Another omen , he thought to himself.
Chapter 39
Outbreak - Day 16
Near Driggs, Idaho
After losing the fourth straight round of Rock-Paper-Scissors in a row, Liam rose from the low-slung couch and ambled on unsteady legs to the ‘50’s-era kitchen. As he transited the dark hall using the walls and jambs for guidance, he tried to place the unusual odor. Mothballs maybe. Octogenarian farts? He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that twenty years of retired living had had a way of imparting something malodorous into the furniture and walls and carpet of the dead couples’ home.
With only the moonlight filtering between the sheer curtains to see by, he poured a few fingers of Scotch into each of the coffee mugs. Then, for good measure, he tipped the clear bottle of Claymore, swallowed hard, twice, making bubbles form in the amber liquid. Made a sour face and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
He returned to the living room with the mugs and the partial bottle. Set everything on the coffee table between the burning candles and the half-eaten plate of corned beef and hash. “Lucas!” he bellowed. “There’s a bunch of those rotting fuckers at the gate. I can see their white faces from here.”
“What the hell do you want me to do about it?” Lucas called back from the bathroom. “Piss on ‘em?” he added, laughing.
Liam drained his mug and reached for the booze. “Your popping those two deadheads on the road didn’t do us any favors,” he intoned.
Lucas hitched up his pants, grabbed his pistol, and headed back to the living room, talking as he walked in the dark. “Don’t worry bro... they won’t get in.” Staying clear of the flickering flames, he crabbed by Liam’s knees and nearly broke the couch when he sat down too heavily.
There was a long awkward silence as Lucas tried to get ahold of his thoughts. Then, fighting through the short term memory-stealing buzz, the point he had been trying to make returned to him. “I put the pin back in the gate. Those things can’t turn a doorknob, let alone pull out a cotter pin and work the clasp and then reason which way the fucking thing needs to swing.” He finished the statement by throwing his brother a wild look. A look that said: do not question me when I’m loaded.
Liam ignored the glare he knew all too well and went there anyway. “You’re sure? Maybe we oughta park that old truck against it... for a little extra insurance.”
“It’ll be OK. We’ll get up at first light and get back on the road. I’ll drive right over the bastards.”
“What about the old folks... see that plaque over the mantle?” Liam didn’t allow Lucas the five minutes he needed to process the complex question. “Old guy was a World War Two vet. I think we oughta bury them. You know— out of respect.”
“He lost this war. Plus, I oughta piss on both their bodies for this,” Lucas slurred, holding up the nearly empty bottle. “Crap’s probably been in their cupboard since Prohibition.” He laughed hard. Kept it up for a minute or two while Liam tried to engage him.
“We still trying to find Bishop?” he finally asked.
Lucas pulled it together. Took a belt from the bottle before replying. “I figure we head northwest. Sooner or later we’ll bump into some of his boys. Either that or some of our old friends.”
“I’d rather it be our old friends,” Liam stated in a low voice. “Bishop fuckin’ bailed on us.”
“No, that dumbass Paul lost the frickin’ satellite phone at the Cowboy bar. You seen all the dead. I figure Ian had no choice... we’d been nothing but loyal to him. Hell... I was a good lieutenant... except for the booze run into Wilson, I followed his every order to a T,” Lucas declared proudly. His head nodded, chin to chest, then jerked upright abruptly.
Liam shook his head. “If you really think we’ll be safe here tonight I’m going to sleep.”
“In there?” Lucas said incredulously.
“Bed smells better than this couch. Or that nasty shag rug for that matter.”
“Suit yourself,” said Lucas. “I’m gonna work on this.” He filled his mug half full.
Liam gazed through the picture window. Stole one final long look at the gathered dead. Threw a shiver that chilled his spine and lingered for a moment. It still creeped him out how they stared and stared. On autopilot, every last one of them, he thought. There didn’t seem to be more showing up, so he shrugged his shoulders and headed into the gloomy crypt of a bedroom. “Put out the candles before you nod off and burn us to death,” he called out, his voice echoing down the hall.
Lucas said nothing. His eyelids felt like they were attached to lead fishing weights. He set the empty mug aside. Laid back on the couch, his boots shooting off the end, heels on the armrest.
The bottle calling to him, he grabbed it by the neck and took a long swig as a nightcap. He slid the bottle onto the table. Then, as a very important afterthought—a survival-hinging-on-it kind of postscript—he grabbed his .45 from the table and stuffed it in his waistband right next to the Brother’s family jewels.
Teton Pass
Tran panned his head slowly, made certain that he was alone, and then slowly turned the T-shaped handle and allowed the pressurized gas shocks to push the rear window open. He fumbled around in the dark, trying to figure out how to lower the tailgate before finally finding the latch and letting it down softly.
Grateful that the dome lights hadn’t flared on, he rifled through the various compartments, mostly by feel. His hands touched over a ribbed metal helmet, and what he guessed was a full face respirator. He unfolded and then put aside a heavy canvas jacket with some kind of metal clasps, and a pair of pants with wide belled bottoms that matched the top. He continued digging, and underneath all of the firefighting gear he found a very sharp double-bladed axe and a scuffed up pair of boots. Stiff leather, steel toes, cork soles and four sizes too big. These will do, he said to himself.
In a side compartment mixed in with discarded fast food wrappers he found a roll of tape. It was three inches wide, thick-ply, and commonly used on duct work. Perfect. He scanned for unwanted visitors, then gingerly pulled himself up and sat on the tailgate. He used the majority of the tape to splint his ankle. He started with half a dozen strips, running them like a stirrup under his heel and up both sides of his lower leg, then spun the roll around his ankle a dozen times. At first the improvised cast hurt like hell, but eventually the pain pulled back to only a dull ache.
Next, he covered the shredded soles of his feet with the sticky silver stuff, pulled the boots over his swollen feet, and laced them tight. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the roadblock. Clear. Then looked down the ten percent grade where he could see the small grouping of walkers he had left behind just rounding the corner several hundred yards down mountain.
Risking calamity, he hoisted up the gate. It closed with a dull clang and latched with a click. Risked one more look behind him. The creatures had picked up their pace from a slow shuffle to a jerking half trot. The moans and hissing began a second later. Leaving the glass window yawning open, he hobbled around the left side, his heavy new boots scraping a cadence. He folded himself behind the steering wheel and said a prayer while he worked the key in the ignition.
After a few valiant cranks from the starter, the engine finally relented and turned over. It runs, Tran thought to himself gleefully. Suddenly the day that began with a gun being thrust in his face started to look up. The engine idled, nothing like the near silent power plants crammed under the gleaming hoods of the Cadillac and Range Rovers he used to chauffer his old boss around in. This engine sounded precisely how Tran felt—like it was on its last legs and about to throw in the towel. It ticked and wheezed and then the RPMs would ratchet up unexpectedly though his foot was nowhere near the gas pedal.
Another peek in the rearview confirmed his worst fear—the demons had heard the raggedy engine roar to life and were now closing the distance fairly quickly. Suddenly his only chance of survival hinged on whether a vehicle that rolled off of the assembly line in th
e 1970’s could carry him a hundred feet to the downhill side of the pass. After that, gravity would relieve the engine, and he’d be at the mercy of the vehicle’s last brake job and however much tread remained on the tires.
He looked forward just as the flesh eater that had shown indifference to him a moment ago lurched through the narrow passage on the road’s shoulder. He put the truck into gear, wincing as he worked the pedals underfoot.
The old green rig gathered speed slowly at first. Working against gravity and a general lack of upkeep, the tired engine propelled Tran’s new ride uphill towards the lone zombie and the apex of the Teton Pass which was only a handful of yards beyond the burnt-out bus.
The monster didn’t flinch. It didn’t leap out of the way like a stuntman in an action flick. It simply held its ground in front of the rapidly accelerating truck. Then, like a little girl’s worn out dolly, it folded at the waist where it was met by the tubular brush guard, head-butted the hood with an explosion of sound and crimson, then disappeared from sight.
Tran didn’t bother looking in the mirror again as he squeezed the Scout by the makeshift roadblock. He focused only on the spot on the moonlit road where the centerline seemed to disappear into the inky black horizon. Once there, he flicked on the headlights and let off the gas, figuring he’d save whatever the old girl had left under her hood and in her tank and use it to hunt down the two brothers.
Chapter 40
Outbreak - Day 16
Near Driggs, Idaho
“No, no, no,” Heidi mumbled. Then, as she stirred from a deep sleep, her right hand shot from under the threadbare sheet and went to her neck where she caressed the sore muscles and tendons. In his failure to choke the life from her, Robert Christian had inflicted a large measure of damage to her skin in the exact shape of his clasped hands. The thumbs were crossed at the base of her neck, and the faint outlines of four fingers encircled both sides before meeting over her spine. Angry blue and purple bruising was going yellow around the edges. Subconsciously she dug her heels into the mattress and arched her back until the springs protested. This continued for some time as she battled something or someone in her nightmares.
Finally the foreign noise roused Daymon, who had always been a bit of a heavy sleeper. So much so that he had even been known to wake up to a Glock in the face on more than one occasion. He opened both eyes. Still dark. His hand went to the nightstand. Grasped the pistol grip of his combat twelve gauge. It felt heavy and powerful in his hand. The reassuring smell of gun oil hit his nose as he lay there in the dark, eyes open, ears straining to hear.
“I don’t want to. No. Leave me alone.” She drew a lungful of air in.
“Heidi... Shhh, you’re OK. It’s just a nightmare,” Daymon whispered. Although Robert Christian’s brutal attack had muted her voice like Marlon Brando’s in the Godfather, he still reached across the bed and placed his free hand over her mouth.
Her eyes flicked open, wide and white in the dark. She forced a raspy yelp through his strong rough fingers. She fought back at first, flailing and punching until she realized who was staring her square in the face. It was Daymon and his dreads were brushing her cheek. His breath tickling her neck. Not one of her former captors—breath rank with alcohol—leering in her face after having done God knows what to her against her will. Simultaneously she nodded in recognition and relaxed her muscles.
Daymon felt the fight leave her, then saw her eyes ask a question he couldn’t answer. At least not until he did some investigating. He rolled out of bed to his right, weapon braced against his leg. No need to check—there was one in the chamber. He stood rooted, listening to the night again. Something had his sixth sense tingling. When Jenkins turned in he indicated he was a La-Z-Boy sleeper, and that’s where Daymon placed him based on the low timbre snoring emanating from downstairs.
Daymon made his way to the window. It was still cracked halfway as he had left it, and the screen was wholly intact.
Except for the occasional cricket or coyote, the night sounds had changed profoundly since the outbreak of the Omega virus two short weeks ago. The skies had been quiet twenty-four/seven since the jetliners were no longer flying their usual patterns. Furthermore, the several hundred-ton multi-car freight locomotives that used to deliver food to the majority of the population living on both coasts were now reduced to the world’s largest paperweights, and no longer roared cross-country adding to the noise pollution. Right now, everything was still outside. The silence was enormous—quiet as the dark side of the moon.
Then he heard an engine laboring. Bad lifters clattered out a metallic discordance somewhere in the distance. As he pulled his dreads back and listened closer, he could tell that the vehicle was approaching from the east—travelling the same road they had come in from. Survivors from Jackson? he wondered. Maybe Gerald had escaped from the Silver Dollar, he hoped.
Whatever the case, he would know shortly. The vehicle was getting closer, and for only the second time since leaving Jackson Hole the prospect of coming into contact with other survivors was close to becoming reality.
He pressed the binoculars to his face, hoping to pick up the oncoming vehicle through the trees at about the same spot he saw the Hummer pass by earlier. Though his hopes weren’t high that he’d be able to tell who the driver or passengers were, the fact that the moon was bright enough for him to discern the make and model did lend him some solace. As he waited and listened to the engine noises approaching the rise, he wracked his brain trying to remember what kind of truck old Gerald drove. Suddenly a pang of remembrance struck him, followed by a strange feeling of familiarity. Even on its last legs and obviously going through its final death throes, he knew who the vehicle belonged to. The problem was that he had no idea who was driving her.
Lu Lu broke the crest of the hill, one dim headlight lighting the way. Resisting the urge to rush downstairs and roll Jenkins for the keys to his Patrol Tahoe, Daymon just watched his old green Scout as it made a few slight detours around the smattering of walkers patrolling the main road. He continued taking in the sight for sore eyes until she was out of view and the sad-sounding engine was no longer calling his name.
He didn’t remember leaving his keys in his old truck when he had left her for dead at the apex of the Teton Pass, but neither had he seen them since. In fact, there were many details about the last few days that he had lost or had conveniently forgotten about. He was good at survival, and purging the attention-robbing clutter from the forefront of his mind was a fall back mechanism that had kept him focused and one step ahead of the game.
Chapter 41
Outbreak - Day 16
Near Driggs, Idaho
If the vehicle had been any other make, model, or color, Tran was certain he would have driven on by without giving the property a second glance.
But it wasn’t, and he didn’t.
The truck was sitting in the open at the end of a long uphill driveway which naturally drew his eye to it. The yellow paint, augmented by the high riding moon, shimmered like a neon glow stick.
Tran knew that if the truck was there, then so were the animals who had left him for dead. Ignoring the demons walking the road, he slowed momentarily. He suddenly felt irresistibly drawn to the house. Like a moth drawn to a flame or Gollum to the ring, he needed to get to the house.
But he resisted the urge to jump on the brakes. Instead, he peeked at the odometer and watched the far right dial tick off five-tenths of a mile. At three-tenths he passed a small knot of undead that initially had had their backs to him. Their reaction time stunted, they were only able to reach for the truck as it passed them by. When the odometer ticked by the half-mile mark, the road took a slight bend to the right. He slowed his borrowed ride to a crawl and checked the mirrors. All clear. There were no demons in sight, so he stopped on the right shoulder, snuffed the one headlight, and removed the keys.
After clambering from the Scout and onto the road, Tran turned and waited for the demons to come. And when
they didn’t appear around the bend at once, he began to walk in their direction. His oversized boots beat a clunky rhythm on the lonely moonlit road as he followed the left-sweeping curve He could see the house in the distance, but he couldn’t see the brothers’ truck. He knew it was there. There was no doubt about it, he had seen it up the hill, and for reasons he couldn’t explain he knew the brothers were inside the distant house. The evil the two men radiated was palpable.
He marched ahead, and as he cut the corner by degrees the zombies he had driven around came into view. They watched him coldly. He imagined they were choosing which part of him they would eat first.
But what they did next caught Tran by surprise: the entire group inexplicably about-faced, and as soon as he had cut through their ranks he could hear their clumsy footfalls—the scuffing chorus of worn shoes commingled with the wet slaps of putrefying feet—as the throng fell in behind him.
Walking through the wavering corpses was one of the hardest things he’d ever forced himself to do. Though his every instinct screamed for him to turn around and flee, the need for vengeance somehow overrode the impulse and compelled him to keep moving—to keep putting one boot in front of the other no matter how awful the smell of their decaying flesh.
He followed the road, trailing undead wingmen for twenty minutes; then, as he neared the gated driveway where he had almost plowed down the zombie congregation, his boot kicked a nice sized rock, causing the monsters to turn and regard him with their clouded pale eyes. At first he sensed some sort of recognition on their part, but it vanished as quickly as it had manifested.
Allegiance Page 23
