“Sorry,” replied Daymon.
“In reply to your pansy-ass try at pulling an end-around of my defenses, I’ll honor the effort and lay it all out on the table for you.”
Save for the air rushing by the cockpit, and the din of the engines and the complex mechanicals all working in unison to keep the five-ton aircraft aloft, there was a long uneasy silence. “Revenge is on my mind,” Duncan finally said. “No more live-and-let-live bullshit. I should have gutted that Chance kid when I had the chance.” He chuckled at his play on words—the sound low and menacing. “Scorched earth is my new policy. In fact, right now all I want to do is channel my inner Genghis Khan and burn Huntsville to the fuckin’ ground—man, woman, and child. And then I want to skull fuck every one of the corpses of those animals that killed my little brother. He was only thirty-five. I’ve got a Zippo lighter that’s older than that boy. I was not supposed to outlive him, Daymon. And every second that the assholes who did this are alive on this earth and stealing air from the rest of us is an affront ... a slap in the face to how he lived his life. He-was-a-good-boy—”
Daymon watched with rapt interest as the old man’s voice rose and spittle flew from his mouth and landed on the controls and gauges. Suddenly something appeared to jog Duncan’s memory, and as if a switch had been flicked he stopped talking and looked around. Simultaneously he flared and slowed the helicopter, abruptly changing its course.
Daymon contemplated Duncan’s lengthy diatribe, which, even when taking into account the recent turn of events, seemed way out-of-character considering the old man’s usually unflappable demeanor and easygoing manner. He received a second’s reprieve as his attention was drawn to a troop of rotters banging down the road toward Huntsville. Then he resumed trying to decide which approach he was going to use should Duncan’s actions inch any closer towards unpredictability. And while the silent battle between doing nothing and stepping in and putting himself out there raged internally, the rotor sounds changed from a fast, high-pitched whip-whip-whip to a metronomic, almost hypnotic whop-whop-whop. What happened next was entirely unexpected, as he felt his stomach buoy up and lodge in his throat. In the same instant he looked down through the footwell and realized the ground was rushing up at him.
Chapter 71
Schriever AFB
Although Cade wasn’t one hundred percent certain who was climbing the Chinook’s loading ramp, judging by the slender form and the whipping ponytail his money was on the raven-haired girl he’d saved from a grisly death at Grand Junction Regional just days ago.
Wilson, however, was oblivious to her presence because he had reburied his head in his hands the moment Cade had reassured him that Ari’s sudden maneuver had been planned and the chopper was in no danger of crashing.
So with his initial assumption having been confirmed by the instant reaction the new arrival invoked in both Raven and Sasha, Cade sat back, slightly amused, and waited for Wilson to catch on.
The flight engineer handed Taryn a pair of neon yellow muffs which she donned and benefitted from immediately as a shrill whine emanated from a nearby hydraulic piston. The rectangle of daylight quickly shrank to nothing, and a handful of seconds after the noise began the ramp bumped into the closed position and the whine subsided.
As Cade flicked his gaze between the engineer who was busy folding a seat down for Taryn, and Raven and Sasha who were giddy and beaming because their new friend had changed her mind and come aboard, Wilson hinged up and looked aft.
Moving faster than any operator or Chinook crewmember Cade had ever seen perform the task, Wilson pulled a move that would make Harry Houdini proud and was unbuckled, up and out of his seat, and embracing the young woman in record time.
Oblivious—this time of everyone but Taryn—Wilson emerged from his shell and, helmet be damned, planted a clumsy kiss on her lips. A kiss that was reciprocated and drew a couple of emphatic “grosses” from Raven and Sasha and a big ear-to-ear grin from Brook.
Looking down the fuselage at the spectacle, Ari broke in over the shipwide comms and said, “Night Stalker Airways would like to remind our valued passengers that this is not a Mile-High-Club-sanctioned-flight. Please be seated and we’ll be resuming our hop to Mack momentarily.”
Shaking his head, the burly flight engineer showed Taryn to the seat he’d prepared and buckled her in.
Chapter 72
Eden Compound
Coming in fast like he was landing a fully-loaded Huey into a hot LZ in the jungles of Vietnam, Duncan dropped them from the sky like a Yo-Yo and at the last moment flared the Black Hawk, settling it softly dead center on the expanse of green grass, wheels straddling the dirt airstrip.
Heart hammering in his chest wildly from the recent specter of riding another helicopter into the ground, Daymon detected the stars crowding his vision and finally remembered to breathe. Drawing in a lungful of fresh air, he cast his gaze around the clearing and noticed the lack of a welcoming party. And given the racket the helo produced, he knew the meadow shouldn’t be deserted. He looked toward the compound’s entrance but saw no movement.
Momentarily ignoring Daymon, who once again was as white as a ghost, Duncan pored over the instrument panel, checking all of the systems the manual listed as critical to staying in the air.
Satisfied, he powered down the turbines, setting the rotor into a slow spin, and said, “Get on the two-way and have someone come out and help with the bodies.”
“All right,” replied Daymon, fumbling in his pocket and hunting for the Motorola he’d taken off of Logan’s bullet-riddled corpse. Thumbing it on, he asked, “Thing is set to 10-1. Is that the right channel?”
“Affirmative. Tell them to make it snappy because I’m hoping to catch those Huntsville bastards with their pants down.” An awful vision of Jamie and Jordan enduring Lord knows what at the hands of their captors flooded Duncan’s mind. Shaking it off, he glanced back at his cargo. Because that’s what he believed the two human bodies had been reduced to. Minus the soul or spirit or whatever the moniker du-jour, they were just shells leaking blood onto the cabin floor. Logan and Gus, he thought, were somewhere much better. At least he hoped they were. And that’s where his faith kicked in. He had to remain faithful considering the times he was living in.
“This is Daymon,” he said, thumbing the call button on the two-way. “We’re back and we need a couple of extra bodies out here in the clearing.”
A second passed, then the radio crackled to life and Phil indicated that he and Chief were coming topside.
***
Less than a minute later, Daymon watched Phil and Chief emerge from the foliage, change course and set off on a sprint towards him.
Rifle in hand, sling flailing wildly against his leg, Phillip, who was rail-thin and lighter by at least thirty pounds, led the two through the rotor-wash-whipped grass. Brandishing a stunted shotgun, his glossy black ponytail bouncing with each footfall, Chief, who was built like a fireplug and at least a head shorter, somehow matched Phil stride-for-stride.
Sans helmet or weapon, Daymon ran full tilt and met them halfway, about fifty yards from the idling chopper, where they could talk and not have their words drowned out by the din of the rotating blades.
Taking it slow, sparing no detail, he filled them in on the events at the quarry, where Duncan’s state of mind was, and where he feared Logan’s murder was about to take the man. Using Apocalypse Now as a reference, he said, “Think Colonel Kurtz times a thousand.” Succinct and to the point, Chief and Phillip grasped the statement’s full meaning. Then Daymon heaped upon them the unenviable task of moving the bodies inside one of the abandoned vehicles where the animals couldn’t get to them. Lastly, he asked them to carry the black Pelican case inside, stating that it would be well worth their while before imploring them to peruse its contents.
And just when he was finished talking he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision.
Heidi was standing near the entrance, dappled in sunligh
t. He had no idea how long she’d been there but she was a sight. Sparing her from seeing the grim task Chief and Phil were about to undertake, he strode across the meadow to her side and guided her behind the blind where they shared a much-needed embrace.
After a couple of minutes passed, Daymon pulled away first, looked down into her eyes and said, “Logan and Gus are dead.” Without allowing the words to fully register, he pressed on. “And Jamie and Jordan are missing.”
“Missing or abducted?” she said, her voice rising.
Just as he’d feared, she was right back to square one—he could detect it in her eyes. The sparkle had been extinguished with his words still hanging in the air.
“I’m going to help Duncan look for them,” he lied. Truth was, he was going along only to save Old Man from himself. He’d been there before. Rage alone made him allow Hosford Preston to get eaten by the dead. As the old saying went, the devil made me do it. Or in this case—not do it. It was the black Glock bucking in his fist and the exploding faces of the three hissing corpses that always visited first. But it was the inevitable cameo appearance of the lawyer’s fear-etched face that woke him from his nightmares every time. If only he would have listened to Cade, things would have turned out different. His soul would be a little bit cleaner. Done was done. He couldn’t change the past. But he might, however, be able to help keep Duncan from making the same kind of mistake. One he might regret for the rest of his life.
“Jordan and Jamie?” reiterated Heidi.
“We’re not sure,” said Daymon, a million different thoughts running through his mind. “But there were only the two bodies so at least there’s a chance they may have fought the bad guys off and escaped.” The lies—which even by omission counted just the same—continued to pile on as he left out the condition in which they’d found the Tahoe and the fact that Jordan’s rifle had been left behind.
Heidi said sharply, “Tran was right. They’re still out there.” She pulled away from him and back-pedaled, a look of incredulity on her features.
“I’d be willing to bet it was the same people they tangled with the other day. Stirred them up too much.” He went quiet. Steeled himself for what might end up being yet another lie. “Don’t worry, hon. Me and Duncan ... we will find them alive.”
Heidi made a face. “And that’s almost worse than dying,” she spat. “’Cause I’m living it.”
Daymon made no reply. He watched her disappear into the compound. He didn’t follow, and when she was gone, he retrieved the compact Thuraya sat phone from his pocket and thumbed it on. He checked the display and came away pleased because he had reception. He scrolled through the incoming calls. Found the most recent one from Cade days ago. Took a deep breath and hit the green call button. Three electronic trills later, the call was answered by a computerized female voice telling him to leave a message after the tone. A tick later the voice was proven right, and a sound that some focus group somewhere had determined would lead to the most people resisting the urge to hang up beeped in his ear. Hanging up for Duncan’s sake, hell, for all of their sakes for that matter, was a luxury he could not afford. So, grudgingly, he began to relay the happenings from the last couple of days. Halfway through recounting the story, but before he’d even touched over the most important fact of the tale, the same sound blared in his ear. In disbelief he thumbed the phone off and back on and then immediately hit redial, hoping this time, assuming Cade didn’t pick up, that he’d be able to relay the pertinent information in the allotted time.
He listened to the same three electronic trills, then waited for the long dead focus group’s chosen tone to sound. After the beep, he cut to the chase, spilling about Logan and Gus and the missing girls. Then he slowed down and voiced his concerns about Duncan. He finished by nearly begging Cade to call him back ASAFP—as soon as fucking possible.
He killed the call and pocketed the phone. A beat later he detected a sudden change in pitch to the Black Hawk’s twin-turbines. Simultaneously the rotor swish picked up, rising to a crescendo. On the move, he jammed the phone in a cargo pocket, rounded the blind and couldn’t believe what he was looking at. The Pelican case was on the ground a dozen feet off the Black Hawk’s nose. Beyond the helo, near the tree line, Phillip and Chief were struggling to fit one of the wrapped bodies into the rear of the white Land Cruiser. And the helicopter was bouncing, light on its wheels, with only Duncan at the controls. Then the rear boom lifted to horizontal, and just like that the Black Hawk was airborne, rotor thumping out man-made thunder claps, clawing its way into the azure sky.
Waving his arms frantically, Daymon ran across the clearing trying in vain to get Duncan’s attention. He made it to the dirt strip just as the craft banked sharply starboard. He caught a glimpse of helmet, a sun-glint from Duncan’s glasses, followed by a flash of recognition as the man turned his head and looked groundward.
Hinged at the waist, stomach heaving from the sudden spate of exertion, Daymon pivoted slowly, tracking the helicopter as it circled the clearing. Then he realized that Duncan was coming back around for him and he was standing in the man’s landing spot. So he sidestepped a few yards, ducked and held his dreadlocks against the rotor wash, and clambered aboard once the helo settled on its landing gear.
The reception he received was about what he’d expected. Sure, he’d spent a little more time consoling Heidi than he probably should have. But deep down he had a feeling Duncan had been looking for an excuse to go it alone. Nobody to answer to that way, Daymon surmised.
Bringing the chopper around in a slow lazy half-circle, Duncan spotted the gray stripe of 39 through the trees and followed it west. “What took you so long?” he said, keeping his eyes forward.
“Had to tell Heidi what happened at the quarry.”
“You tell her the girls are missing?”
“I kind of sugar-coated it. Painted a rosier picture than I’m seeing.”
Duncan looked left. Fixed his gaze on Daymon. “So you lied.”
“Omitted.”
“Lied,” pressed Duncan.
“Tomato, to-mah-to,” Daymon shot back. “Didn’t help. She went right back to thinking the boogeyman is waiting outside her door.”
“And he ain’t?” said Duncan. “Look down there.” He slowed the Black Hawk and closed to within a hundred feet of the roadway, holding it in a ragged hover.
Below them, a group of thirty or forty creatures trudged eastbound away from Huntsville and the rather densely populated city of Ogden, a mere fifteen miles west of there. Slowly, collectively, their heads panned skyward and their dead eyes fixed on the noisy vessel they instinctually knew contained fresh meat.
“I’m talking about Bishop,” said Daymon, throwing a shiver at the sight of the flesh-eaters. “He’s the one who took her from work. Now he comes back in her dreams and haunts her nightly.”
“What about the Robert Christian guy?”
“He’s no threat to her now because he’s out of the picture. Cade said he’s locked up tight at Schriever.”
Duncan went quiet and nosed the helo a few degrees to starboard. Panned his eyes over the scrolling countryside as the forest gave way to the same rolling hills he and Phillip had traversed earlier on their approach to Huntsville in the SUV. A tick later, still standing a stone’s throw from 39 was the Shell sign, untouched and ridiculously bright yellow. But the gas station next to it, from the air, looked like something a kid had built out of an erector set and then torched in a fit of rage. Out back, shielded from the road, were a number of burnt-out cars and a drift of blackened corpses.
“Took care of them the only way they knew how,” observed Daymon.
“Look what it got them. Burned the whole place down around them. It’s a shame ‘cause eventually, to gas up the rigs, we’re gonna need to find a station like it, or a fuel truck or something.”
Daymon made no reply. Kept his eyes on the road below until they came upon a rise and Duncan slowed the Black Hawk to a crawl.
“
Down there,” said Duncan, pointing out the carnage at the head of the massive bumper-to-bumper traffic jam, where, contrasting sharply against the blacktop, at least a dozen pale nude corpses lay. “Those ... were National Guard soldiers. I’d be willing to bet the same animals that killed them were the ones who killed Gus and my brother.”
“Isn’t that where the rotters almost got you?”
“Yeah. Phil saved my ass. I was winching the Humvee out of the ditch ... they didn’t need it anymore.”
“They’re in a better place.”
“I guess so,” Duncan replied solemnly. “Just wish we could have taken the time to bury them proper.” Suddenly the realization that he would be doing just that for his brother before long sent a cold chill up his spine. He shivered as his mind reeled and he reminisced over Logan. Saw in his mind’s eye snippets of him as a baby, then a boy and finally as a young man with his curled mustache and black bowler hat. The scenes flashed by, morphed together like a photo montage at a wake, and then ended with an overhead view showing him rolling Logan’s corpse into a shallow grave and then flinging the first shovelful of black soil over his slack, pallid features.
“Think we could hover here for a minute so I can take a look at the city with my binocs?”
“Better yet,” said Duncan, working his thumb over a couple of switches on the contoured flight stick. He turned a knob bringing an image—like a fast-moving waterfall rendered in whites and blacks—into focus on the recessed, ten-inch screen mounted nearer to the left seat than the right. “That’s the feed from the FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared Radar) pod. That round gimbal-mounted doo-dad under the chin? The DHS used it to patrol the border looking for little ninety-eight-point-six-degree hot-spots scurrying along the cold desert floor.”
“How’s it work?”
“I didn’t pay too much attention to that part of the manual. I focused on the nuts and bolts of how to keep this thing in the air.”
Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 34
