That caused the man in her arms to chuckle halfheartedly and wrap his own around Laurel's waist. They remained that way for some time.
Laurel tended to forget just how crushing the mantle of leadership was for Jake. Being The One In Charge was not something he'd wanted. The writer had all but begged Foster to take on the role due to his greater experience, but the aging fixer just grinned at his requests and said, I know my limits, kid. It also didn't help that Jake had barely slept since leaving Rae's junkyard safe-house. Laurel brought his face up from her bosom with one hand and studied it closely. He was developing a cleft in the center of his brow from frowning most of the time, and pair of dark circles were blooming heavily under his lower lids. Those strangely-pale, compelling eyes of his closed as Laurel lowered her head down to brush his lips with her own.
His arms stayed locked around her slim hips, as Jake let her control the kiss. It was pleasantly slow, with none of the frantic, teenage rushing so common between relatively new couples during moments of intimacy. Some minutes later, she pulled back to see a smile on his face.
“Much better.” She slid her hands along the back of his neck, kneading at the still partially-knotted muscles she found there.
“You know something?” Jake asked and settled closer in her arms. “Zombies aside, the last month has been almost perfect.”
“How's that?” Laurel murmured against his lips.
“I got to spend the majority of that time with you,” he replied. “Mostly in rather small, enclosed spaces.”
“You smooth talker, you.” She smiled, pushed away, and took a few steps back. Going to her knees, the redhead placed her hands on the surface of the roof behind her feet and sat back on her heels, all the while giving him a Come hither. Now! look.
Perfectly willing to take yes for an answer, he rose from the air vent and moved to stand in front of Laurel's half-reclined form. She reached up to take his hand and pulled Jake down until he was kneeling over one of her thighs.
“Well,” she said, sliding her hips up towards his, “since you said almost perfect, I think we should get in some practice time. Wouldn't you agree?”
* * *
“So they've been together what, just over a month?” Penny asked, powering her way through the last of a beef brisket MRE.
“Yup. At least, that's what Uncle George tells me,” Bee mumbled around her Chicken-a-la-King. “From the way the two of them act though, you'd think Laurel and Jake were still in the initial 'cuddly' phase. They're constantly holding hands, or making doe-eyes at one another, or keeping the rest of us awake with all the heavy breathing...”
The pair sat on the walkway which encircled the old DHL air traffic control tower, finishing off their questionable 'government issued nutrition' while Elle Pierce scanned the fence-line. Eye glued to the Barska 10x36 scope a-top one of Foster's Heckler and Koch, Long-Arm sniper rifles, the blonde-haired Sergeant had been searching for any stray zombies for some target practice. She felt a bit rusty and, since the old man's rifle came equipped with a handy-dandy noise suppressor, had decided to get in some quality 'trigger time'.
Bee raised a pair of binoculars—Barska, of course. Her uncle was nothing if not consistent—and tracked them up the road outside the airport's front gate. Penny Carson choked back a laugh at the sight of the nineteen-year old, ex-college co-ed with those enormous glasses in front of her face. They made her look like your run-of-the-mill bug-eyed alien. Albeit, a damned sexy one.
Beatrix Foster was put together like a lonely man's wet dream. Twenty-two, the face of a naughty cherub, big blue eyes, green hair—green? Penny thought, oh well, Kat's was blue—done up in two, long pigtails Anime style, and (as Allen so succinctly put it) smoking, fucking hot. If her measurements were anything but 36, 23, 32, Penny would eat her hat. If she'd still had a hat, that is. A stray ghoul had taken a bite out of the brim a few weeks prior, so she'd tossed it in the dumpster behind Rebecca's grainery, along with the rest of her Sheriff’s uniform.
“There's one at the truck stop,” Bee said, still chomping away on a cube of processed chicken.
“Where?” Elle angled the scope towards the location.
Bee swallowed. “Over by the toilets. Near that big orange Freightliner.”
Elle adjusted her aim and picked out the tangerine-colored semi cab. “Ah, got it. The one wearing a stupid looking hat that says 'Show me your tits'?”
“That's the one.” Bee confirmed. “Give me just a second.”
She handed her binoculars to Penny, pointed in the general direction of the truck stop so Carson could observe the results of Elle's shot, and rose to stand to the Sergeant’s left. It wouldn't do for Bee to stand on her right side. The spent casing generated by Elle's sending a hollow-point 'Hello' to the zombie trucker would eject in that direction.
“Okay. Whenever you're ready,” Beatrix told her.
Elle took a deep breath, exhaled slowly as she placed the scope's cross-hairs just below the zombie's jaw to account for recoil, then slowly squeezed the weapon's trigger. There was a muted 'Pppht', no louder than the sound of someone stifling a good cough, and Penny saw the distant creature's head explode like a firecracker-stuffed cantaloupe. The zombie's head simply disappeared as the .308 Winchester round pounded through its skull, going on to shatter the large front window of the truck stop. The now-headless body took a pair of drunken steps to the rear before hitting the ground butt-first, then collapsed to the pavement leaking putrid body fluids from the stump of its neck.
“Da-a-a-am.” Penny whistled in admiration. “Nice one.”
“Thank you. I try.” Elle smiled into the scope of her Long-Arm. “That's the sixth one today. Awesome splatter pattern this time. I'm gonna try to hit one in the throat next. See if I can get one of the things heads to pop off and still make the kill? That should be a bit more challenge… What the hell are you doing?”
Penny lowered her binoculars and turned to see Beatrix, who'd been standing beside her, finish lowering her shirt.
“Just giving that one a proper send off.” Bee tucked her tank top back into her pants.
“What?” Penny asked.
Bee hooked a thumb in the direction of the truck stop. “His hat, you know?”
It took a moment for Penny's brain to process that one. “Did you just flash your tits at a zombie?”
“Thought it was only polite. I mean, it probably would've been his last wish anyway.” Taking in the other two women's unbelieving expressions, Bee made a rude noise and leaned against the outside of the control tower. “Seriously, guys? What, neither of you ever went to Florida for Spring Break?
“I enlisted right out of high school.” Elle shook her head and went back to looking through the rifle scope.
Penny nodded reluctantly. “I did, once. But I didn't do anything like that.”
“That's nothing.” A wicked grin spread across Bee's face. “You should see what I did on the College Girls Gone Crazy Fifteen DVD. That was a fun time.”
Elle focused downrange, searching for another target. “I don't want to know. And don't ever let your uncle find out. George would pop a blood vessel in his brain, right there.”
“I could stand to hear a little more.” Penny looked quite interested over the idea of hearing about Beatrix's exploits.
Bee stuck her tongue out at Elle's profile and returned to her seat on the walkway.
“Okay, you’ll love this,” she began. “The first time I chug-a-lugged too many Yeager Bombs, I ended up in the hotel pool with—”
-Chapter Eight-
“Calling any crew member of the Screamin' Mimi, do you copy? Over...”
Jake froze. After a memorable couple of hours on the hangar's roof with Laurel in her most wanton state (which was absolutely incredible), he'd felt ready to take on the endless hungry hordes and send their rotting asses back to whichever level of hell had spawned them.
The remainder of the day he'd spent going over the notes George had taken during the q
uestioning of (the now deceased) Henry, and reviewing satellite imagery of the Cincinnati Gas and Electric Lake facility.
That had been a surprise. Foster had long told them that the World Wide Web was, as he so eloquently put it, fucked. That without all the wonks turning the dials and pushing the buttons, the days of real-time Intel were as dead as the Dodo.
That had proven not to be the case. Three years prior, Rae informed them, the United States and Japan (reacting to the growing threat posed by China) had put a series of satellites into high, geostationary orbit. The delivery vehicles were launched from New Zealand of all places, with the aid of the NZSIS (New Zealand Security Intelligence Agency). Basically, their version of the CIA. Though laughed at by those in the intelligence community, the NZSIS had done a bang up job clandestinely sending eleven, sixty-three meter, Delta-4 rockets blasting skyward through the stratosphere.
Georges counterpart told him (after calling him a crotchety, old ass) when he scoffed at the idea, as long as her PAPSA satellite transmitter was active, and as long as it was linked to the secure facility in Groom Lake, NV, and since she actually had the clearance to access the systems (unlike a certain, crotchety old ass), she would be able to see what the men guarding the Gas and Electric Lake grounds had for dinner. By reading the labels on their MRE packages.
She did too; all the while wearing what Jake thought was a very sexy smirk. One had chicken-a-la-king; his partner had spaghetti and meatballs.
Foster made a comment that everything was easier before women could vote.
Rae answered with one about some men only thinking with the wrong “head”.
Jake firmly (and loudly) changed the subject. You just knew some conversations wouldn't go anywhere good.
Since the Beechcraft’s previous home was far more suited to habitation, Rae left her laptop in the Mimi, to automatically access the satellite network once every half hour, while they planned. They took turns retrieving the images from the compact printer/scanner combo she had installed, back before the destruction of her junkyard cache, trying to find patterns in the movements of those inside. Using the photos and other Intel (facility layout, choke-point locations, known defenses, and, more importantly, the number of infected in the area), they'd been attempting to come up with a plan to rescue Karen. Or at least one that didn't involve just using the Mimi to ram their way into the compound, shooting the shit out of anything that moved, while not being eaten by the hundreds of zombies (currently roaming outside its walls) who were sure to follow them inside.
It had been Jake's turn to retrieve the printouts, which was why he was currently standing with his mouth hanging open in the drive segment of the enormous, pink transport.
“Calling any crew member of the Screamin' Mimi, do you copy? Over...”
He was so stunned to hear another living, humans voice (other than one of his companion's), that the transmission repeated twice more before he picked up the mic to reply.
“This is the Screamin' Mimi. We read you, over...”
The voice responded almost immediately. “Screamin' Mimi. Hold a moment for further contact...”
A minute or so later, another voice came over the radio. This one was a confident, gravelly baritone. “With whom am I speaking, over?”
“No offense, but how did you know our vehicle's name? Over...” The writer asked.
“Identify yourself.” The voice ordered.
“I'm Batman,” Jake said, frowning, “who are you? Over...”
There was a pause on the other end of the signal. “Ah. You would be Jake O'Connor then. The sarcasm was a dead giveaway.”
“How do you know my name? Over...”
“Oh, I know quite a bit about you, Jacob,” The voice came off as amused now. “You and your party. You can dispense with the “overs”. There's no one else transmitting even remotely nearby to either of our positions, so I think we can determine which of us is speaking. Oh, and to answer your previous inquiry, young Miss Karen has been quite helpful in supplying answers to my questions.”
Jake's blood froze. He slowly lifted the mic back to his lips. “Poole.”
“You know of me as well? Excellent. I believe it's important for men in our situation to be acquainted.”
“And I believe you're a piece of shit.” Jake said, completely unimpressed by the man's appeasing manner. It reminded him of every telephone service rep he'd ever spoken with. Full of false enthusiasm and more than willing to watch you drown in a pool of your own vomit, if given half a chance.
The voice tisked at him. “Jacob, such language. There's no reason we can’t be civilized about this. We're both reasonable men—”
“I'm sorry,” he interjected, “reasonable?? Reasonable men don't kidnap teenagers. Reasonable men don't have their butt-buddies attack and burn down buildings full of people. Reasonable men don't let their cronies try to rape and torture for amusement.”
“Since you know my name, I assume you learned it from one of my men,” Poole replied. “Tell me, is he still among the living?”
That wasn't something the writer was going to discuss again. Ever. And if he did, he sure as hell wouldn't be doing it with someone like Poole. “He was shot trying to escape.”
“Jacob, Jacob... I'm sure that was the case.”
“What do you want, Poole? I have better things to do.”
He heard the other man sigh. “That's the problem with people today. No patience whatsoever... Alright then, I'll get right to the point. You're going to bring yourselves and that excellent vehicle of yours, here to my locatio—”
The writer laughed into the mic. “Are your feet wet?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Can you see the pyramids?”
Poole's voice sounded confused. “I'm not—”
“You're standing hip deep in De-nial,” The unruly-haired man told him. “There's no fucking way I'd come walking in and surrender to you, let alone bringing you any of our group, or the Mimi. If that's what you're wanting well, people in Hell want ice water, too.”
“That's unfortunate, Jacob. It may just make me reevaluate exactly what kind of man you are. Come now. Haven't you given any thought to what might happen to young Miss Parker if you fail to comply with my request?”
It felt like Jake's stomach was headed for the molten center of the earth. “You don't want to hurt her, Poole.”
“Of course not.” The hatemonger's voice actually held some surprise. “I take no pleasure in harming children. Dear Karen is a fine young lady, after all. A shining example of both intelligence and conscience in what used to be our society. But both you and I know, the world is no longer what it once was. In such situations as ours, every resource must be fully utilized. Especially if that resource is a lovely young woman”
“Poole—”
“Needs must, when the Devil drives, Jacob. Already, some of my compatriots have commented on her attractiveness and, being a leader who tries to fulfill the needs of his subordinates... Well. Let's say, unless something is provided in her place, young Karen may yet remain pure of heart, but she most certainly will not remain so in body.”
There was no way the writer could ask his friends to give themselves up to this man. By using Karen as a bargaining chip, Poole had proven he was not to be trusted. It was a sure bet anyone entering his camp would be either enslaved, or killed. No, the survivors would not be going to the Cincinnati Gas and Electric Lake, to put themselves under the control of a lunatic leading a group of white power sadists.
But he couldn't leave Karen to their tender mercies either. There was no doubt that Poole would make good on his threat. He'd seen the depths of human depravity displayed already by Mike Barron, Nichole, and the moonshine fans that had taken Gwen and Donna prisoner.
So he made a choice.
“Poole?”
“Yes, Jacob?”
“One girl, no matter how much we may care about her, isn't worth the lives of everyone else here,” Jake replied. “You'
re not getting the transport and you're not getting your hands on any of my people.”
The radio was silent for a few moments. “You do realize you're forcing me to consider the requests of my men, don't you? I was quite serious when—”
Jake closed his eyes and leaned against the console. “You're not getting any of my people or the Mimi. I didn't say there wasn't something else I would be willing to trade.”
It was the Purifier's leader who laughed now. “What would that be? MREs? Weapons? Fuel for our vehicles? We have more than enough of those, Jacob. What's more, there are National Guard armories, army surplus stores and discount marts everywhere, most of them still full. Granted, when the outbreak hit, quite a few were looted, but many more remain untouched. We have a trio of tanker trucks full of fuel that we can refill periodically for a supply of both regular gasoline and diesel. Some of my men who were mechanically inclined managed to get the filtration systems in one of the pumping stations here working, so we have a virtually unlimited water supply...”
“Do you have a way to last for two years, minimum, until the military begins to retake the country?”
Poole seemed to be considering that. “Where did you come by that information?”
“That's for me to know,” Jake replied. “You can take it as gospel, though. Two years, possibly more, before there will even be an initial attempt made to secure more territory. It depends on how quickly the men in charge can retrain their soldiers. Hell, there may not be enough people left to even attempt it at this point. They may have to wait until the younger survivors mature to try.”
“And this is the information you were hoping to trade for Miss Parker's freedom?” Poole asked. “While it is quite useful in a forward-planning aspect, it's nowhere near enough to convince me to disappoint my men and grant her release.”
Rotting to the Core (Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 2) Page 17
