Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 12): Abyss

by Chesser, Shawn

  Dregan waved his boy over and stepped from his rig, grunting from the exertion. He watched Gregory descend the short stack of stairs, stroll down the walk, and cross the road in his direction. The younger man’s pace and long strides belied the fact that he was also living on borrowed time. At least he was if all that the old fella, Duncan, of the Eden crew had to say about the Omega antiserum failure rate could be believed. A stark reminder of the zombie attack that nearly killed him, Gregory still wore a bandage on the side of his neck.

  A vision of Brook unexpectedly entered Dregan’s head. It wasn’t the picture of her rage-filled face peering up at him over the barrel of her Glock. This appearance had her kneeling in the mud, his bleeding son by her knees. She was cradling his head in her lap, smoothing his hair back, urging him to fight to live. The anger-torqued expression was gone. In its stead, the woman wore a stoic, business-like countenance as she stuck the cylindrical device to Gregory’s bare skin and administered the government-made antiserum. The visage in his mind’s eye was a hundred and eighty degrees removed from the one wrapped in righteous fury the day he led a posse to the Eden compound to complete one mission: extract a pound of flesh for the murder of his daughter Lena and her new husband, Michael. He thought: We all know how that one turned out.

  He shook his head and reached a hand out to his son. Delivered a firm handshake and invited him inside.

  “Sure you can handle the ladder?”

  “I’ve got cancer, boy. I’m not dead like one of those things.”

  “Yet,” answered Gregory. “What do you want to say to me that you couldn’t say over the radio?”

  Dregan said nothing. He put one hand on the semiautomatic pistol riding on his hip and looped around back of the Blazer. Satisfied the pistol was secured, he stepped to the telescoping aluminum ladder serving as stairs to his home and wrapped his hands around a rung just above his head. Hand over hand, he climbed the ladder in silence.

  Standing at the base of the ladder and spotting for the elder Dregan, Gregory proffered, “We can rebuild the stairs for you.”

  “No need,” said Dregan. “This place will belong to Peter before long.”

  “He’s days away from thirteen. He ought to come live with me or … Uncle Henry.”

  After taking hold of the wooden porch rail and hauling himself off the ladder, Dregan shot Gregory a look only a son could decipher. “Climb,” he ordered, then turned and entered his home.

  ***

  Dregan was sitting on the low-slung couch in his front room, still catching his wind after the arduous climb. Perched on his knees was a TV tray. On the tray was a smattering of pills, a once-white handkerchief dotted crimson, and a half-full bottle of water the color of weak cherry Kool-Aid.

  “Henry is out of the question. He’s too old. If he recovers from the flu that he’s battling, he’ll be hard-pressed to take care of himself in the coming years.”

  Gregory said nothing to that. Better to not bury the man prematurely. As he closed the door to outside and turned to face his father, Peter came bounding down the stairs, leaping the final three. Blond hair flying free, Alexander Dregan’s youngest son landed on the floor facing his father and froze in what was obviously some kind of pre-determined pose. His left arm was thrust out wing-like, parallel with the floor. His knee on that side was splayed out, while the other, along with his clenched right fist, was planted firmly on the carpet. Head bowed low and speaking through the locks cascading before his face, he said, “Superhero landing.”

  “Have you been drinking?” asked the elder Dregan, exasperation showing in his voice.

  “He’s being a kid, Dad.”

  Still in character, the arm held aloft now wavering slightly, Peter said, “That’s how Iron Man lands, Dad.”

  Dregan locked eyes with Peter. “Is that what you were watching when I came inside?”

  Peter peered through his hair and fixed his blue eyes on his dad. “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “I’m glad you weren’t watching some Chuck Norris movie,” Dregan said, beginning to laugh. “You might have given your old man a knuckle sandwich.”

  Now on his knees across the coffee table from his dad, Peter said, “That, or tore your spine out of your body and beat you to death with it.”

  Dregan’s laughter turned to a coughing bout, prompting him to snatch up the kerchief, fling it open, and deposit a spritz of fresh blood to the Rorschach pattern already dried on there. “I’m afraid the big C has already got me on his dead pool, my boy.”

  “Better than Deadpool having you on his dead pool,” replied Peter.

  Having no desire to explain who the Merc With A Mouth was to a man who barely had a grasp on the heroes of the Golden Age comics, Gregory sat on the couch and regarded Peter. “Baby brother … you need to go back upstairs and finish watching your movie.”

  If the elder Dregan was wondering who this Deadpool was, he didn’t let it show.

  “I already know the monsters are coming,” said Peter, a twinkle in his eyes. “I saw them from my room. They’re in the field and some are already crowding against the north wall.”

  “Movie. Now,” ordered Dregan, his voice going hoarse.

  Peter’s hair brushed his shoulders as he shook his head. “Seen it twenty times already.” He rose and plopped down on the nearby loveseat. “If I’m old enough to live here alone, aren’t I old enough to know what’s going on?”

  One brow arched, Gregory shot his dad a look that said: Can’t argue with that.

  “Eavesdropping is not good,” said Dregan, his Slavic accent suddenly more pronounced.

  “That’s what I’d have been doing if you sent me upstairs.”

  “OK. Last thing I want to be remembered as is a hypocrite.” Dregan sat back on the couch and regarded Gregory. “Does your Hodges friend still have the rig that brought him here?”

  Gregory nodded.

  “Does it run?”

  Gregory shrugged. “If it doesn’t,” he said, “I’m pretty sure I can make it.”

  Peter asked, “What are you going to do with that big ol’ thing?”

  Dregan said, “Teach you to drive in it.”

  Gregory laughed at the visual. “I’ll put blocks on the pedals and he can sit on a phone book.”

  “They stopped printing those, didn’t they?” Dregan said soberly.

  Now Peter’s back was pressed hard against the loveseat. “No way,” he said vehemently while shaking his head for added emphasis.

  Gregory was beginning to laugh. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, “You’ll never get a girl to date you driving that thing.”

  Face going pale, Peter rose and shot both men a death glare. “I’m going to my room,” he pronounced, already stomping toward the stairs.

  “Now, where were we?” said Gregory with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Will Hodges. I need his wheels in running order as soon as possible.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to part with them?” asked Gregory. “He told me over beers at the RAT that it’s all he has left of his old life. Why he keeps it under tarps in his driveway.”

  Dregan grunted and another round of spasmodic coughing commenced.

  There was more blood. Much more this time. The cough was phlegm-addled, the crimson spritz now nearly black and swimming with what looked to be pieces of diseased bronchial tube.

  “Whatever it takes,” he growled. “Get it.”

  Chapter 18

  From the far end of the master suite, Cade watched Daymon stride from the master bathroom. Stretched tight over the lanky man’s jeans and white thermal underwear top was a gold Adidas two-piece tracksuit. The cuffs of the sleeves and ends of the pant legs fell way short of reaching his wrists and ankles. The zippers to the legs were run up to mid-calf on Daymon. The nylon fabric made a soft, swishing sound as he walked. Strung around his neck and gathered into a thick knot just below his sternum were a dozen gold chains that swayed and clinked together. Some of the chains were b
raided rope-like and looked strong enough to suspend a boat anchor from. Others were delicate and fashioned in an intricate herringbone pattern. When Daymon passed under the lintel and entered the master suite, the entire mess weighing him down glittered brightly in the light of the overhead recessed lighting.

  It was apparent to Cade when Duncan came into view that the joker had also raided Manny’s closet. Over his jacket, he had donned a dark brown thigh-length fur coat. It was beyond fluffy and the lapels bunched around his neck. Made from the same type of fur—beaver, Cade guessed—and pulled down low on his head was a rounded-at-the-top Russian Ushanka hat.

  Daymon spread his arms wide and the words “Straight pimpin’” rolled off of his tongue as he stepped onto the pile carpet. A half-beat later his jaw was falling open and he was gaping at Cade, who was sitting on the gilded chair and watching the show from afar.

  In no mood to smile, Cade merely shook his head. Nothing Daymon or Duncan did these days came as a surprise to him. It was as if humor was their coping mechanism and the entire zombie-filled world their stage.

  Arms now crossed, but still staring wide-eyed in Cade’s direction, Daymon said incredulously, “You found it.”

  Sure enough, the wall at the end of the alcove behind Cade was standing open. “Hiding something in plain sight works some of the time,” said Cade, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Just not with something that big. Especially when the square footage isn’t utilized in the suite next door.”

  “Good find, Sherlock,” said Duncan. “But how pray tell did you get the door to open?”

  “The switch is behind the fake Monet. Pretty obvious if you know there’s a hidden room.” Cade rose from the chair. “I bet even someone with your eyesight would have eventually sniffed it out like you did those cowboy boots in Hollah’s closet.”

  Glancing down at the ochre-colored ostrich-skin items, Duncan said, “Good eye, Sherlock. They’re broke in and they fit me. Can’t ask for more than that.”

  “Doesn’t matter if someone finds the switch after you’re inside,” Daymon said. “Once all eight bolts are thrown, nobody will be able to get to you.”

  Wilson said, “So what’s to stop them from blocking both doors and burning the house down with you trapped inside your precious panic room?”

  “There’s a second hidden egress,” said Cade.

  Appearing stunned, Daymon said, “Where?”

  Cade removed his ball cap and ran a hand through his lengthening hair. Replacing the cap and tugging it low, he said, “In the panic room next to the door leading to the back stairs is a shelf with one book on it. A book by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.” He said the hard-to-pronounce name slowly.

  “Alice in Wonderland,” said Taryn.

  Cade nodded. “I didn’t get the correlation until I tried pulling it down and the whole thing sucked inward, revealing a passage.”

  Duncan shed the throwback to the Soviet Union’s Cold War era and tossed it on the bed. “So where’s the rabbit hole go?”

  “Gorbachev speaks … and in English,” quipped Wilson.

  Cade answered, “The rabbit hole leads to another stairway that takes you down underneath the house to a locked door. I stopped there. Figured I’d let Daymon earn his nickels.”

  Scowling at Wilson’s Russian dictator insult, Duncan removed his glasses and looked at himself in a nearby mirror. Pulling the hat down to within an inch of his bushy silver eyebrows, he said, “Da, Wilson. I can see the resemblance. You weren’t even a stain in someone’s underwear when ol’ Gorby was spreading his seed around the world. How’d you pull that out of your keister?”

  Wilson said, “Advanced world history. Senior year.”

  Shaking her head, Taryn shed her full-length mink. She tossed it onto the bed on her way to the window. Though the shutters were closed, she stood there, looking at them. After a moment contemplating something, she turned and faced the others. “I bet the tunnel comes up either inside the garage or somewhere real close by.”

  “I’d tend to agree,” said Cade. “It’s what I’d do if this were my place and money was no issue.”

  Duncan got rid of the fur hat and put on his Stetson. He regarded Daymon. With a click of his boot heels, he said, “Well, Auntie Em … you gonna give us the rest of the tour or will I have to demand a refund?”

  “I want to see where this new passage goes,” replied Daymon. “If it does end up in the garage—”

  “We kill two birds with one stone,” finished Cade, just as Lev’s voice leapt from the CB riding in Duncan’s coat pocket.

  Duncan retrieved the radio and answered with a curt, “Go.”

  Lev came back at once. Without detailing the technique Seth had used to be able to read the imprints left on the yellow pad, he told Duncan that they had deciphered what Bridgett had written on the top sheet.

  “Don’t leave us hanging,” interrupted Duncan. “Cut to the chase.”

  Gaze never leaving Duncan, Daymon padded toward the windows, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall by the nightstand.

  Lev said, “There are two numbers at the top. Thirty-nine and sixteen.”

  “That’s gotta be the junction near Woodruff,” said Duncan, “Go on.”

  “Three o’clock p.m. was written just below that,” Lev said, the sound of crinkling paper coming over the open connection. “And underneath the rendezvous time is a long string of numbers.” He proceeded to rattle them off rapid-fire.

  A look of confusion on her face, Taryn regarded Wilson. She mouthed: What do the numbers mean?

  Wilson shrugged and shook his head.

  Duncan thumbed the Talk button. “Anything else?”

  “She wrote the word ‘Doer’ around the edge of the page a couple of dozen times.”

  “How long did you leave her alone in there?” asked Duncan.

  “Wasn’t me,” Lev said, irritation in his tone. “It was Tran here.”

  In his mind’s eye, Cade saw Tran sitting next to Lev in the security pod and slowly slumping down in the rolling chair. Trying to become one with the fabric. And, truthfully, Cade felt sorry for lying by omission, for putting the man in the middle without all of the information up front. “Let me have that,” he said, motioning for Duncan to hand over the radio. After taking possession, Cade walked into the panic room and came clean to Tran about what he had hoped to really accomplish by leaving Bridgett alone. When he turned and stepped over the threshold between the panic room and master suite, he saw that everyone was looking his way. Beginning with Taryn and ending with Duncan, he met each gaze and held it for a second. Finished speaking to Tran, he signed off and addressed the elephant in the room. “My plan backfired,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I figured if Bridgett wasn’t who she said she was she would just call whoever sent her and tell them she was somewhere west of Woodruff.”

  Duncan said, “She was blindfolded and bound when I brought her in.”

  Daymon slid to the floor and sat cross-legged. “We didn’t drive around to confuse her, though. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the approximate location of the compound.”

  “Approximate is only good when you’re talking cruise missiles or tactical nukes,” quipped Duncan. “We’ll be OK so long as we limit the comings and goings for a few days.”

  “Won’t matter once it snows,” said Taryn. “It sticks and stays … nobody is going to be out and about.”

  Daymon glanced up from his spot on the floor and exchanged a knowing look with Cade.

  Cade said nothing. His jaw had taken on the familiar granite set. His eyes suddenly seemed black as coal. Some kind of decision-making was going on behind them. Finally, he sat back down on the gilded chair. “Those numbers Seth revealed,” he said, in front of a pregnant pause, “are the exact GPS coordinates to the Eden compound. She got them off the unlocked sat phone, wrote them down, then used the ham radio and relayed them to somebody.” He buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t think she had the smarts.”

>   Wilson mouthed: What the fuck.

  Taryn approached Cade and placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll just have to be ready for them when they come.”

  “Whoever them is,” shot Wilson.

  Daymon looked about the room. “Or … you take the initiative and hit them at the rendezvous.”

  Cade sat up and fixed a gaze on Daymon. “Take it to them on our terms,” he said, rising up from the chair.

  “But we have no idea how many we’re dealing with,” noted Taryn, voice filled with concern.

  Wringing his boonie hat with both hands, Wilson said, “And what do we do if Bridgett’s friends show up with the kind of numbers that make an attack on our part a death sentence?”

  Duncan said, “Surprise is a force multiplier. We could call Lev and Jamie. Have them bring the Hummer and set up west of the junction and cover us with the Ma Deuce. There’s still plenty of linked rounds for her.”

  Cade shook his head. “That’d leave the compound severely undermanned. More so than it is now.”

  Wilson said, “One thing in the positive column is the road block west of the compound.” He nodded at Daymon. “Now that they know about it there’s no way they’re going to be able to flank us from that direction.”

  “And with Dregan’s people watching the state route from Bear River,” added Taryn, “I doubt they’ll be coming from the south, either.”

  “Leaves us one direction to cover,” said Duncan. He began to pace. His boot heels left impressions in the pile as he approached the set of double doors leading to the landing. He stopped at the threshold still on the cream-colored carpet and turned around to face the others.

  Brow raised, Daymon asked, “What’s brewing in that head of yours?”

  Duncan replied, “I know we just cashed in Brook’s chit with Dregan—” He grimaced at his choice of words and buried his face in one hand.

  Outwardly unaffected by the slip, Cade said, “I was thinking the same thing. Given Dregan’s cancer and his boy’s suspect health, I doubt we could get them to go on another hunting expedition. However, if we got Dregan to loan us the Hummer with the Mk-19 and a few high explosive rounds—”