Every day she grew stronger, the serum in her blood finally doing its job, healing her, repairing her and finally winning the fight against the invading virus.
Jessie started jogging again in the mornings before the day got too hot, still favoring his leg a little but enjoying the workout. It was about two miles around if he circled the big corn field. After a week, or maybe it had been closer to two, she joined him. Her legs were better than his, they didn’t have a bullet hole in them, but he knew her side still had to hurt. Their quickly healing injuries didn’t slow them down though and he refused to be outpaced by a girl.
She refused to be beaten by a limping boy.
They ran.
On the second pass of the farm house Bob had enough and turned down the drive to get something to drink and lay in the shade. On the third time around, they were both breathing hard, sweat pouring from them soaking their clothes.
“You should stop.” Jessie said trying to control his panting, trying to sound nonchalant. “You don’t want to hurt yourself.”
“I’m good, gimpy.” she said, the same control in her voice. “Maybe you ought to take it easy on that leg and get some rest.”
Bob watched them pass and lay his head back down for a nap. Silly humans.
11
Gunny
Bridget heard them just after dawn, her time on guard duty. The rest of the crew were deep in the mine shaft, trying to get a little sleep after the long trek to get there. She whistled, the sound echoing through the man-made cave, and they were there quickly, dressed and ready to fight or flee.
“Looks like they finally found the plane wreckage.” Gunny said listening to the whine and roar of dozens of trucks and motorcycles.
“And no bodies.” Griz added, unconsciously fingering his loadout, checking magazines.
The raiders were spread out wide, dust trails from bikes and cars as far as the eye could see. They were searching for them.
“We’re in a good position.” Bridget said “Can’t we hide? If they find us we can snipe them.”
“Nope.” Scratch said. “I’ve seen this same situation play out in Afghanistan. A bunch of Taliban have good cover in the mountains, shoot a few of our guys and think they’re safe. We just call in air support and blow the hell out of the whole mountainside. If they’re in caves, they get buried alive.”
“They don’t have airplanes.” Bridget said “They can’t do that.”
“No, but we know they have RPG’s and LAW’s.” Griz said. “Close enough. If they spot us, they’ll blow us to bits.”
The dust clouds were still a long way off, they were going slow, methodically searching in the valley.
“Can we just hide, then?” Bridget asked.
Griz, Scratch and Gunny looked at each other. They’d all been to the sandbox, all had chased Taliban or ISIS through the mountains and deserts. If Casey had one just one grunt, one eleven bang bang, who’d spent some time tracking terrorists, he would be able to find them. He had hundreds of people, plenty of supplies and the group had left sign everywhere. The wind hadn’t blown enough sand around to cover their footprints, Casey had to know where they were headed. The manhunt spread across the valley was in case they’d circled back. Casey was being slow, careful and methodical. Crossing his I’s and dotting his T’s. Gunny would lay money there were teams on the other side of the mountain, too. Between them and the freeway.
“Wanna do a Ben Wilson?” Gunny asked, knowing they didn’t have much of a choice. They were limited on ammo, the only liquids available were a few beers and they would be found if they tried to hide.
“A who?” Stabby asked
“Army guy. Korea.” Griz answered. “Killed a bunch of commies with an entrenching tool. Out numbered and out gunned, he ran right at them. Threw them in a panic, took them out in the confusion.”
“I saw John Wayne do that.” Hollywood said, remembering one the videos he’d seen as a kid. “He rode straight at ‘em, blasting away with the reins in his teeth.”
“Does it really work?” Stabby asked, “I mean, there’s loads of them and only a few of us.”
“Yeah, it works.” Scratch said. “I heard the story about some guys in Iraq, a few army dudes and a couple of contractors went in all gun’s a blazin’ and rescued some Marines who’d been surrounded by like a hundred haji’s. Never underestimate the element of surprise, our instructor told us.”
Gunny and Griz raised eyebrows at each other, surprised the story that officially never happened had been taught in classes.
“Pair up.” Gunny said “Find a good ambush spot. The old mining equipment will make good cover, we can stay hidden from view, hopefully until a lot of the trucks bunch up. The more of Casey’s goons there are, the easier it will be.”
It seemed counter intuitive to Bridget and Stabby, wouldn’t it be better to go after just one car? Wouldn’t it be easier to ambush just one vehicle?
They hustled back down the hillside and slid in among the rusting hulks of old dump trucks, boring machines and flaking iron remains of unidentifiable equipment. The raiders were close, the lead elements already nearing the outskirts of the spread-out buildings. The sun was already beating down, the temperatures climbing fast in the cloudless pale sky. They watched the dust clouds travel all the way to the mountain on both sides of them then merge and come towards the mining town.
“That’s good.” Gunny said. “They’ll meet here, probably spread out and start searching all the buildings. They’re falling right into our trap.”
Griz chuckled at the looks on some of the others faces, cracked open a warm, stale beer and got himself ready. He knew it was a long shot but Gunny had the others believing it was a done deal. All they had to do was create a little chaos, big clouds of dust and gunfire everywhere. The raiders would be shooting at each other while they made their escape in the confusion. Confidence counted in matters like this. If you believed you could do it, there was a chance that you actually could.
“Remember.” Gunny said. “It’s going to get crazy, don’t shoot each other. We’ll all steal trucks, create as much mayhem as you can then head north west, follow the mountain range. We’re surrounded by highways and towns, we can’t be more than thirty or forty miles from the hardball. Once we hit asphalt, we’ll head up towards Quartzite. Radio’s on channel 31 if they have CB’s.” He grabbed the end of a rusting cable from some sort of derrick and ran across the road to slip in between two ancient cannibalized bulldozers.
They spread out, got quiet, hunkered down and waited for more vehicles to show. A couple of motorcycles that made it first were buzzing up and down the few roads looking for signs but they wouldn’t have been able to see anything unless the crew had a blazing fire and maybe a few flags flying. They were on dirt bikes and were kicking up trails of dust that hung in the air. One of them flew by them on the right, looking for people hiding in the shadows. He buzzed away and more dust clouds kept coming, more engines adding their roar to the early morning stillness. Heat hazes were already shimmering in the distance and the plumes of dirt were closing in around them. Someone had seen their footprints, knew this was the most logical place to hide and now they were closing the trap. The little band from Lakota had slipped out of their grasp before but not this time. This time Casey had them. This time he would make them pay. This time he would teach them a lesson.
They waited, crouched and hidden, as the rest of the vehicles came roaring into town. Gunny had hoped for this, had gambled their lives on it, that Casey’s men would be undisciplined and have no sense of battlefield tactics. They were big and mean and scary and were used to full on attacks, winning battles by their sheer numbers and disregard for anyone they happened to kill. Indiscriminate fire power from thirty guns aimed at some rancher’s defenses usually brought them down quickly. Ramming a truck through a gate at eighty miles an hour then flooding a fortified town with dozens of men firing at everything that moved brought them to heel. This fight would be even easier, t
here were no walls to breach.
The cars, trucks and bikes came in fast, as they usually did when attacking a town, but this one was different. The buildings weren’t clustered together, no fences to keep the battlefield contained and there was old mining junk spread out all over. There were dilapidated campers and RV’s, old metal buildings and abandoned equipment everywhere.
Trucks stopped and men piled out, started searching. It was unorganized and haphazard but there were enough of them, more than enough, to check every nook and cranny. The next bike that came zooming down the path, Gunny stood and whipped the cable up from the dirt. It caught the man in the chest, sending him tumbling off the motorcycle. Griz sunk a blade through his skull before he’d even stopped sliding. Before he had time to draw a breath and scream. Gunny stripped him of his Uzi, slung it around his neck and ran for the still idling bike laying on it’s side, back tire spinning. He revved the motor and took off, looking for targets. He was starting the chaos. The battle had begun.
Hollywood and Bridget had slipped inside a pair of falling down sheds opposite each other on one of the paths.
“Use your charms on the next truck.” Hollywood stage whispered from the shadows. Get him to stop and I’ll take care of business.”
She nodded, calmed her nerves and ran over a dozen different gun katas that would work for this situation. Hollywood had taught her well with his unusual method of weapons drills using martial arts techniques adapted for firearms. She’d trained hard and she no longer had to think about the proper application of bunkai. They were instinct now. Second nature. Her fingers knew the ways of war, her hands knew how to fight.
Bridget tucked her guns in the waistband at her back, pushed out her boobs, stood in the road between the sheds and stuck her thumb out when a Raider truck spotted her. There were cat calls from both men in the cab as he pulled up, smiling his sharp fanged smile. It barely had time to turn to surprise before her guns were in her fists, two twins talking, spitting little bits of lead through their grinning faces. Hollywood dragged a body out of the passenger side as she opened the door and let the raider with half a head crumple to the dirt.
“Thought I was supposed to take care of business.” Hollywood grumbled at her.
“Too slow, grandpa.” she told him.
Scratch and Stabby ducked under the rusting hulk of some kind of digging machine that was worn out and discarded before they were born. The roar of engines was all round them, the dust being kicked up was getting thick and causing both of them to pull their shemaghs up over their nose and mouth. They could hear a couple of men yelling and clanging on things the next path over, searching the buildings. They had an old barrel ready to roll out in front of the next truck to stop it so they could spring their ambush but none came down the alley. They flew past on both ends as the boys waited, the raiders on foot getting closer as they methodically searched every hiding place.
“This ain’t gonna work.” Scratch said. “They’re going to find us before we can get a car. We need to take out those two quiet-like. With blades.”
He was worried if they started firing their guns and didn’t have a car to get away, the other raiders in the area would come running, maybe surround them.
Stabby just nodded, he’d never been in close quarters combat against people, never had to kill a real live human being. The zombies were easy, they were already dead and came right at you. He nervously checked the blades strapped to his arms, the wolverine style claws he used to wear when he was onstage with his band. They’d killed plenty of the undead, spilled a lot of black, rotting blood, but sinking them into a man was something entirely different.
“Hey, you good, bro?” Scratch asked quietly, seeing his apprehension.
“Yeah. I’ve never tried to kill anyone before. Not anyone alive, anyway.” he replied, a little above a whisper.
“Me neither.” Scratch admitted. “With guns, sure, but not with a knife. Think it’ll be messy?”
Stabby grimaced. Yeah, it was gonna be messy. They spotted the men from their hiding spot as they crossed the road. Typical raiders with finger bone necklaces, spikes on their armor and nail studded bats in their hands. Both had pistols but they were hunting with their clubs. They wanted to hurt someone, not shoot them dead. They stayed near each other but not close, usually on opposite sides of junk piles or sheds. They wouldn’t be able to take them both by surprise.
“Get ready.” Scratch said. “I’m going to do a Gunny.”
“What?” Stabby asked “What’s that? What’s a Gunny? What are going to do?”
“Something stupid.” Scratch answered, “Stay hidden and get ready.”
He grabbed the cooler and dragged it out behind the tracks of a derelict machine then sat on it, his back towards the men, and popped open a beer. They banged on the walls of a rusted tin building, kicked over a dented table and stopped when they saw him.
“Hot out here already, ain’t it?” he declared, raising his voice to be heard over the gunning of engines and whine of the dirt bikes. Dust swirled in the air and the raiders exchanged a look.
“Got some cold ones, if you want.” Scratch said and took a drink of the warm beer.
“Is that you, Pauly?” the one with face paint and sharpened teeth asked. “Thought you was up north.”
They both half lowered their clubs, not sure what was going on. It couldn’t be one of the Lakota gang they were hunting but neither one of them recognized him.
Scratch turned to face them, keeping his spiked metal arm out of their sight.
“Nah, I’m new. I came in from Texas. You guys want a Coors?” he stood to open the cooler. “They call me Tater.”
He pulled a hot beer out and extended it to the man farthest away from Stabby. As soon as he grabbed it he knew things weren’t as they seemed. First off, the beer wasn’t cold at all and second, he had a steel spike flying right for his face. The man tried to turn his head at the last second and Scratch grunted with the effort as he drove the sharpened rebar through his cheekbone and out the other side of his head, just above the ear. The bones made an ugly crunching, breaking sound as he punched through them, not at all like the softened skulls of the dead. The other raider had time raise his club before the triple claws from Stabby slammed through the greasy dreadlocks and came out of his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He stiffened for a second before dropping to the sand, his head sliding cleanly from the blades.
The boys stared at what they’d done for a moment before grabbing the bodies and dragging them inside a tin shack. They didn’t feel remorse, it was kill or be killed, but it might bother them a little later on, when they had time to remember their first kill when they were close enough to see the whites of their eyes.
“We still need a truck.” Scratch said and they went back to their hiding spot by the barrel to wait.
The roar of the machines was all around them, they could hear occasional gunfire, the dust was thick in the air and sooner or later, something would come down the alley.
One did a few minutes later, a jacked-up Chevy with bars on the windows. Scratch rolled the barrel out and the truck stopped.
“That’s your plan?” Griz yelled out the window at them. “Roll a barrel out in the path? I would have lit you up as soon as I saw it!”
“Worked though, didn’t it?” Scratch said scrambling into the cab behind Stabby. “We knew we’d get some idiot to stop.”
Griz ignored the jibe and stomped the gas when he was only halfway in, making him yelp and grab on so he wouldn’t get dumped out. The tires flung dirt and sand, adding to the cloud already hanging over the area and he joined in the chaos. The raiders were celebrating and yelling to each other over the radios. They knew the Lakota crew was here. They knew they’d find them and drag them out of their hidey holes. They were enjoying the party, doing their part to strike terror into the hearts of the hunted. Engines revved, guns were fired into the air and more men joined the search on the ground with studded baseball bats or long
knives in each hand. There was going to be a barbeque tonight! There was no way they’d slip through their grasp again.
12
Casey
Casey sat in his idling Mustang on the outskirts of the old mining town, air conditioner on high, just watching his men surround then converge in great, billowing clouds of dust. The jerks from Lakota were here, they had to be. His men had seen the plane fly over then crash miles out into a valley between two mountain ranges. He felt cheated. He wanted them alive. He wanted to make them pay. Within hours they had found the wreckage but there were no bodies. He sent his best men back along the flight path and just like he suspected, they found the buried parachutes. The wind had blown the loose sand away and they’d spotted a flapping corner from a canopy. His men brought him maps. Detailed tourist maps and state maps. He’d spread them out on the hood of his car, chomped on his cigar and listened to his war chiefs, men who’d been in the military or men like him who had been good at keeping a few steps ahead of the law. Men who’d been on the run for years and knew a thing or two about disappearing. The scout team had found the footprints heading due north, towards the small mountain range and the ghost town at the foot of it. He’d sent his fastest cars down the roads to circle the mountain and box them in. The men spread out across the desert with binoculars and telescopes and were waiting for them to show themselves. They could see for miles in the flat terrain, they would see them making their way down. If somehow they had found a car here in the valley, they would have seen the dust trail it kicked up. No, his chiefs assured him, if they didn’t have maps, they had probably seen the town from the airplane and were headed to it. They couldn’t have much water, if any. It was the likeliest place to find some and maybe even a vehicle. It was also the most direct path out of the desert and back to a road.
Zombie Road (Book 5): Terror On The Two-Lane Page 7
