The sound reminded him of the bamboo wind chimes his wife Brook had brought home from the Oregon coast.
After a few ticks, it was evident the noise had not piqued anyone’s curiosity. Cade finished his ascent of the stairs and crouched on the porch to the right of the front door. He tested the patinaed door handle, unlocked. Before he did a little breaking and entering, Cade checked his six for any approaching threats.
With the exception of the rotting corpses at the end of the drive he was still alone. The wind abruptly changed direction, bringing the stench of the dead with it.
Cade pushed the door inward revealing an ornate mahogany foyer, beyond, a beautifully carved bannister followed the curve of the stairs to the second floor. Apparently the owner paid more attention to the interior of the house than the outside.
Cade knew that the man was close by, his vehicle was hidden-as good as a large mint green Chevy Suburban could be-between the back porch and a garage only big enough for a truck half its size.
Another clue someone was in the house was the unmistakable smell of marijuana. In his youth he had only smelled the stuff once or twice. It was a drug he had never ingested into his system, he preferred to be of sound mind and body at all times. Occasionally Cade would enjoy a sip of bourbon or a cold beer. In everyday life some people relied on substances to take the edge off. In Cade’s line of work the edge was expected to be present and honed razor sharp at all times.
He made the landing at the top of the stairs without as much as a creak coming from under foot. The pot odor was getting stronger; it appeared to be coming from the room at the farthest end of the hall.
Arranged on the wall, individual photos of three boys faced him; their unnatural smiles conjured up by some photographer’s inane words. All three were attired in Boy Scout uniforms and appeared to be in their teens. The corpses on the front lawn were undoubtedly the same young men whose pictures Cade was staring at.
His memories were like ghosts and it pained him that it took someone else’s family pictures to extract them from the ether. He reflected fondly to his time in the Eagle Scouts. The graduation ceremony was special. He remembered how very proud Mom and Dad were on that warm spring day.
Lately he found himself withdrawing. Retreating inward was an effective tool that he utilized when he had to be away from Brook and Raven, either on deployment; or later running special ops with Delta Force. He was more efficient at his craft when his mind wasn’t wandering to places it shouldn’t. The skill had proven itself very useful these last few chaotic days.
Stealthily, he pushed the first door open with the silencer affixed to his M4. From the looks of the room it belonged to a teenaged boy. A cream colored wooden dresser, of the cheaply made Scandinavian variety, stood in the far corner; the drawers were half open and bursting with unfolded clothes.
A large poster of some teeny bopper girl with jet black hair, dark lipstick and much too sultry of a look, for her age, dominated the wall over the bed. Cade suddenly wondered what had befallen the Hollywood and entertainment set when their fans had become hungry for more than just a glimpse or an autograph. Oh to be a fly on the wall on Rodeo drive when the dead started their army ant like march. The dining must have been to die for in front of the white marble storefronts displaying their super expensive marked up merchandise. It wasn’t in his nature to wish ill will on anyone, but even he had a threshold of tolerance, and when it came to the whiny ungrateful bastards on television, he was fresh out.
The room was vacant, its only residents being the girlie poster engaged in a stare off with a long retired NBA player wearing a gold and blue uniform.
Room number two was also devoid of anything living or dead. It must have belonged to the youngest boy. Transformer posters covered every square inch of the once blue walls. A bare mattress sat atop the wood framed twin bed. Everything he had seen so far pointed to the occupants having tried to make a hasty exit.
Cade stepped in front of the open door, the silenced M4 pressed firmly to his shoulder. Peering over the top of the scoped weapon he noted that the small bath was also empty. Subway tiles smeared with bloody handprints and a shredded shower curtain hanging askew ruined the once spa-like serenity of the room. Given the evidence of a violent struggle in the bathroom, Cade’s alert level ratcheted up a notch.
One final closed door remained at the end of the hallway, it was streaked with black dried blood, and visible scratch marks ran vertically from top to bottom.
Creeping on the balls of his feet, without making a sound, he hurriedly closed the distance to the last door. He let the silenced carbine hang from the sling, and removed his Glock 17 from the thigh holster. In one hand he held the polymer pistol, it was aimed at the center of the wooden door, and with his free hand he tested the knob, unlocked.
Cade Grayson had been entry man many times, usually with a team of highly trained shooters to get his back. This time he had an uneasy feeling. Not only was he alone, but so far the entry had gone perfectly. On nearly every operation that the Tier-One operator had taken part in good old Mr. Murphy had made a guest appearance. Sometimes the Intel was bad. One time the target had been tipped off by a corrupt Iraqi government official, for a few thousand dollars U.S. On that particular operation Cade had been the tip of the spear and took two rounds from an AK-47 at point blank range. Thankfully, the tactical ballistic proof vest kept him alive and in this world. However, it didn’t keep his ribs and sternum from shattering from the double mule kick of the 7.62 x 39 mm projectiles.
In the back of Cade’s mind he was waiting for Murphy’s Law to once again come into play.
To provide as small a target as possible, Cade went into a combat crouch. Ever so slowly he turned the doorknob and then gently gave the door a push. He crept in sweeping the large master bedroom from the left to right with his pistol; the first thing to catch his eye was a machete with a bright neon green handle. The long blade was propped up, handle within reach, next to the headboard of the king sized bed, and laying on the hardwood floor, near the machete, was a wicked looking crossbow, bristling with extra bolts.
He kept the muzzle of the Glock trained on the motionless body sprawled face up on the bed. Cade noticed dreadlocks spilling out from underneath the white sheet. It was all the evidence he needed. Cade had the driver of the mint green Suburban right where he wanted him.
Like a ninja, Cade padded deeper into the room and was reaching for the corner of the threadbare sheet. He was about to wake the man from his pot induced slumber when the low guttural moaning commenced from somewhere outside.
Sitting bolt upright, the light skinned black man let out a startled gasp and stared cross-eyed, first at the Glock and then directly into the hard eyes of the man behind the weapon.
“Are you proficient with those things?” Cade said, nodding in the direction of the machete and crossbow.
“I aint no Rambo, but I’m still here,” the man said as he stood up with his hands still in the air, the obvious discomfort from the pistol pointed at him evident on his hawkish face. The high cheekbones, sharp pointed nose and brilliant gray green eyes looked out of place under the tangle of tightly braided dreads.
Cade noted the well worn cork logging boots on the man’s feet and that he had on long pants and a long sleeve thermal shirt even though it was summer. “First things first, is there anyone else in the house with you?” Cade knew the answer but wanted to test him, by looking for the betraying micro expressions associated with deception. Without looking away or displaying any of the telltale signs, the man answered the question.
“Not any longer.” He bowed his head; his dreadlocks covered his face like a funeral veil.
“Those things must have followed one of us here, and where there’s one, there will soon be many more.” Cade looked at the pipe and baggie full of what he assumed was weed. “Are you still high?”
The man peered at Cade between dangling strands of ratty hair. “Not anymore.”
“You sure a
re a man of few words...” Cade said as he slid the pistol back into the holster, and out of habit, checked to make sure the magazine was seated in the M4. “But I believe you. We better move it, grab your weapons.”
Without hesitating, the stranger snatched his crossbow and machete, and hustled towards the window at the opposite end of the hall.
Cade formed up next to him and while they looked on, a half naked walker crashed through the trees that separated the property from the road. Like she had been here before, and still belonged, the creature stumbled up the walkway towards the front porch. Before her first death she was probably some lucky guy’s high school sweetheart. Scraps of clothes hung from her body. Trudging through the woods and underbrush left her pale skin crisscrossed with angry crimson lacerations.
The man cocked the compound crossbow; with a firm click the bolt was seated. He glanced back. Cade couldn’t help but notice the lack of concern on his face.
Cade squeezed in and grabbed one side of the window. Working together they hauled the window up in its tracks. The hefty lead weights used to counterbalance the wooden window banged in the sash capturing the walker’s attention, at the sight of the men her clumsy gait quickened.
“There are two more walkers moving along the hedges at your three o’clock...” Cade said, acting as spotter. “And four more close behind,” he added.
With only a whisper of sound the bolt left the bow and found a home in the creature’s right eye socket. The barbed titanium tip shredded everything in its path before becoming lodged in the things brainstem. Her pasty body collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been severed.
With adept precision the man quickly reloaded the compound crossbow. The next walker, a boy of about ten with a mop of brown hair, took one through the septum. The bolt split the dead kid’s nose and lodged firmly in his atrophied brain. Like a crash test dummy, the abomination went limp and smacked the sun baked lawn, liquefied gray matter oozed from its nostrils and open mouth.
The moaning intensified as soon as the other zombies noticed the ruckus.
Cade eased his five foot nine inch frame through the open window, planted his combat boots on the shingled roof and sat down cross legged. Now with a solid base to shoot from, he shouldered the M4 and found his first target.
The right ear of the young boy disappeared in a fine spray of white cartilage and rotting flesh. Without as much as a flinch the cadaver kept up its quick forward march. Cade was disappointed his first shot missed its mark but he made no excuses. He already found out the hard way, the younger the walker was the faster they moved. In a group they all seemed to pick up the pace, no matter age, gender or condition of the walking corpse. Cade figured it must be because of the inbred human desire for competition. So he had come to the unscientific conclusion that when an infected victim reanimates, in addition to the overwhelming urge to consume living flesh, some of the other innate drives remained hardwired. Some of the zombie swarms he had come across resembled a Black Friday crowd storming a Wal-Mart. Another looked like the Bataan death march-a slow moving procession following a leader.
A few days prior he had gotten to see first hand the speed that an undead toddler possessed. He and a handful of fellow survivors had to contend with a large throng of them. Not everyone survived the encounter at Wakeena Falls.
Cade’s second shot was precise, the bullet struck the top of the ghouls head above the right eyebrow and exited, propelling flesh and vertebra from the back of the walkers neck in a fine pink spray. The kid’s body fell near the front stoop. Cade was certain the corpse wouldn’t be walking again.
In quick succession, the bowman put down three more ghouls. The black bolts protruding from their heads made them resemble castoff voodoo dolls.
Cade scanned the woods across the road through the ACOG scope. “I don’t see any more where they came from. Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Ask away.”
“I saw you on the forest road earlier today, where were you coming from?”
I was returning from a little city outside of Salt Lake... It’s where my parents live-or lived.”
“Did you find them?” Cade asked. Merely saying the words caused him to think about Brook and Raven whom he hadn’t even spoken to for far too long.
The man answered Cade’s question while he continually scanned the tree line for more undead. “No, I got as far as Provo before the monsters got too thick and forced me to turn around and hightail it out of there.” Reaching out to the operator with his free hand, he introduced himself as Daymon Bush. “You can call me Daymon or D for short. As long as you’re not gonna put that pistol in my face again.”
“My name is Cade but I won’t guarantee you anything.”
Daymon quickly sized up the man named Cade. He was fully clad in desert camouflage, his dark hair wandered from under the tactical helmet. A medium length growth of black facial hair worked to conceal his chiseled facial features. But it was the eyes that revealed the man. This man had cold dark eyes that projected a supreme air of confidence. It only took him a second to process all of the information, in that time Daymon decided Cade was not someone he wished to tangle with.
“Nothing personal, but I’ve had a few encounters with fellow breathers that didn’t end so well. It looks like we’re on the same side.” He offered a dusty gloved hand to Daymon. “One more thing...” Cade asked, “Who taught you how to shoot a bow like that?”
“Mr. Lawson, my Scoutmaster. I made it to Tenderfoot before I got bored and quit.”
“Hell of a teacher,” Cade said.
Chapter 16
Sawtooth Mountains
Stanley, Idaho
The first rays of sun were encroaching on the edge of night. The denizen of Mount Stanley had been hiking down the talus and scree covered flank of the alpine peak for three and a half hours. Dan had timed his descent so he would be near the outskirts of the small town of Stanley, Idaho before dawn. The sixty-five year old retired Marine paused on a small finger of rock and turned off his tiny Petzl headlamp. Dan pulled out his armored binoculars and quickly glassed the large compound.
***
The Aryan Brotherhood, after having been asked to leave Coeur D’Alene, chose Stanley to be the epicenter of their intended Fourth Reich. Dan had had little contact over the years with the rejects that considered themselves patriots. Until recently the group had done little to disrupt the peace in idyllic Stanley, short of a few parades in full Nazi regalia, which were unfortunately allowed under the First Amendment.
Two days prior, Dan had come down to this very same finger of rock. It was his favorite place to rest up before the final leg of the long trek to town. While surveying the camp with his binoculars he watched young skinheads, the foot soldiers of the Aryan Brotherhood, and gun down three men in the center of the compound. Dan looked on in disbelief as the man he knew by the name of Richard Ganz committed the final heinous act. He pulled his chrome Desert Eagle and blew a woman’s head off. All in all he witnessed four murders that day, and they were all committed in cold blood.
Dan had an overwhelming urge to do what was right and tell the sheriff what he had witnessed, but decided, for his own safety he couldn’t risk going anywhere near the scene of the murders.
***
The high powered Bushnells made the compound look like it was near enough to touch. There was no sound coming from within. He guessed the hangovers would take all day to sleep off.
Dan listened to the raucous party taking place during his three and a half hour trudge down the mountain. Strangely, more gunfire came from the compound than all of the previous New Years parties combined. More troubling was the absence of Sheriff Blanda, he usually let the gang get a little rowdy before taking action; knowing when to pick and choose his battles was one of the man’s best skills.
Dan’s conscious finally got the best of him and he decided to turn in the murderers so they could answer for their crimes.
Something else w
as afoot. The total absence of passenger jets or commuter planes during the last few days piqued his curiosity.
Dan was resigned to the fact that he had at the least a days worth of interviews in front of him. He also had a feeling there was going to be a face to face with Richard Ganz at some point. He knew that fingering Ganz and the Skinheads wasn’t going to be as cut and dried as picking them out of a mug shot lineup. The Stanley jail wasn’t equipped with a two way mirror like the one on Law and Order.
Dan had a sinking feeling that the accused were going to get to see their accuser; and then Sheriff Blanda was going to read them their rights and call the Feds...he hoped.
If everything went as planned Dan was going to get to see his lady friend before the day was over.
***
Elizabeth Paxton and Dan had been schoolmates and then a couple when they were in high school. The Vietnam War and the draft shredded all of that. While Dan was away fighting for his country the local football hero Randy Tolliver started making nice with Lizzie. Dan failed to keep up correspondence, therefore the months and miles apart made it easier for Lizzie to forget about him. The lowest point in his first tour was that damn Dear John letter. Dan almost ate his Colt .45 to erase the hurt; instead he took it all out on Victor Charlie. Dan had really taken it to the enemy during his three tours in Nam. He was a highly regarded member of Marine Force Recon. After Dan received the world altering letter, MACV-SOG became his life and every Viet Cong wore Randy Tolliver's ugly mug.
Dan returned from the Vietnam War in 1970 and worked mostly odd jobs. Lizzie and Randy had a long lasting marriage. Over the years Dan remained alone and mostly kept his distance.
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