s quarters had no windows, but he felt himself lucky not to live in the general civilian population. The buildings nearby used as civilian barracks were cramped and noisy with hundreds of people packed into space meant to house half as many for limited periods. Although his office was small and sparsely furnished with only a mattress-topped cot and a small tanker desk, Kahn felt the alternative was worse and preferred the isolation. Lining the brick walls were filing cabinets containing forms and records no longer relevant to the post’s mission.
Kahn rushed into the hallway and made a quick stop in the neighboring restroom before heading toward the main supply room. The east and west ends of the hallway each had a set of double doors and his office entered the hallway in the middle. To the west was the section of the building which contained the armory behind lock and key. All the weapons and ammunition were kept in this secure area, in a cage, inside a vault. Kahn would inventory and check items in and out to various soldiers as they worked to house and guard the civilian population of the isolated post. This morning Kahn went east, into the brightly lit non-sensitive supply area.
The sizable east wing of the supply building contained most of the various items used by the people and soldiers living there. The room was divided in half by two sets of chain-link cages containing the majority of the gear. The narrow walkway between the sets of secure areas was the only way to get up to the entry point of the building. Kahn approached the front counter that separated the lobby from the rest of supply and saw Captain Gilbert Beauregard Louis. Captain Louis acted as the battalion logistics officer for LOSTOP prior to the outbreak, but all of his staff had been reallocated to security duty. So Captain Louis got Kahn assigned to supply as a civilian orderly. His footsteps echoed as he approached.
“It took you long enough, Mr. Garcia. The DFAC is waiting for you,” the captain said. He didn’t look up from the paperwork on the desk as he addressed his orderly in the curt fashion that defined their relationship. His southern-fried voice grated against Kahn’s ears, and the early hour further annoyed the runner. Had the captain looked up, Kahn’s cloudy expression would have betrayed his resentment toward the man.
“I’m sorry, sir,” his voice was rough with the few hours of sleep he had gotten. “I didn’t expect to be called this early. It’s before six.” With this, the officer looked up at his supply helper. The resentment in his eyes was clear, and the two men glared at each other for a tense moment before the captain shook his head and replied angrily.
“Don’t be lazy, Garcia. Your shift starts when you are needed and it ends when you are no longer needed. You have one of the easiest jobs on this outpost, and there are dozens that would take your place at a moment’s notice. You are my only orderly and, by God, you do what you are told.”
Kahn lowered his gaze and replied with a resentful “yessir,” under his breath. He knew the captain had reported some of his actions to the colonel in the past. Although the captain had never said, Kahn knew from rumor that the previous supply orderly had been reassigned to patrols. He had never met the man that held his job before as he was bitten by the reanimated corpse of an old woman on his first supply run. Kahn had no desire to accompany the teams scavenging for supplies outside the security of the fences. He instead waited silently for his orders. Only a moment passed before the captain’s soft southern accent resumed without a trace of the angry tone from before.
“See those two propane tanks? Load them into one of the golf carts and drive them over to the dining facility. The colonel still doesn’t want to refill their bulk tank until we’re sure the seal will hold. We can’t afford to lose that fuel again. But they ran out and didn’t order spares like they’re supposed to. When you give these over, make sure you tell whoever is running chow to place a req for spares if they need it. Here.” The captain handed Kahn a clipboard with the proper paperwork clipped and a pen attached. “The hand receipt has the empties on it, don’t leave without them, and lock them up when you get back.”
Kahn held out his hand and accepted both the clipboard and a ring that contained both the keys to the propane cage outside and the golf cart’s ignition. He nodded and tucked the keys into his pocket and the paperwork under his arm before grabbing the two liquid propane containers next to Captain Louis’ desk. He took a few steps toward the door before the captain chimed in with another instruction.
“Garcia, get yourself some chow while you are over there. I’m going to have you running around today. And bring me back a plate with eggs, toast, and grits. With salt. I’m finishing up reviewing the checkout docs and I’m seeing several remedials we’ll need to bring in for tonight at twenty-hundred hours. It’s going to be a long day for you.” Kahn nodded and turned to struggle the door open with his backside. He wasn’t surprised, since it was the first of August, but he couldn’t fathom why Captain Louis required monthly remedial training as a punishment for those who failed to fill out their
paperwork correctly. It was cruelty to them and to the orderly who had to train them.
The heavy door closed with a pronounced crash that echoed into the summer darkness. Leaving the air conditioned building into the heat of the morning struck Kahn like a physical blow and made his eyes water. Shadowy insects flirted with the exterior light mounted above the entryway. Kahn waddled down the sidewalk, trampling some of the neglected landscaping around the building’s rectangular sign, as he made his way to the side of the structure. A small concrete pad held a single electric golf cart, plugged into an exterior outlet with a heavy duty cable. Kahn hefted the tanks into the bed of the cart and set the clipboard on the bench seat.
He unclipped the cable from the battery and coiled it, hanging it from a hook on the building before retrieving the keys from his pocket and plopping down into the driver’s seat. The electric ignition emitted a long beep as he disengaged the brake and the cart lurched forward in the dark.
He followed the double-wide sidewalk as he turned and began to drive toward LOSTOP’s dining facility. He could drive north, passing the military barracks and the medical quarters before turning and approaching the DFAC’s front door. Doing so would likely bring him in contact with the soldiers on early-morning watch and the day’s scavenger patrols preparing to leave. Instead, Kahn decided to cross the main road and approach the mess hall from the rear. That entrance led directly to the kitchen and food stores, and it would be most convenient to drop off the propane tanks there. Plus, he rationalized, taking that route would bring him around the civilian barracks where he was less likely to find anybody awake at this pre-dawn hour.
The almost silent cart glided forward on the sidewalk and down the ramp to the main road stretching north-south across the outpost. To the south, Kahn could see the gate leading to the motor pools, maintenance, and the main entry point for the post. Spotlights kept the entryway bright overnight, and Kahn was suddenly grateful for the lack of windows in his office chamber. He heard the rumble of trucks and some distant shouts as soldiers prepared for the day ahead. He kept his foot on the accelerator and moved his cart across the empty road, jumping up onto the sidewalk ramp on the other side. He cut diagonally across the parking lot in front of the civilian barracks, seeing nobody, just as he suspected. He steered south and approached the fence.