The last thing he remembered hearing before the extinguisher cooked off was the jangly sound of brass hitting the road intertwined with the dissonant pop, pop, pop of something sounding like a starter pistol. The air around him sizzled and then went quiet, an absence of sound he imagined persisted in outer space. And as the Z inched forward, its head bobbing to and fro like a damaged Jack-in-the-Box, suppressed thoughts and morbid visions began to loop through Hicks’s head—a silent horror film comprised of visions from his past.
He relived the old folks’ home outside of Atlanta. Beautiful day. Geriatrics choosing the lesser of the two evils. Leaping from the rooftop to their deaths, en masse, instead of facing the dead on its terms. The spree of mercy killings that followed visited him every night.
Then Pony Tail getting flying lessons courtesy of General Mike Desantos. The man’s slight form, arms rolling up the windows on the way down, before being ripped apart by the dead without benefit of a mercy kill.
Did he deserve it?
Did it really matter?
No. Ponytail visited nightly anyway.
The visions from hell continued as the overloaded party barge capsized in his mind’s eye and the water went red when bullets from the mini-gun he was manning shredded survivors and Zs alike into little pieces. Nothing but chum.
Then the bobble-headed Kylie imposter was on him. Grabbing and scratching, splintered shark-like teeth clicking. It got ahold of his off hand, drawing it towards its open maw. Then, barely registering, he felt a twinge of pain on his wrist. Like a bee sting. Or a scratch. Here, then gone. Nothing to write home about.
Reacting to the loud explosion and resulting white haze, Cross rolled onto his stomach and rose to standing. He looked to his right and let his gaze fall on Hicks, who was kneeling, arms outstretched, seemingly frozen; then he saw the broken creature, face down, writhing on its stomach. Instantly his sixth sense kicked in telling him that something wasn’t right with the picture, so he crabbed sideways past the pick-up, Sig aimed at the stripe of white skin where the thatch of hair was pulled away tight in two separate directions, and finished the job Hicks had started with one well-aimed shot between the kid’s once blond pigtails. Bile rising in his throat, he rushed to Hicks, pulled him to his feet and pushed him towards Lopez. Wide eyed, he hollered, “Get him in the truck.” Then he took a knee and methodically pumped a dozen bullets into a dozen little faces, creating all new horror-filled visions to keep him awake at night. He dropped the spent magazine and jammed a fresh one home, while in his ear bud he heard Cade yelling for him to get in the truck. The sights and smells of death all around started his jaw to lock up. He swallowed hard against out-of-control salivary glands. Nothing doing. He was past the point of no return. He shook his head and went to all fours and emptied his stomach on the dashed yellow line.
***
While the twenty seconds of mayhem was happening at Cade’s six, he asked Ari to hand over the pistol they had confiscated from Jasper. Handling the small black semi-automatic, he racked the slide back and checked the chamber. One in the pipe. Then he dropped the magazine from the well and counted the ten shiny .22 shells through the mag’s side window. Ten, plus one. He slapped the magazine home and flicked the selector from safe to fire. Batted away a tiny hand with the squared-off muzzle and shot the offending creature through the eye.
“Next. Step right up,” he said as the Zs milled around outside his window.
“Can’t kill them all, Captain,” said Ari. “You’ve got what? Ten rounds max in that pea shooter?”
Another creature gripped the window with both hands, canted its head horizontally and worked its slender face into the narrow gap between the drain sill and the window. Holding his breath due to the overwhelming stench, Cade placed the barrel in the Z’s mouth and let the thing chew on it. He looked deeply into its dead eyes and found nobody home. The wheel was spinning but the hamster was missing. No spark of life.
Although he used to harbor a small shred of empathy for the dead, right now, with his ankle throbbing to a calypso beat and three dead teammates in the box bed, he felt nothing. No remorse. No sadness. No guilt. Nothing whatsoever when he pulled the trigger. “Every Z we put down right here and now is one less we’ll have to deal with when it really matters,” he said.
Knowing precisely what the operator was alluding to, Ari ejected the mag from his Beretta, thumbed one 9mm shell off the top, and reinserted it with a solid slap. “It’s hot,” he said, placing the black pistol on the seat next to Cade’s thigh.
Like thinning a slow-moving line at the DMV, Cade emptied Jasper’s pistol into the dead as they filed forward. Then he traded guns and methodically squeezed round after round from the Beretta into the Zs until their bodies were piled knee high in a rough semi-circle stretching from just outside his door and around the front of the school bus. Barrel still smoking, he handed the pistol back to Ari, who promptly reloaded his last shell into the magazine, slammed it home and racked the slide. “Insurance,” he said with a quickly disappearing smile.
“We need to move it,” Cade said again over the comms. He looked past Ari and regarded Jasper, who was rocking slowly back and forth. “Pull it together, big guy. We’re going to need your muscle before all is said and done.”
Nothing.
Cade tried reaching him again. “I’m sorry we had to cuff you, Jasper. But I couldn’t risk having you bolt from the truck and let those things get inside here. You understand that, don’t you?”
No response.
Cade noted three separate and distinct thuds and ceased trying to get through to Jasper. He checked the mirror just as Cross was crawling over the tailgate.
“They’re in,” said Ari, confirming what Cade already knew.
With the needle on the truck’s temperature gauge pushing dangerously into the red, Cade stabbed the gas and wheeled around the few remaining Zs. Then, leaving the killing field in the rearview, he turned a hard, slow-rolling left and scraped by the bus perpendicular to the breakdown lane. Over the ticking engine he heard the Hercules make yet another pass. And then in his ear he heard Cross remind him to find the yellow bug and they’d be home free.
Chapter 34
Eden Compound
After inspecting the pull dates on two rows of canned food and then facing them so that all of the labels were readable and pointing in the same direction, Duncan snuck another look at his watch. Three minutes overdue. Even as a boy Logan had never been punctual, and if this was any indication then the zombie apocalypse had had little effect on the man. Duncan recalled the years he’d spent after Vietnam living back at home bouncing between jobs, women, and the horse track. Always searching for the answers to his problems in the next big trifecta or at the bottom of a bottle. Then one day, after a dozen years and thousands of nightmares and the fall of Saigon were behind him, he finally hit rock bottom and decided to clean up his act. With both Mom and Dad pushing sixty and Oops entering his teen years, Duncan found himself drawn to duty again—only this time it was to family instead of country. Once again he learned to straighten up and fly right and grab responsibility by the horns, only this time it wasn’t due to a screaming drill instructor or the need to stay frosty in a theater of war. In hindsight, it had been Logan’s unconditional love that pulled him from the abyss, allowing him to get a tenuous hold on his life. And that was why, over the last nineteen minutes, a hot mess of guilt had been gnawing at his gut like an Alien trying to escape. So, sitting here amongst the beans and soup and five gallon buckets filled with his least favorite food—white rice—he’d come to the conclusion that his best bet was to come clean and then begin the inquisition. After all, he was the big brother here and if he couldn’t be trusted with the knowledge Logan was obviously withholding, then what good was he to the kid?
Just as he was finished facing the jumbo cans of cling peaches, the door swung wide and Logan swept into the room.
“Right on time,” Duncan said.
Saying nothing, L
ogan slammed the door, setting the lone light bulb swinging.
“What’s the matter, kid?”
Logan exhaled forcefully. “I’m a failure. That’s what’s the matter.”
“Bullshit, baby bro. You designed and built this place single-handedly. If this is about Daymon and me busting your balls earlier then I’m truly sorry,” said Duncan. He drew a deep breath. Held it for a second before exhaling and added, “After all that’s gone down today, the last thing I meant to do was hurt your feelings.”
“We’re losing another family of four because they can’t handle the violence. Good church-going people. Neighbors back in Salt Lake.”
Like a cowboy in a western flick, Duncan leaned back against the wall, put his thumbs in his belt and said, “World’s a violent place ... always has been.”
Grimacing, Logan replied, “You know it’s bad enough that we have to deal with the walking dead, but now we’ve got people ... bandits ... or whatever you want to call them, trying to take our stuff by force.”
“Force needs to be dealt with by use of greater force ... violence of action. I don’t like it either but the way I see it—we’ve solved our bandit problems for the time being. As for the unintended consequences—is losing seven or eight hungry mouths, with only two of them able-bodied men who bring something to the table such a bad thing?” He went silent. Worried his silver goatee.
Logan said, “You’re cold, Duncan.” He swallowed hard and looked away.
Duncan made no reply.
Logan said softly, “They have kids.”
“I’m being practical, Logan. Besides, they made a choice. It’s simple math as far as I see it, and with Daymon and Jenkins aboard it’s a wash. Hell, I think the dreadlocked kid and the cop are worth four of your friends. Hate to be callous, but if we’re going to survive ... come out the other end of this thing not hungering for human flesh ourselves, you’re going to have to grow thicker skin. Forget about this democracy thing. Stop worrying about hurting someone’s feelings, and take charge.”
Logan’s eyes went glassy. The overhead light reflected off the pooling tears. “I’ve already killed seven men since this thing started. Not rotters ... stopped counting them the day after Washington D.C. fell. It’s the seven living, breathing men who are visiting me in my nightmares,” Logan said, choking back the tears.
“Get used to it. It’s gonna be multiples of those seven if you’re lucky,” drawled Duncan “And you know what that means?”
“No,” Logan said, wiping his face with his shirt.
“It means you are still alive and they aren’t,” Duncan said. “This is not a Y2K type of event. What we have here is not what you and Lev prepared for. The police and military are not going to reconstitute any time soon. Maybe they never will. So right now I’m drawing a line in the sand. We’ve got to start treating this like the life and death situation that it is.”
An outburst of laughter from a far corner of the subterranean redoubt worked its way forward, echoing from the walls and around the twists and turns and fading as it passed the storage room door.
“I’ve gotta come clean with you, baby bro. After you left ... right before Lev showed up, I snooped around a little. Found some radio info on a sheet on the floor, and couldn’t stop myself from reading the notations on your legal pad. When were you planning on telling me or anyone else about the black helicopters those kids up north are seeing?”
“Initially I was going to wait until tonight when everyone was assembled. Then our conversation earlier and Daymon adding his two cents started gnawing on me. I was going to run it by you here. But, like always, you beat me to the punch.”
Taking a can from the shelf and juggling it hand to hand, Duncan said, “Tell me about the names you scratched out.”
“Those were groups of survivors that I’d been sharing information with since the outbreak. For some reason over the last couple of days most of them have stopped transmitting. And they aren’t picking up when I hail them.”
“One try and you write them off?”
“No,” answered Logan. “I’d give them a couple of tries in one day. Then try again the next ...”
“No answer they get scratched?”
“Yep.”
“And this usually coincides with them seeing black helos?”
“The earlier ones all fell to the dead. I’m pretty sure of that. I was chatting with one fella in Salt Lake when his home was overrun. He left the mike open. I listened as they fought for their lives. Gunshots. Screaming. And then the moans and cries of the dead and dying ... and then silence. That was the last thing I heard of them.” He shivered visibly. “Pleading for their lives and then silence.”
“The ones you’ve been in contact with recently ... did they see the helicopters?”
“Yes. And some ground vehicles. All military.”
“Was the Humvee I used to engage our Huntsville friends military?”
“National Guard—”
“Logan ... work the problem for a second,” Duncan said, staring at him straight. “Take nothing at face value. Learned that over there. The peasants wore black pajamas. The Viet Cong wore black pajamas ... make any sense?”
“Perfect sense. I take back the parent comment. From here on out I want you to teach me everything you know.”
“Copy that, baby bro.”
“I think I know where to find a large cache of supplies. Weapons and gear and food. Enough to keep us going for a long time.”
“Go on,” said Duncan, a smile curling the corner of his mouth.
Ten minutes later, after Logan had laid everything on the table and they had war-gamed his idea together, a decision was made.
Chapter 35
South Dakota
With a slow motion procession of dead on their six, and glimpses of daylight peeking through the fender-to-bumper maze, the fabled yellow VW came into view. It was on the shoulder, right where Cross had promised. It served as the far left bookend to a row of stationary vehicles that were nosed up against a tremendous pileup blocking the interstate shoulder-to-shoulder. The burned-out hulk of some kind of tractor-trailer rig appeared to have been—initially at least—the main cause of the backup. It had jack-knifed with its trailer jutting to the right, partially hanging over the shrub-covered embankment. The tractor itself, Cade presumed, had at first ridden up and over a handful of cars, crushing them beyond recognition before the entire jumble caught fire. Intense heat had scorched the asphalt, causing it to bubble before cooling and hardening, leaving it looking like the surface of the moon. The conflagration had also scoured away any clues as to what make or model the nearest half-dozen automobiles had been. Everything flammable was gone. Vinyl, cloth, and plastic vanished in a cloud of toxic fumes. Didn’t matter though, Cade thought. The people driving the little econo-boxes had probably died instantly. To him it was like they had almost been asking for it. Rolling coffins, he’d heard cars that size called. And the shoe fit because all that was left of them was skeletal remains—both human and vehicle.
“Cross, Lopez ... I need you two to cover Hicks at the next objective,” said Cade as a burst of silenced automatic rifle fire sounded in his earpiece. He glanced at the rearview in time to see a flurry of movement as Hicks gunned a trio of Zs to the roadway, and in nearly the same instant unclipped the rifle, tossed it down, and the black pistol reappeared in his gloved hand.
“Copy that,” replied Cross, eyes tearing up from the stench more so than the wind curling around his sunglasses. He sensed the truck begin to slow, snugged the SCAR carbine to his shoulder, and began dropping the nearest walking cadavers.
Then, before anyone could react, the sound of a hundred freight trains was again on top of them as Oil Can Five-Five skimmed overhead less than a hundred feet above the deck.
“This is Anvil Actual. How copy, Oil Can?” Cade called into the comms as the plane’s pale fuselage flicked by and the truck was buffeted in its slipstream.
“Solid copy,” repli
ed a voice Cade recognized as belonging to the co-pilot who had introduced himself earlier as Second Lieutenant Norman Meredith.
“Are we still proceeding with Plan A?” Cade inquired. “Or does Nash have a Pave Hawk and some PJs (Air Force Pararescue Jumpers) enroute from Schriever?”
Meredith said, “If you have three hours to kill, we can arrange a Pave Hawk and a couple of PJs.”
Cade grimaced and tightened his grip on the wheel as a child-sized flesh-eater appeared from out of nowhere and was instantly swallowed under the truck’s front end. “Plan A works for us,” he answered back, as the small form thumped and bumped along the entire length of the undercarriage. He relayed the question to Ari.
“Tell them my vote is for A,” said Ari, who had been eavesdropping anyway and was never shy about adding his two cents. “They get us to Schriever and we’re gonna owe them big time. Shit ... what are we up to now? Gotta be four or five cases,” he added, answering his own question. He swiveled right. “Beer sounds good, doesn’t it, Jasper?”
Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 18
