Avoiding direct eye contact, Gerald looked past Daymon towards the front door. “I’m sorry Daymon,” he said running his fingers, thick and calloused from years of honest work, through his hair.
“Why didn’t anyone try to stand up to him?” spat Daymon.
“He had more men and a helluva lot more firepower than Chief Jenkins—and all of the other officers combined,” Gerald said in a near whisper. “Some of the boys down at the VFW hall... they talked about starting an organized resistance but Bishop got wind of it and had them all beaten within an inch of their lives. Freddy Joe, you know him. He was the bomber pilot from the big one—he died from the beatin’ they gave him.”
Seething Daymon said, “That’s fucked! Freddy beats the odds. He survives thirty over Hitler’s Germany without buying it and then some opportunist pricks murder him?”
“Chief Jenkins could do nothing about it either. And then after Fred Joe died... that broke their back. The rest of the guys—they lost the spirit to even discuss the NA in public.”
The building shook once again from the bass heavy sound of rotors thrashing the air as another low flying helicopter transited the airspace over the city’s center. This one sounded different—larger—Daymon noted.
After a minute the noisy chopper faded into the distance and Daymon finished his thought. “The veterans meant well—but really what did they think they were going to be able to do against men armed with weapons like you describe? Now that’s just one country boy’s opinion. I have a gut feeling it’s going to take some real badasses to get rid of the dudes.”
“What’s the number for SEAL Team Six?” Gerald said only half joking. “I know it’s not in my Rolodex.”
I know a few badasses, Daymon thought to himself. Unfortunately their number isn’t in my Rolodex either. “If you ask me, I think the city is as dead as the walkers. A fuckin’ shame too. You know... once I find Heidi... I’m getting the fuck out. Pardon the cursing sir—”
“Heard it before, Daymon,” Gerald proffered as he downed his Knob Creek.
Thinking the walls might have ears, Daymon waited a tick before speaking. Then he cast his eyes towards the rafters trying to decide how much he wanted to say. “If the Police Chief and his men couldn’t stop the bad guys... then I don’t know how this place is ever going to get out from under their thumb. And when I spoke to Jenkins yesterday he seemed overwhelmed —to say the least. Those storm troopers sure have him spooked.”
Gerald wore an intense look as he said, “Those men in black are evil.” The old man spoke slowly, and then drew out the word evil his voice gravelly. “At first Bishop’s fellas were only pushy and demanding. But that all changed when Chief Jenkins stood up to him... called him out in front of his men. Bishop took it as an insult. But instead of hurting Jenkins—he made examples out of Darby, Palmer, and Doreen. Doreen—God rest her soul. She suffered extra.” Gerald pushed his bi-focals up, pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled forcefully before continuing. “The mongrels had a party with her before they fed her to those creatures.”
The visual turned Daymon’s stomach upside down. “Where did the flat-faced guy take Heidi and the other girls?” he asked staring intensely across the bar.
“To the mansion... I’m sure of it,” Gerald proffered.
“Will you do me a favor?” Daymon said over the top of his glass, savoring the nose of roasted nuts and honey wafting from the room temperature bourbon.
“Depends on what you’re asking of me,” replied Gerald softly and slowly.
The singsong cadence of the old man’s voice brought goose bumps to Daymon’s skin.
“I came from Driggs with one thing on my mind...” Daymon intoned. “Find Heidi if it kills me.” He pinned his dreads behind his ears and hardened his expression as he planned his next words. “It appears this Robert Christian and his muscle Bishop and Flat Face have opened up a whole new can of worms for me.”
Gerald leaned in close enough to make Daymon think he was about to be on the receiving end of a head-butt.
“Anything else you want to tell me?” Daymon asked as his claustrophobia kicked in, causing him to lean back thus widening his bubble of personal space.
“The one place that I know of where you can have an audience with Robert Christian...”
To hell with phobias. Daymon leaned back in. “Go on,” he said.
Gerald resumed where he had left off. “One of the other Essentials let it slip after one too many imbibed right here in my bar that this Christian fella takes a daily meal in the elk refuge, usually before noon, but sometimes after. It’s second hand info—so take it with a grain. If you need to vamoose in a hurry... a word of caution... the monsters seem to be coming up 189 from the southwest so the NA boys have the bridge by Hoback ready to blow. Do not go that way. If you leave, take the pass or go north past the airport. But be careful, there are NA baddies on both roads. Young man... promise me you will think before doing anything stupid where Christian or Bishop is concerned.”
“Doing nothing is stupid. I ain’t got a thing to lose—and everything to gain,” Daymon said, his voice trailing off. “Thanks for the heads up about the Snake crossing.” He downed the bourbon in one shot while the niggling voice he chalked up to conscience warned him about drinking and driving. Who’s going to give an Essential a DUI anyway, crossed his mind as he shook Gerald’s hand. Then, a little tipsy and armed with his new knowledge, he took a lingering look around the empty honkytonk and tried to detect a little bit of Heidi’s presence before venturing out into the sunlight.
The last thing he wanted to do now was draw attention to himself. If he was going to find out what had happened to Heidi he knew that he was going to have to start asking around, either that, or set up surveillance on the house. Daymon shook his head and racked his brain. Neither of those options were acceptable since most people in Jackson knew him—and to those that didn’t—he would stand out to like a sore thumb. He was one of those people who if you had met him even once—however briefly—the chance that you’d remember how to describe him easily topped one hundred and ten percent.
Daymon was left with only one clear place to start, and to rule out whether or not his girl was among the crucified, he was going to have to return to the place he had privately dubbed ‘The valley of the crosses.’ And to get there he would have to take the Teton pass highway which he’d decided to call the highway to hell. With that thought, the old AC/DC song of the same name began looping through his mind.
Chapter 21
Outbreak - Day 11
Logan Winter’s Compound
Eden, Utah
“The radio has been awfully quiet. You think we ought to check in?” Phillip asked.
His question was answered by several staccato bursts of gunfire coming from the east side of the property.
“Let’s stay put lest we get ourselves shot up,” drawled Duncan. “Let’s just watch our backs and not get trigger happy.”
“I second that,” Carter proffered.
Three minutes later Lev’s voice came over the radio. “We’re coming into the clearing. Do-not-shoot.”
“Copy that,” Duncan replied into the two-way then he watched the tree line for signs of movement. Finally, backpedaling, Lev, Chief, and Seth burst into the clearing.
“Where the hell are Gus and Sampson?” Ed, the balding heavy set fellow asked.
Duncan looked at him and said, “Think good thoughts.”
The three men sprinted across the clearing with two dozen rotters in pursuit. Chief slowed to a walk, turned, and dropped four of the advancing crowd.
By the time the trio reached Duncan’s position they were all winded from fighting through the underbrush while trying to avoid being surrounded.
“There are more of them in there but they’re busy eating some bastard,” Seth blurted.
“Calm down,” Duncan said to the young man. “I say we let ‘em get a little closer and then POW, we finish ‘em right here.”
“Don’t worry about the other two,” Chief said soberly. “They were in their tree stands and should be safe.”
“Lock and load,” Duncan said, taking charge of the situation. “Carter, Ed, Phillip... fan out towards the bunker entrance. You three spread left... we’ll get the Zs in a crossfire.” He waited until the rotters were right in the middle of the clearing before yelling “Fire!”
After a fifteen second lead storm all of the creatures were down.
“Reload,” Duncan bellowed. He felt like he was taking place in a Civil War re-enactment. “Let’s see if the gunfire tears the others from the feedbag.”
“Let’s make some noise,” Lev said. “Should get their attention.”
Duncan started hollering.
The others followed suit.
Shortly after, the brush parted on the other side and rotters started staggering through the shin high grass.
“Wait.” Duncan paused.
“Now!” he said as he fired his borrowed shotgun into the decaying clutch. Though not very effective at this range, the scattergun still took some pieces off of the shamblers.
As soon as the gunfire died out, Lev noticed his Motorola begging to be answered. Relieved to hear Gus’s voice leap from the speaker, he inquired about Sampson.
“Not good,” said Gus. “They got to him. I need help with the fence... bring tools. And there are some more walkers down here but I think I can hold them off for a minute. Hurry though.”
A call from the compound came over the two-way. “This is Logan. Has anyone seen the girls?”
“Negative,” replied Lev. “We’re going to the road to help Gus. We have some fence to repair so Seth is coming to the compound to get some tools.”
“Copy that. All right!” Logan shouted, unable to hide his glee.
“What’s happening?” Lev asked
“The girls just snuck in the back door.”
“I’ll pass the word,” Lev added. Lucky you.
***
Cordite haze hung in the still air as Lev walked among the fallen rotters finishing off anything that moved. Sampson’s body was wrapped in a blue tarp and he would receive a proper burial later.
Sitting with his back to a fence post, Gus was still trying to come to grips with the fact that he had been forced to put down a friend. Sampson was already turned when Gus found him wandering on the road. It hadn’t been easy but he pulled the trigger, an action that no doubt he would never forget.
Seth and Carter tackled the fence repair while Duncan paced the fence line, saddled with the subtle feeling that someone was watching him. “Lev... Gus... can I get your ears?”
Duncan held court with the two men that he suspected were the most capable of the group. “I have a feeling we’re being probed. I don’t think this has much to do with the good old boys you all offed the other day. However, we have just tipped our hand as far as personnel is concerned.”
“What do you propose?” Gus asked.
“I think we should lay low for a couple of days and then take the chopper up and go on a scavenger hunt. If we’re going to hold this compound we will need more arms and stuff that goes boom.”
Lev perked up. “We could find a National Guard Armory. Good stuff there.”
“Would seem like a good a place to start but the Guard was deployed early and suffered from it. Poor bastards didn’t know what they were up against until it was too late.” Duncan shook his head slowly. “Just an idea, we’ll have to kick it around with the others. From what I understand that’s how things get handled around here.”
“We can kick it over later,” Chief said. “Right now I need help burying Sampson.”
Chapter 22
Outbreak - Day 11
Grand Junction, Colorado
Hicks crabwalked slowly to the right. The knife, perfectly balanced, felt like a natural extension of his hand. This would be no normal knife fight—if there even was such a thing. There would be no incapacitating attacks to the torso—wouldn’t work on the dead, he reasoned. He figured he would only have one chance: go for the head once the lumbering monster got close enough.
The creature to his right wore a heavy two piece uniform with the words GROUND MAINTENANCE stenciled front and back in an easy to read black font. An impossible to miss gaping chasm had been chewed into the heavy set man’s neck, the obvious cause of his first death. The ghoul had nothing beneath his chin save for bits of dried yellow trachea and streamers of glossy flesh. Hicks could easily make out vertebra and burnished cords of muscle rippling as the Z’s head bobbled with each ungainly stride. The thing’s blood had sluiced out and dried in a crazy tie-dyed pattern staining the bright yellow uniform; it almost looked like it should be at a Phish concert scoring a joint instead of lurching around hungering for human flesh.
In addition to Tie-Dye who emitted raspy groans as he approached, two more zombies angled silently in from Hicks’s left.
The first creature, a middle-aged woman who in her human life had obviously been a tanning bed addict, had wisely dressed for a hot summer day: plaid Bermuda shorts, a tight black tee shirt with garish golden lettering that said Viva Las Vegas stretched taut across her fake boobs, and a pair of scuffed and bloody high backed sandals wrapping her dainty feet. Mister ultra-violet spectrum, fake or not, hadn’t been kind to her in life and he hadn’t given her any slack in death.
Bites marked her leathered hands and arms. The deep craters, ringed with purpled ridges, proved she had tried in vain to ward off a ferocious attack before finally succumbing to the virus and joining the ranks of the dead.
Trailing ten feet behind and to the left of the female version of Wayne Newton staggered the hairiest Z Hicks had ever seen. Wearing nothing but a blue Speedo banana hammock, the groaning creature angled for an attack, its bare feet slapping out a steady cadence on the super-heated tarmac.
Hicks, taken aback by the out of place oddity, nearly dropped his blade. He presumed the nearly naked walker had left his last pool party, enticed by the plane crash and ensuing inferno, then come in through the shattered fence along with the rest of the Zs. A fiery spectacle the mindless fuckers couldn’t resist, Hicks thought as he crouched, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, prepared to engage Tie-Dye first.
***
Sweeping his SCAR carbine to the left, Lopez delivered final peace to one badly burnt walker, its partially melted flesh sagging in places revealing pink fissures and contrasting white bone underneath. Through his scope he witnessed his three round burst cleave the Z’s head in two. Gray brains blossomed in the air, and as the blackened monster became one with the scorched tarmac it appeared the demon was being welcomed back into hell.
He dropped the spent mag and back-pedaled, jamming a fresh one in the well as a phalanx of similarly burnt creatures vectored his way. “Get a move on Hicks!” he bellowed into his mic before letting loose with half a dozen three round bursts, most of which found their mark, dropping four more of the advancing crowd. His final salvo, however, went wide and found one of the massive plate glass panes fronting Grand Junction’s north concourse several hundred yards distant. The quarter inch thick glass which had been tempered to deaden the high decibel shriek of a jet engine would normally have been able to withstand a single errant 5.56x45 mm NATO round without shattering completely. Against three simultaneous bullet strikes, each hitting only a fist width apart, it stood no chance.
***
Inside Grand Junction Airport
Taryn’s full attention had been locked on the soldiers and their strange helicopter when the wall of windows directly below and opposite the office exploded inward. The ensuing implosion of glass shrapnel peppered the opposite walls, sending minute kernels bouncing across the carpeted floor like so many shiny spotless dice.
With the window that had been supporting Subway Karen now scattered about the concourse in a thou
sand pea-sized bits, the decaying corpse tumbled into the void face first.
As Dickless and the other creatures teetered on the edge, Taryn silently chanted Go, go, go, urging them to follow Karen’s lead. With the newly created opening she had expected the high pitched whine and popping rotor sounds to invade the concourse. Instead she heard only a strange harmonic whirring emitted by the helicopter. She thought about yelling out for help but quickly shelved the idea. The men were far too distant; furthermore, the only attention that her screams would garner would be from the dead.
***
Meanwhile, near the fuel trucks, Hicks, knife firmly gripped in his right hand, waited for the creatures to close the gap.
Tie-Dye lunged first, leaving his destroyed throat vulnerable. Hicks dipped his hips and exploded off of his right heel. The well-muscled sergeant’s body uncoiled as he followed through with a Cold Steel uppercut. The triple hardened blade easily pierced the soft flesh under the big zombie’s chin, and continued on through the upper palate scrambling the monster’s brain.
“Hicks—ten o’clock,” Tice called out as his finger hovered longingly near the mini-gun trigger.
Hicks shuddered at the sight of the skewered creature—a pre-puke dry heave caught in his throat. He let the dead walker slide from his knife, and then squared his shoulders, feet spread slightly, ready to accept the next threat.
As Speedo lurched closer, a trio of 5.56 hardball crackled by Hicks’s right ear and hammered the nearly naked walker to the ground. With its jaw pulverized and shredded left arm hanging limp and of no use, the Z struggled to stand.
“You trying to kill us all Captain?” Hicks hollered without taking his eyes from the struggling corpse.
“It was nearly on top of you... I had the angle,” answered Cade calmly. “I didn’t seal the deal though—finish him for me, will ya.”
Taking a calculated risk Hicks drew his Beretta with his off hand, took a stride forward, and, risking conflagration, delivered the kill shot point blank to the rear of the Z’s head.
A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 14
