With her hands trembling Sasha began cutting on her brother’s locks--being sure to keep one eye on William.
As Sasha worked away, Wilson heard the same rattling sound present in the drugstore earlier. “Whatcha got there Ted?” he asked. The question went unanswered. Ted was counting under his breath, zoned out, concentrating intently on the task at hand.
“William... can you hear me?” Ted lightly slapped the other man’s sunken cheek.
He got no response.
Ted looked back and said, “Can one of you hand me a bottled water from my pack?”
Much to Wilson’s chagrin Sasha stopped “Operation Arm Removal” to fulfill Ted’s request.
Thinking the worst, Wilson inquired, “What kind of drugs were you looking for back there?”
Ted cracked the seal on the bottle and held it between his legs. With some difficulty he pried open his partner’s mouth with one hand and funneled a palm full of pills in with the other. Then he washed them down with a small amount of water and held William’s mouth shut. The unresponsive man heaved a couple of times, but the pills stayed down. “He hasn’t had his drug cocktail for more than a week,” Ted finally replied.
“What made him sick?” Sasha innocently asked as she finished her gruesome task. After a couple more snips the arm fell free complete with the clump of Wilson’s bright red hair still clutched firmly in its grasp.
“They’re to keep his immune system up. William is HIV positive, but when he takes his drugs you would never know it. All of these...” Ted shook the bag of pills. “They keep the symptoms at bay. No pills... and he crashes pretty quickly.”
“I feel foolish,” Sasha confessed. “I thought he was infected.” Immediately she regretted her choice of words.
***
The Traveler slowed the Ford as the front entrance to the Heights gated community came into view. Apparently the last person to leave didn’t have time to close up shop. The ten foot tall gate on wheels was in the fully open position. He drove through the stucco and iron entry, passed the vacant guard shack and negotiated the big Ford around a mound of putrefying flesh and bones, disturbing a number of feeding ravens in the process. The murder exploded into the air at once, cawing angrily at the interruption.
The Traveler ignored the pissed off birds and trained his binoculars on the blue car. The occupants were still sitting in the vehicle, which hadn’t moved since he left the house on the ridge five minutes ago. He had been watching and waiting for the right time to make contact. The trick would be in timing his move right. Trail them too close and they would make him. On the other hand if he let them get too far ahead he would be forced to take chances to catch up, possibly getting himself into trouble.
The sun slowly slipped behind the Rockies; the Traveler estimated it would be fully dark in less than two hours. He had a hunch that these people, now down to the one car, were trying to make up their minds: hole up somewhere for the night or continue on and risk getting stranded in the dark, vulnerable and out in the open.
Suddenly the blue car started to roll, moving in the direction of the tollway. The Traveler watched the driver take the onramp, weave the car between stalls and walkers and continue south on I-25 in the mostly unoccupied northbound lanes.
“Fools,” the Traveler muttered under his breath. “You’re gonna make this difficult for me aren’t you?” He tossed the binoculars on the seat next to him and made certain the .45 caliber Kimber was close at hand. To lessen the chance of being seen, he nosed the stolen truck into the clogged southbound lanes of Interstate 25 and began to shadow his quarry from a distance.
Chapter 17
Outbreak - Day 8
Over the Gros Ventre Wilderness Area, Southern Wyoming
“Wake up Daymon,” Duncan drawled over the comms.
The voice sounded vaguely familiar, and once again it was tearing him from the peaceful realm buried under layers of horror deep in his subconscious. The fair maiden would have to wait. Daymon snapped to, surly and disoriented. “How long did you let me sleep old man?”
“Obviously not long enough Mister Cranky. Shit, if I woulda known this was all the thanks I was gonna get... I wouldn’t have even bothered.”
“Sorry,” Daymon said sheepishly. “I was having another good dream.”
“Well lucky you... I don’t have a good anything unless I’m awake and the Cialis has kicked in.”
It was way too much information and Daymon didn’t even want to go there so he changed the subject. “Have you made up your mind yet... are you taking me to Driggs... or have you already shanghaied me all the way to Eden?” he asked.
“That’s why I woke you. We’re edging south of Jackson Hole. Cade advised me to steer clear of the city. Something about surface-to-air missiles... I think I will take his advice to heart. That’s the reason I’m skimming the tree tops... trying my best to stay under the radar.”
Daymon peered down at the numerous mountain lakes encircled by lush green forest. They sparkled like so many diamonds, producing a hypnotic effect, flashing beneath the helicopter.
Duncan’s voice interrupted Daymon’s National Geographic moment. “We’re seventy-miles from Driggs... if that’s your destination I’m taking us through a slot in the Tetons. If Eden’s your choice then we have to go south around the end of the Tetons. My brother’s compound is well planned out and secure. You’ve seen the countryside from the air... the best aspect is how remote Eden is. And most importantly Oops will welcome you... no doubt about it. Keep in mind that the Eden compound is a collective of sorts and we are going to have to pull our own weight... Driggs or Eden--which is it?”
Daymon sat with his thoughts for a couple of minutes. “I’m more comfortable alone and I need to go home... to see my house with my own eyes... get some closure at least.”
“Are you serious son?” Duncan drawled. “I actually kind of like you... matter of fact you remind me of myself when I was young. I’m still a loner, but these days being a loner ain’t conducive to being alive.” After a few moments of silence, Duncan finally gave up. The kid’s mind was set and Duncan wasn’t going to argue the point. Daymon was a big boy.
Duncan gently nudged the Black Hawk on a course that would take them through a slot in the mountain range, keeping them away from the armed stronghold of Jackson Hole. Duncan kept the helo close to the earth to minimize the chance of them being detected. Flying the big helicopter semi nap-of-the-earth required constant attention to the ground, the tree tops and the flight controls. It was a very dangerous stress inducing stretch of flying. Duncan couldn’t wait to get to Eden so he could relax and stop running for a spell.
Forty minutes later the southeastern section of the small town of Driggs came into view. There were a number of walkers ambling about the deserted trash-strewn streets. A small group of zombies, on hands and knees, were intently feeding on some unlucky soul. Blood-streaked faces looked skyward as the DHS Black Hawk thundered over.
“Not an encouraging sign my man...”
“Let’s see how bad it is over there,” Daymon said pointing to the north. “My house is in a little subdivision about a mile and a half from here.”
Duncan slowed to twenty knots to allow Daymon the time to get his bearings and guide him in.
“See that green water tower... look due north... there is a school with the baseball diamond and backstop. Drop me off there,” Daymon said.
“Out in the open... are you crazy?”
“I’ll know once we get closer. If you drop me at my house it’ll attract too much attention. I work best out in the open... schoolyard please.”
Duncan shook his head. “Let’s recon your house with a flyby first... OK?”
Before Daymon had a chance to answer, Duncan banked the Black Hawk and overflew the faded yellow single-story school. Daymon used the opportunity to scrutinize the grounds from two hundred feet. The tall fencing was keeping the zombies out of the baseball diamond and outfield, but a few of the creatures were
stumbling around the playground structures and there were three more in front of the middle school. It should be doable, Daymon thought, as long as they don’t follow me home everything will be OK.
Daymon pointed out the port side glass. “There it is... the tan single-story ranch... there is a white house on the north side and a blue house to the south.”
“Copy that... I see it,” Duncan said.
“Whatever you do...please do not fly too close. I’m afraid the noise will attract too many of those fuckers to my block.”
Duncan orbited the Black Hawk around the cluster of small ranch style homes, but stayed clear of the airspace directly over the tan house. “I only count three walkers... and it looks like there’s no damage to your casa, mi amigo.”
“The front door and garage appear to be intact,” Daymon said, craning his neck to get a better look.
Duncan relayed his observations out loud. “Coming around back... fence looks good... and there’s the door... it’s closed. Good to go.” He looked long and hard at Daymon. “Back to the school or onward to Eden?” Duncan asked. “Last chance.”
Without hesitation Daymon said, “It’s been good knowing you Duncan. You had better take me down right now... before I puss out.” Then he unbuckled the seatbelt and removed the bulky flight helmet. Lastly, while trying to keep his balance, he retrieved the Kelty pack and his weapons from the passenger area. Daymon felt his stomach churn. He didn’t know whether it was caused by the helicopter’s rapid descent or a healthy dose of fear. Whatever the cause it was too late to turn back now.
Duncan held the chopper in a hover five feet above second base and shouted to be heard over the blasting rotor wash, “Take the shotgun!” Daymon appeared not to hear him. “Take my shotgun... that’s an order!” Duncan bellowed again at the top of his lungs.
Daymon reluctantly grabbed the stubby 12 gauge and opened the sliding door. His eyes met Duncan’s one last time, then he nodded. The way he was crouched low, like a coiled spring, made it obvious that he was prepared to hit the ground running.
Duncan felt a slight bump as the wheels kissed the dry brown grass of the outfield and he watched the young man leap to the ground, duck his head and bound away from the helicopter at a full sprint. Daymon never looked back and the last thing Duncan noticed as the ground fell away under the Black Hawk were the man’s bouncing dreadlocks as he effortlessly vaulted the cyclone fence.
***
Daymon landed softly and scampered across the street, his head constantly moving, on the lookout for the walking dead. The chain link fence rattling behind him resonated with metallic discord. The initial sprint from the chopper and his poorly thought out vault over the fence left him a bit winded and reopened his freshly scabbed over wounds. A spike of pain in his side urged him to slow down while the moaning coming from nearby zombies spurred him on.
Daymon noticed that several blocks to the west, the blue and gold helicopter hovered noisily. What a brilliant move. Duncan was drawing the walkers to him by creating a diversion that they couldn’t resist. Cagey bastard, Daymon thought appreciatively.
After running three city blocks at full speed with the Kelty pack weighing him down and the crossbow bludgeoning his lower back with each footfall, he slowed to a trot to formulate a plan. His little house was on the left three blocks up ahead. Front door or back? he asked himself. Since he had already determined from the air that there weren’t any threats behind the house, the decision was easy. He was going to go through the neighbor’s yard that butted up against his and jump the fence, hopefully ending up behind his house without being seen.
Daymon caught sight of the three walkers the moment he rounded the corner. The trio staggered in the middle of 4th Avenue, rubbernecking at the hovering Black Hawk. Without thinking he went to a knee, readied the crossbow, and aimed for the nearest walker. He watched with satisfaction as the rotter crumpled sideways, then hit the asphalt face first, with the arrow protruding from the base of its neck. Oblivious to their brother’s demise, the other zombies continued gawking at the helicopter.
***
Thirty foot aspen trees lined both sides of the street; Duncan held the bird in a near perfect hover a few feet above their whipping branches and watched Daymon’s escape. He didn’t feel at all comfortable with the situation, but it wasn’t his decision to make, so just seeing Daymon make it to safety would have to be good enough.
Duncan cheered aloud when the first walker dropped. After dispatching the second zombie with a swipe of his machete, Daymon was up and running directly towards the remaining monster. Duncan chuckled as the ghoul’s head went airborne and then bounced twice before finally coming to rest next to the storm drain. Just a little off the top please. Duncan’s chuckle evolved into a belly laugh and then his trademark cackle as he rooted for his friend on the ground.
***
Daymon was almost home now, literally. He needed to navigate two yards and one more fence and he would be safely in his unkempt backyard. God how he hoped his home was secure.
The Robertson’s Ford Taurus was parked in the driveway leading Daymon to assume the elderly folks were in the home. He stepped onto their porch with every intention of asking their permission to cut through the yard. What the hell am I doing, he thought, a millisecond before he rang the doorbell. For a moment he had allowed the familiarity of his surroundings to lull him into a false sense of security, and before he could regret his action a pair of bodies slammed into the ornate oak door. Daymon raised the crossbow, training it on the door as he backed off of the porch. Since he didn’t want to further rile his undead neighbors, he stayed close to the house, ducking when he passed by the windows.
Once he entered their nicely maintained backyard, he couldn’t help but stop and stare. The mere sight of his house brought goose bumps to his arms. After all that he had seen and been through during the last hellish week, it was a strange, yet comforting feeling to be back in his hometown, about to break into his own home.
***
Good going lad. Duncan breathed a sigh of relief as the cocksure fool cleared the fence, traversed the knee high grass, and bounded up the back steps. Then Duncan slowly rotated the noisy chopper towards the southwest and stole one last lingering look as Daymon disappeared into his house.
***
Daymon jiggled the doorknob. Locked. He remembered that he had left his keys and his Honda Accord at the fire station in Jackson before taking the trip to see his mom one week ago. He cursed himself for not hiding a spare key outside. Every time he had lost or misplaced his keys in the past, which was often, he swore he would follow through. Maybe it could be attributed to forgetfulness or maybe his penchant for smoking Mary Jane in his downtime--whatever the case, the door was locked and he had no key, so he bit the bullet and shattered the glass pane adjacent to the lock with one soft tap from the shotgun barrel.
Once he was inside with the door locked, he relaxed a little. The house smelled just like he remembered: days old pizza and the overlying scent of jasmine incense. The latter was necessary to cover up the pungent smell of marijuana and it started him thinking--he hadn’t given weed a second thought since the ordeal in Hanna a few days ago and he could take it or leave it now.
Scattered on the floor inside the front door, like poorly dealt playing cards, was the mail that had accumulated the week before the outbreak. When he was on fire duty, and not out in the field actively fighting a fire, he called the firehouse close to downtown Jackson home. The three-story brick building was built like a bunker and had the ubiquitous pole running down from the bunk area to the garage. Best of all, it was nearby all of the watering holes frequented by the out-of-townies and just two blocks from his favorite BBQ joint. The thought of a slow cooked slab of brisket set off a Pavlovian reaction, making him drool just a little.
After taking a quick check of the house with the crossbow cocked and loaded he returned to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, more out of habit than the need for sustenance. G
ood Lord. The noxious smell of rotted meat and spoiled milk blasted him in the face. The nauseating odors, though not quite as bad, took him back to the farmhouse in Hanna. Since he was in there already he figured a warm beer wouldn’t hurt. After cracking the seal and taking a small pull, the bitter taste and skunk nose instantly changed his mind. He poured the Bud down the drain and went to check on Lu Lu.
Chapter 18
Outbreak - Day 8
I-25
Castle Rock, Colorado
“I think we can make it to Colorado Springs before dark,” Ted stated with a newfound optimism.
“If the road stays this clear... I think you’re right. I can’t believe those dumbasses didn’t cross over and drive on this side,” Wilson added incredulously.
“Humans are very unpredictable when under great duress. Especially when it involves large numbers of them forced to cope with unexpected calamity. You and I... we all possess a fight or flight instinct hardwired into our brain and act on it differently... that’s why we’re surviving--so far. Take the Titanic for instance: a majority of her passengers waited patiently on the listing deck for a rescue that wasn’t going to happen while their fellows were already drowning in the icy water, many of them oblivious to their own fate--the others accepting it as fact and giving up. Hell, some of them busted out the bubbly while an impromptu band struck up music on the deck as the supposedly unsinkable cruise liner foundered. Those people that got trapped in traffic and died over there... they took the sheep route,” Ted said, addressing Wilson’s observation.
Suddenly William coughed repeatedly, a seismic event that caused his frail body to buck.
Sasha flinched from the outburst and held her Louis Vuitton handbag in front of her face, determined to block any potential showers of spittle.
In Harm's Way Page 12
