As she drew the sheet up to her nose Raven asked in a near whisper, “What was that?”
“Mom’s going to go and see.”
“Please don’t leave me Mom... something is out there.”
A voice in Brook’s head—real or imagined—begged her not to go.
Her feet slapping the cold floor, Brook retrieved her rifle and the compact Glock 19. She placed both on the top bunk, climbed up, and pulled Raven after.
“What are we going to do?” Raven asked.
“Hopefully nothing.”
The moans and wails resumed. They went on for minutes before staccato bursts of gunfire answered.
Brook clutched her M4, held Raven tighter.
Somewhere from off in the distance came the sound of a Bradley’s diesel chugging to life, the shifting of gears, hollow clunks echoing between the barracks and then the sound of a heavy machinegun firing. Then—only the patter of rain.
“Is it over?” Raven whispered.
“I think so, but we’ll find out for sure in the morning.” With those words began a long sleepless night in the Grayson billet.
***
Schriever Mess Hall
Though it was after ten o’clock and the rain had shown no sign of letting up, there were more people than usual in the Schriever mess hall.
The return of the foraging convoy had not gone unnoticed by the civilian shut-ins, the airmen, and the soldiers who called the sprawling base home. Word had spread quickly and the hall had been overrun and was at full capacity until an hour ago.
Wilson surveyed the rectangular room before taking a seat. “Good thing we waited,” he said, thinking out loud. He shook the rain from his boonie hat and hung it on the back of his chair.
“Too bad Ted didn’t answer when we knocked. He seemed pretty pissed off last time I saw him.”
“Language Sash...” Mom wouldn’t let it slide and neither should I, Wilson thought.
Sasha shot her brother a look that said, ‘You’re not the boss of me.’
Wilson let it go and asked, “What did Ted say?”
“Something about nude yoga. If I didn’t already know he was gay I would have been more creeped out. He wasn’t hitting on me... was he?”
“Don’t flatter yourself Sis. I suspect you were driving him crazy. Plus he’s dealing with William’s passing,” Wilson said as a strange feeling washed over him. Knowing what he did and not being able to share it with his sibling wasn’t at all easy.
Sasha picked at the icing, inspected the red and blue crystalline sprinkles, and popped the triangle shaped morsel into her mouth. She closed her eyes, let the pastry melt for a moment, and smiled wide, teeth showing.
“I told you they would have Pop-Tarts,” Wilson said smugly.
“I thought you were talking about some Army ration kind of Pop-Tart... not the real thing.” She took another nibble. “Have you tasted the crackers they try to pass off as Ritz in those nasty MRE things? Ugghhh.”
Wilson massaged his lower lumbar then gripped the chair back and rotated his torso, forcibly cracking his spine. “I helped load ten cases of the things myself. I’ve got the knots in my shoulders and back to attest to it.”
“If only Ted knew what he was missing. Maybe I’ll sneak him some,” Sasha said with arched brows as she stuffed a foil packet in her pocket.
“Good idea Sash.”
She nodded and dove back into her Pop-Tart.
“How was it out there—did you see a lot of dead people?”
“Not as many as Denver. Not even clo...”
The sound of silverware skittering across the floor stopped Wilson mid-sentence.
A woman screaming and then a male’s voice yelling, “He’s infected!”
Serving trays slapped the floor followed by footsteps and raised voices.
Wilson arose just in time to see the zombie latching on to a soldier’s neck. Crimson blood sprayed in a flat arc hitting the glass sneeze shields.
One of the cooks swung a pan lid, scythe-like, at the creature’s head missing everything but the air.
Wilson’s fight or flight instinct went into high gear. He grabbed Sasha by the wrist and led her to the exit. One of the most important lessons he had taken from his encounter with his zombie neighbors in the hallway of the Viscount: zombies were very dangerous in enclosed spaces. He had almost died that day and he was bound and determined to live this one out.
Chapter 40
Outbreak - Day 11
Jackson Hole, Wyoming
Jackson Firehouse - 10:30 p.m.
Cade eased the door open with his left hand and stepped across the threshold, SCAR leading the way. He hit the thumb switch on the carbine’s fore grip toggling on the IR laser. The green beam, visible only to those with night vision goggles, lanced the air.
The other operators who had been stacked up behind him outside silently poured through the doorway, painting their assigned section of the room with a dancing laser beam.
Each of the operators had trained running the same room-clearing maneuvers hundreds of times over, guns hot, in a live fire environment either in Delta’s Fort Bragg kill houses or in Tice’s case, “The Farm” at Camp Peary in Williamsburg, Virginia. The four men didn’t need to communicate as they slithered through the rooms clearing the lower level. They found themselves in a roughly thirty by twenty foot open floor plan kitchen rendered in glowing shades of green. Big enough to accommodate a crew of firefighters, a wooden plank table sat smack dab in the middle of the kitchen while an industrial size range and two side by side refrigerators dominated the wall to their left. Floor to ceiling open fronted cabinets filled with coffee mugs, dinnerware and various pots and pans covered the right wall.
Cade passed through the darkened kitchen and padded into the garage where an older model, almost antique, fire engine was parked. Nearby the ubiquitous firehouse brass pole pierced the floor and on the right side of the garage a staircase rose up to what he presumed was the living and sleeping areas.
Ascending the stairs, the Delta team covered each other and silently made their way to the second floor. Beyond the doorway at the top of the landing lay a wide open, loft style, communal living area furnished with a sectional couch and a handful of upholstered chairs encircling a flat screen television.
Cade skirted the living room and made his way down a darkened hallway which branched off to the left. Stopping near an open door, he craned his neck, working his NV goggles around the door frame.
Rendered in green a great room spread out before him. Three rows of low slung beds, twelve in all, occupied the room, each with its own side table, lamp, and metal storage locker at the foot.
“Contact,” Cade said. His whisper picked up and amplified by his throat mic reached only the Delta team’s ears.
The third bunk to the left was occupied and the sheet covering the green lump rose and fell in a steady rhythm. All at once a strange feeling of deja vu washed over Cade as he approached, crabwalking sideways to flank the person who could only be his old buddy Daymon.
With Lopez’s laser hovering on the form, Cade pulled the sheet back revealing the sleeping man’s placid face and wandering dreadlocks splayed out snake-like over the pillow.
Cade knelt down and ever so slowly retrieved a short combat shotgun from its hiding place underneath the bed, then passed it back to Maddox.
Using the stunted silencer affixed to his SCAR Cade nudged Daymon’s thigh.
His lips moved as he murmured something unintelligible, then he rolled over onto his side coming dangerously close to falling off of the narrow twin bed.
“Daymon... wake up,” Cade said in a stage whisper.
The man popped up, eyes wide open, reached to the floor, and fumbled around in the dark for the shotgun. “Shit,” he said, eyes darting about the pitch black room trying to acquire a sliver of equilibrium.
“Daymon it’s me... Cade Grayson.”
“Sergeant Cade,” Daymon said, relief evidenced in his voic
e.
“Close enough... is there anyone else in the firehouse.”
“Nope... just me and I can’t see a fuckin' thing. Can I turn on a light?” Daymon asked, already reaching for the lamp on the far side of the bed.
The sudden movement invited the cold steel kiss of Lopez’s SCAR to his temple.
“Chill... I was just reaching for my lamp. Or if you would like I can go down to the basement and fire up the backup generator—noisy as hell—I haven’t used it yet cause it’s a big fucking pain in the ass. That and I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
Cade flipped up his NVGs. “Lamp will be fine.”
“What, are you planning on having a séance or something,” Tice quipped as soon as Daymon flipped the switch. The lamp, as it turned out, was a battery powered model that barely threw enough light to read by.
Lopez aimed his rifle away from the dreadlocked man, asking him if he had anything brighter.
Looking like a baby foal, Daymon rolled out of bed and slowly unfolded his lanky frame. Then as he filed by the other operators on his way to the living area, he looked at Cade and quipped, “Looks like you brought the entire posse this time Sarge.”
“A little different than when we first met,” offered Cade.
Daymon chuckled. “Maybe so, but I still got the gun jammed in my face.”
“Lopez doesn’t cut corners.”
Once they were all seated on the enormous sectional and a half a dozen candles were burning, Cade started the inquisition. “That shotgun you had in the dorm... it looked a lot like the one Duncan had when I met him outside of Portland.”
“He made me take it when he dropped me off in Driggs.”
“So he went on to Eden?”
“As far as I know,” Daymon answered. Then he shifted forward on the sectional to look Cade in the eye. “I’m disappointed that after all we have been through together you haven’t taken the time to introduce me to your entourage,” he added, obviously alluding to their siege in the zombie-filled farmhouse in Hannah, their crash in the Black Hawk between Denver and Colorado Springs, and their subsequent mad dash to Schriever in the armored car.
“I’m sorry. Where did I put my manners...?” Cade intoned theatrically. “Daymon, I want you to meet Lopez... he hates the Zs more than anything on this earth. Maddox there is the tall handsome fellow with the big gun and you may call this other guy Tice. That’s the only name I know him by... probably an alias anyway. He’s our token Spook.”
Bristling visibly, Daymon glared at Cade across the coffee table. “What did you call him?”
“He’s CIA. Spook is an affectionate term given to those who work in the clandestine services.”
Daymon shot Cade a withering look.
“I shouldn’t have used those two words in conjunction... sorry...” Cade stopped mid-sentence and pushed a button on his watch starting the lap timer, then looked at Lopez, passing an unspoken message.
A few seconds later the unmistakable sound of the patrolling Humvee passed by a short distance from the firehouse.
“Do you have any bikes in the house?” Cade asked.
“Bikes?” Daymon said slowly as if he didn’t understand the question.
“Mountain bikes preferably,” added Cade.
“I’m pretty sure a couple of the guys kept theirs in the basement year round. Lots of single track to ride around here in the summer.”
“Show me,” Tice said.
Daymon pulled himself up from the couch and led the CIA man down the stairs.
Once Tice and Daymon had left the room, Cade motioned for Maddox and Lopez to follow him to the side window. He flipped his goggles down and pulled the curtain a few inches. In the distance, viewed through their NVGs, the opalescent yellow-green glow of the grass covered 25,000 acre National Elk Refuge looked like a landlocked algae covered sea.
“There and there,” Cade said, pointing out the school bus-sized Patriot anti-missile launchers sitting in the open expanse. “And if Nash’s imagery is correct—which it usually is—then the other two sites are on the opposite side near the fence lines. The whole round trip is maybe... four miles max.”
“Good call on the bikes. They’ll be easy to ditch if a patrol rolls around... and stealthy. And with our NVGs and the suppressed pistols we will definitely have the upper hand,” Maddox proffered.
“We will be very exposed...” Lopez said as he made the sign of the cross. “I just hope there are no demonios in that big ass cow pasture.”
Tice returned to the communal area. Daymon showed his face a moment later.
“Only two bikes downstairs,” Tice said, shaking his head slowly, “and there are four of us.”
Cade turned off his NVGs to conserve the batteries and flipped them up out of the way. He glanced at his Suunto and exclaimed, “Eighteen minutes until the patrol returns. Maddox... Lopez... you two will have to make it happen on the two bikes. Tice and I will be your eyes and ears from here and be your QRF (quick reaction force) if necessary.”
Quietly observing from the doorway Daymon asked earnestly, “What are you up to Cade?”
“I can’t go into detail except to say we’re here to set some things right,” Cade said, nodding his helmet.
“Picked the right time. Jackson is hemorrhaging people. Robert Christian’s NA fools have been disappearing on a daily basis. And the civilians who are essentially slave labor prisoners slink away in the night and the ones who get caught deserting... you don’t even want to know what happens to them.”
“I can imagine,” Cade said solemnly. “But I’m here with a sole purpose. We are going to need a reliable vehicle... SUV preferably.” Cade paused in thought, and then shot a stony look at Daymon. “When Lopez and Maddox return I need you to drive us to Robert Christian’s mansion.”
A cold finger traced Daymon’s spine as he rapidly thought through the possibilities. “I can take you there. No problem,” he replied, instantly feeling the chill leave his body. He smiled inwardly and stared across the table at the heavily armed soldiers draped in body armor with their tactical helmets strapped on their heads, thinking to himself gleefully, I’ll do anything to get within striking distance of that Robert Christian motherfucker.
***
Lopez and Maddox each put two detonators and four of the two pound C4 bricks into their individual packs. They travelled light taking only their silenced side arms, two extra mags, and their combat knives. Neither man wanted to leave behind their SCAR rifle, but, speed and stealth being necessary, it couldn’t be helped.
The two operators waited twenty-two minutes in the shadows behind the firehouse until the patrol finished another lap.
Cade watched from the back door as the operators mounted their bikes, took a second to push their NVGs into place, and then pedaled off into the green-hued darkness.
***
While Tice took the first watch Cade and Daymon rehashed the events that had occurred over the last three days.
Cade covered everything that had happened at Schriever since Daymon and Duncan left, minus the parts about his brother in-law Carl and Doctor Fuentes and the antiserum.
Daymon described the trip from Schriever up until Duncan dropped him off near his home in Driggs. He didn’t mention Heidi nor his surveillance of Robert Christian earlier in the day. He didn’t think it would benefit him in any way.
Chapter 41
Outbreak - Day 12
Jackson Hole, Wyoming
Midnight
Bishop came to—disoriented and out of sorts. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes then looked at his watch— zero hundred. He had closed his eyes fully expecting to be roused from his catnap by Daly calling to say he was Winchester on ammo or by one of the Brothers checking in.
Things like this rarely happened to the former Navy SEAL. Though it was a minor mistake he was still pissed off at himself.
Bishop checked his phone and thought it strange that no one had called while he was asleep. He immediately dialed Daly.
“Come on. Pick up... pick up. Answer your phone Goddamnit.”
After half a dozen unanswered rings he thumbed off the Iridium. A chill feathered through him.
He left his west slope condo behind the wheel of the Rover, speeding towards the Snake River crossing while thinking the worst. Along the way he passed an NA security patrol manned by two of his newer conscripts. At the moment the black truck with the stenciled NA logo blurred by he realized he hated having to call his Spartan contractors New America soldiers. Furthermore, Christian’s absurd notion that he was now a world leader thanks to Omega was growing increasingly irritating. That the man hadn’t had the balls to run for the office of President before the outbreak spoke volumes to his character. It was probably because of all the bones in his closet, Bishop guessed. Or most likely all of the bodies he had buried—figuratively of course. A shovel had never brushed the man’s supple hands and one never would.
“Fucking dummy,” Bishop shouted as he floored the accelerator. He would never admit it—such was his nature—but frankly he was more than a little embarrassed that he had romanticized the idea of leading and molding the NA military to his liking. In the original version of Christian’s New World Order the possibility was most assured. Now he knew it was unattainable. For it had become evident the sheer numbers of dead were changing everything—except in Robert Christian’s delusional thinking.
He covered the nine miles from downtown in less than five minutes, and as the darkened strip malls came into view he saw that both of the bus barriers were breached. Thankfully, he thought, most of the dead were still milling around the houses north of the bridge. The two strip malls on this side of the river were also teeming with the creatures.
The SUVs big tires chirped as he stabbed the brakes, bringing it to a sudden halt on the shoulder.
In the distance he could see a number of Zs huddled in the center of the road feeding on what he guessed was one of his men.
As the truck idled on the side of the road he tried Daly one more time. The phone trilled on. No answer. “Why didn’t you blow the fucking bridge genius,” Bishop bellowed as he tousled his short cropped hair with one hand and clouted the wheel with the other.
A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 27
