Either that or make it hurt so bad, it’d wish it was dead.
“I think so,” he replied, racking back the Hammer's slide to insure the weapon had one round waiting in the chamber.
As they lay there on the scratchy, brown carpet of dead needles, the engine noise from the approaching vehicle continued to grow, and Jake frowned.
“Whoever it is, they don't seem too concerned with keeping quiet,” he mused, eyes searching the block to the high school's west side.
Kat nodded. “I know right? What's that about? You'd think anyone who's survived this long would have enough sense to keep a low profile, wouldn't you? I mean: make tons of noise, attract tons of zombies... It's not rocket science, for heaven’s sake.”
Jake nodded noncommittally.
Finishing up with her suppressor, Kat ran a hand through her short, blue hair. “I mean, I know this is small-town Ohio and all, but it takes some true genius to motor about in something that loud, then wonder why every maggot-head in the area follows you around.”
O'Connor snorted. “Says the crazy-person who insists on riding around with yours truly in a Humvee, that's not exactly stealthy in any sense of the word, with a giant smile painted on its crash-plate in the middle of the zombie apocalypse.”
Cho raised an eyebrow. “That's different, and you know it. We use the Hummer to scout out routes for the Mimi, not to take joyrides. Whoever that is, is puttering all over and just attracting attention.”
Jake had to concede her that point. Their group had been trapped in his landlord's warehouse property for over a month back in Columbus when the dead had first begun to rise, and would never even have attempted the trek south if not for George Foster's monstrous transport.
When the gray-haired, ex-navy chief turned Fixer first trooped their party down into the motor pool, hidden under the government safe-house connected to the apartment tenement he'd owned and operated, all of their jaws had nearly hit the floor. The Mimi was a vehicle unlike anything the survivors had seen. First of all, it was segmented, like a trio of subway cars, and longer than one of those intimidating, double-trailer, eighteen-wheeler trucks. Second, the nose tapered back from a narrow, vertical, eight foot tall wedge that protruded from the front (almost like a snowplow blade), and met seamlessly with the first segment just before the vehicle's lead wheels. It hadn't been difficult for them to imagine how easily it would push, or even just ram right through, mangled cars that were surely littering the roadways at that time. Its bottom hull sat a good three feet above the ground, riding heavy independent axles and gigantic run-flat tires. None of the segments had shown any obvious access hatches and there was a 1940's circa, pin-up emblazoned on the side of a dark-haired girl riding a bomb. Below her, hand painted letters scrolled out “The Screamin' Mimi.”
And the whole vehicle was pink.
Not “kind of” pink, or “slightly pinkish”, but the most hideous shade of Holy-Fucking-Shit-That-Is-Fucking-Ugly! Pepto-Bismol, day-glow pink, any of them had ever witnessed.
“This,” Foster had said proudly, in his normal, gravely, cigar smoke-tinged growl, “is a MATTOC, a Mobile, Armored, Troop Transport and Operation Command vehicle. Originally designed for use in case of widespread riots during the aftermath of Y2K. Her hull's covered with SEP skin. That's short for synthesized electron polymer. Impervious to damn near any impact, short of a nuke. Can't be cut, won't burn, and it's almost frictionless. Developed initially for the outside of the space shuttle, but it couldn't be produced in any other color and NASA didn't want to be known for sending big, pink peckers into space. Never mind that without all the wind drag, they coulda launched missions using only an eighth of the fuel it normally takes to achieve orbit. Pretty dumb for a bunch of eggheads, if you ask me.”
The survivors (Jake included) had been a bit leery about betting their lives on Foster's bubblegum behemoth at first but, given that other options were a bit thin on the ground just then, had decided to take the risk. So they'd trained for a month readying their bodies and, after gathering what supplies they could, set out for the rumored “safe zone” west of the Rocky Mountains.
The trip had turned out to be a bit problematic.
“Alright, I'll agree we're a bit more cautious than this group, whoever they are, seem to be.” Jake watched the road. “You do see my point though, right? While the Mimi has that hydrogen drive system, which is quiet, the Hummer sounds like a truck-sized tiger with laryngitis. I wish Rae had added a damn muffler when she'd been modifying it.”
“If wishes were fishes...” Kat shrugged.
Jake glanced away from the road and frowned. “That's very off-putting, you know. Laurel says the exact same thing when I ask her to help reload magazines. It's irritating as hell.”
“Duh.” Kat stretched out, making herself more comfortable and rested her chin on one palm. “Who do you think she stole the phrase from?”
“Is that some kind of woman thing?” he asked.
Cho laughed. “I'm telling Laurel you said that.”
“I'd appreciate it if you didn't.”
Kat smiled brightly. “What'll ya give me?”
Before Jake could launch into his trademark “This is neither the time nor the place” spiel, a truck barreled around the far corner of the high school.
“What. The exact. Fuck.” Kat was staring at it in obvious disapproval.
Said truck was atrocious. First of all, the front fenders were two different colors: one primer gray, one canary yellow, letting an observer know it'd had some recent body work done. Then (as if that weren't bad enough), it had no outside fenders under the tailgate, allowing anyone to see its mud-coated undercarriage behind the oversized “mud-boggin'” tires. Its rims were mismatched, obviously taken from at least two different vehicles, there was a poorly-done rebel flag painted on top of its hood, and a cooler strapped to the roof of the cab.
And it was equipped with hydraulic shocks.
As Jake and Kat watched, the front of the Chevy began bouncing up off the surface of the road, even though the truck was only moving at a slow walk. To make matters worse, the driver began honking the truck's horn in time with each bounce.
“You've got to be shitting me.” Kat's mouth narrowed into a thin line. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen, even before the whole zombie thing started. Who gives their ride hydraulics and off-road tires? I swear, some people.”
Blinking and quickly shaking his head, in the hopes the image of the crap-tastic truck wouldn't be stuck in his brain forever, Jake didn't trust himself to give a suitably intelligent reply. Anything he would've said just then would have simply reinforced Kat's opinion.
The truck ceased its jumping and, thankfully, whoever was inside stopped honking the horn then rolled to a stop perhaps fifty yards away. The driver's door opened and, to Jake's surprise, a woman jumped down from the running board.
Jake's mouth hung open.
Though possessing abysmal taste in automobiles, the woman was a site to behold and could only be described as a knockout. She stood perhaps 5' 9”, with a mane of curly, black hair that wafted slightly about her shoulders in the weak morning breeze. Faded jeans rode low on her hips over a pair of well-used hiking boots, and the brief tube top was more of an accessory than an actual shirt. Jake could almost see her nipples through it from where he lay beneath the pines.
Questionable fashion choices aside, she did wear a police-issue duty holster on one hip and, reaching back into the truck, pulled out a Remington 700 bolt action rifle. If George Foster had been there, he would have nodded in approval. The weapon had what looked to be a twenty-four inch barrel, a basic no-frills sling, and sported a Leupold FX 4x33 scope. George and O'Connor had spoken many times during their Columbus seclusion about weaponry and had professed affection for the weapon. It could push a 160-grain projectile downrange at approximately 2,900 feet per second and, had George not had a pair of Long-Arm sniper rifles, he would've purchased a pair of them long ago. That likely meant
the dark-haired woman knew a thing or two about marksmanship, but anyone who'd survived this long surrounded by the dead would have to be a decent shot, anyway.
She wasn't alone in the truck, as it turned out. A pair of armed men; one with a brief ring of hair just over his ears, approximately in his late forties, the other perhaps in his mid-twenties with a ridiculous “mullet”, piled out of the passenger door holding weapons of their own. Both wore long-sleeve shirts, jeans, work boots, and were none too happy looking.
“Dammit, Penny, where the hell did they go?” Mullet demanded.
“How the fuck should I know?” The woman replied, looking at him in obvious disgust. Jake assumed she was Penny. “You were the one who was supposed to be on watch, remember? Why the hell didn't you call us when you first saw them, Benjamin?”
Mullet glared at her. “Because they were too goddamn close. They were hiding behind the first trailer and turned around just as I noticed them. I think the chick got nervous or something, and convinced the dude to go out around the neighborhood.”
Penny looked about, bringing up her Remington. “Did you do something stupid? Did they see you?”
“They didn't see shit.” Mullet flipped her the bird and pulled an oversized .357 from the back of his pants. “Why ya think I didn't call sooner? I didn't want them to hear us on the radio and take off.”
Penny shook her head. “How'd that plan work out? You were probably asleep in the van again, weren't you?”
“Fuck you, ya stupid dyke.” Ben spat.
“Fuck you. And I'm not a dyke, asshole. I like penis just fine. I just don't wanna see yours.” Penny laughed.
“Think they're in the school?” The older one asked, attempting to quell an argument and giving the building a once-over. He carried a well-worn Ruger M77 and looked like he knew how to use it.
“Jerry's right, we need to check. If they're in there, they probably didn't hear the truck and we could get the drop on them.” Penny grabbed the truck keys and locked her door.
Ben made a rude noise. “Why'd you take the keys? Not like zombies can drive or something.”
“So if those two slip by us they can't use the truck to get away, dumbass.” Penny pushed by him and began striding towards the schools nearest door. “Besides, you feel like walking all the way back and telling her why we lost the truck?”
“Uh. No.” Ben paled slightly.
Penny snorted in disgust. “Didn't think so. You and Jerry check the second floor. I'll head down to the cafeteria.”
The trio hurried inside the high school and Jake turned to Kat.
“Good call back there at the trailer park.”
“Thanks.” Kat beamed. “Penny and Co. sure seem determined to find us, don't they? I wonder why?”
Jake cocked an eyebrow. “Do we care? Are we caring about this?”
Kat shrugged. “I dunno. I guess not.”
After thinking about it for a minute, Jake sighed. “We have to find out. I doubt those three are part of the group that took Allen, Maggie, and the girls, but I'm pretty sure they don't have anyone's best interests at heart.”
Cho became hesitant. “Umm. Laurel told me to watch out for you, and doing something stupid, like going in there after...”
“She's my girlfriend, not my mother,” Jake told her. “And did I complain about your crazy plan to zip-line over a street full of zombies?”
“Yes. Quite a bit, as I recall,” Kat reminded him.
Jake waved that off. “Besides, you think it's the first time they've done this? You heard them. They had that Ben guy hiding in a van, waiting for anyone that happened by. Pretty dirty. Even before everything went to shit, that's not really a practice normal people would engage in.”
Kat frowned. “Okay... But how did this become our problem?”
“Would you want someone else to say the same?” Jake demanded, giving her a sharp look.
“Man,” Kat massaged her forehead, “Laurel's gonna kill me.”
“Alright, here's what we'll do,” Jake began.
After waiting to ensure the Truck-drivin' Trio were well within the innards of the school, Jake and Kat emerged from the pine grove. Once again, Jake was quite jealous of the pretty Asian's ability to move without making the slightest sound. As they sprinted across the field and took cover behind the now-empty truck, Jake realized he hadn't even been able to hear the footfalls of Kat's thick-soled biker boots. Shaking his head in disgust, O'Connor realized he must sound like a rampaging wildebeest by way of comparison and cautiously peeked over the truck's hood. Their three unknown stalkers were nowhere to be seen and the immediate area was zombie free, at least for the moment.
“Check the cab. I'll keep watch,” Jake told Kat and she smiled.
Kat loved rifling through other people's belongings. She couldn't help it. She was curious. She never took anything. Well, except for that hairbrush from Rae's toiletry kit, and the buxom woman had never missed it had she? And that tube of 'ripe plum' lipstick from Gwen's pack, because super-dark lipstick just didn't work with the blonde's complexion. And then there was George's favorite pair of brass knuckles, because they fit just perfectly under her right glove. Then there was...
“What are you waiting for?” Jake asked.
“Oh. Sorry.” Cho shook her head. “Just thinking.”
The writer kept his face neutral. “Kat, can you please stop getting distracted by thoughts of shiny, pretty things, or the clouds, and check the damn cab?:
Cho stuck her tongue out at him and opened the passenger side door.
Kat found the vehicle's interior complemented its patchwork exterior. The seats had large rips (that had been clumsily fixed with duct tape), there were no fewer than forty empty cigarette packs strewn about on the floorboards, every ashtray was full to overflowing, a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey had been jammed into the now broken cup holder, there was an old air freshener in the shape of the Playboy bunny symbol, and the top of the gearshift was an 8-ball.
“Anything?” Jake asked, still watching the school entrance.
Kat shut the door again. “Proof, if proof were needed, that some people should be sterilized at birth so they can't multiply. Good lord, I don't know when I last saw an '8-ball' gear shift.”
Jake cringed. “That does kind of show a distinct lack of taste.”
“Oh, it looks like Penny has taste.” Kat sniffed. “It's in her ass, but she has taste.”
Shaking his head, Jake motioned towards the school. Kat nodded and, with him once again in tow, trotted for the entrance. The structure was still in decent shape, even taking into account an obvious lack of maintenance. The surrounding lawns were overgrown and debris was in the roadside gutters everywhere. Empty soda, beer and water bottles, discarded candy-bar and snack wrappers, abandoned personal items. Jake noticed quite a few old piles of what had to be human feces on the steps to the front doors as well. Someone had evidently not been a fan of public education.
Upon reaching the entryway, the pair took position to the right of the door and 'stacked'. This was a room entry technique Jake had known previously, and Foster had drilled into their group during the month-long training within his Columbus safe-house, just prior to them setting out on their mad, cross-country trek.
The author had originally learned it from a crusty old SEAL when he was a civilian combat journalistic consultant (read: battlefield target) while overseas with Britain’s SAS. The aged warrior had drilled his training brick over and over and over again, until they could, 'Fucking perform the fucking process fucking properly! ' as the older man had so eloquently put it. The entry team lined up on the same side of a door. The second man put his hand on the first man's shoulder; the third man put his on the second man's and so on. The last man in the stack readied himself (or herself), and then squeezed the shoulder of the one in front of him. Moving up the line, each man gave the one to their front the signal, until the lead man felt the squeeze on his shoulder. Then knowing the team was ready, they entered
the room. The first going left, the second going right, on down the line, until the entire group was inside (preferably in three seconds or less), and they proceeded to decimate any opponents within.
Jake squeezed Cho's shoulder and they moved forward as one. Kat sped through the open doorway suppressed Glock first with O'Connor on her heels, Hammer pistol extended over her left shoulder.
The lobby was empty, save for months’ worth of grime and rodent droppings. A pair of stairwells led up to the second floor down the echoing hallway to the right. To the left, dirty windows that lined the high school's main office glared silently back at them from another hallway, distorting the duos reflections into fun-house versions.
“Yeah, I almost shot your reflection,” Kat admitted. She holstered her pistol and pulled her Grandfather's sword from its scabbard along her back. “What say you wait here and I'll have a look around?”
Jake shot a nervous glance left down the gloomy hallway. “I dunno. That's not a good—”
He turned in Kat's direction to find he'd been talking to an empty space.
“—idea,” Jake grumbled hotly. How the hell did she do that? He'd only looked away for two seconds at the most; that wasn't enough time to even make to the nearest corner! Searching the ground, Jake realized he didn't even see Kat's footprints in the dust covering the floor.
That is just not fair, he thought, creeping down the left-most hallway, the way she thumbs her nose at the laws of nature like she does.
Jake continued slowly into the darkness, keeping close to the locker-lined wall for cover. He reached an intersection and saw a sign for the cafeteria down to the right. Pausing to pull a Sharpie marker out of his vest, he quickly drew a large arrow on the wall, along with a large 'J', that way Kat could follow. The pretty ninja-girl probably knew exactly where he was anyway. She seemed to always know. That was another of her slightly disturbing abilities, but just in case...
Rotting to the Core (Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 2) Page 7
