The long-range CB was powered on but hadn’t broken squelch since earlier when Adrian’s shrill voice had emanated from its speaker as she berated her followers.
Looking up at Cade, Duncan asked, “How long you figure it’s going to take them to get here?”
Finished counting the linked .50 caliber bullets, Cade ducked into the cupola. “They’ll be moving slow,” he said. “Being extra cautious at every blind turn and long straightaway.”
“Which is exactly what we have in front of the compound entrance. Why here instead of there?”
There was a brief starter whine followed by a low rumble as the Raptor’s engine turned over. Cade and Duncan turned and watched the white pickup swing a wide left. A hand poked out the passenger window and waved at them as the truck motored toward the next heavily wooded stretch of 39. A handful of seconds passed, the brake lights flared red, and then the Raptor was swallowed up in shadow.
Cade looked at the sky above the trees. It was a dark shade of gray shot through with bars of red and orange and yellow. One glance at his Suunto told him the sun was just minutes from sliding behind the curvature of the earth well beyond the distant Wasatch Range.
As the engine noise died to nothing, Duncan repeated the hanging question.
“It’s complicated,” Cade said quietly, his hand going to the necklace and then finding the wedding band resting on his tactical vest.
“Pretty vague, my man,” pressed Duncan.
“I chose this spot because I didn’t want to set up beside the graveyard and have to stare at Brook’s final resting place as dusk gathered.”
Duncan began to deliver a few words of empathy, but was preempted by engine noises broadcast from radio number one.
Chapter 57
Duncan snatched up Wilson’s radio and rolled the volume to the stop. He reached his right arm back and held the radio, speaker facing up, in the airspace between the middle console and the framework supporting the cupola.
A second after the faint rumble interrupted Cade and Duncan’s conversation, the noisy birds on the other end went nuts, cawing and squawking, the volume and pitch of their calls increasing in conjunction with the approaching rumble of internal combustion engines. In the next beat, an explosion of sound Cade took to be feathered wings beating the air came from the speaker as the birds relinquished their newfound meal and took flight. He looked at his Suunto, noting the time down to the second.
They listened closely to the sounds on the open channel.
Thirty seconds after the birds took flight, the growl of engines under load lessened. A second or two later there was a squeal of brakes and the low-end engine noises gave way to the steady ticking of lifters and subtle whirring of serpentine belts and occasional whine of power steering pumps moving static tires against dry pavement.
Cade said, “They’re loitering at the bend.”
Duncan said nothing.
Ten seconds after Cade’s proclamation, gears gnashed and an engine revved. For a few more seconds the noises grew louder and then the low rumble of engines at idle were the dominate sound.
Duncan broke the silence. “Sending a point vehicle ahead.”
“I concur,” said Cade.
Barely ten additional seconds had slipped into the past when the engine sounds changed and clearly the convoy was once again on the move.
The time elapsed between the procession getting going again and the engine sounds and exhaust notes finally fading away to nothing was forty-five seconds on the nose. During the first fifteen seconds, from the subtle rise and dip in volume from each distinct engine, Cade determined that four additional vehicles had passed in front of the two-way radio.
Shifting his gaze from the road to Cade in the turret, Duncan said, “Including the point vehicle, I count five total.”
“Roger that,” said Cade.
“How fast do you gather they get going on the straightaway?”
Cade worked the equation, taking into account the distance from bend to bend and the time it took for the sounds from the passing convoy to diminish to nothing. “Ballpark, twenty miles per,” he said. “That gives us six to ten minutes before they get to the start of the incline.”
“There’s two turns between here and there,” proffered Duncan. “We have to assume they’re going to pause before each one so the point vehicle can perform another recon.”
Duncan snatched up the Motorola and passed along the news, upping the estimate from six to ten minutes.
“Roger that,” replied Lev.
Back at the compound, actively monitoring both the video coming in over the closed-circuit cameras and the shared radio traffic, Tran replied, “The girls and Max are safe and sound inside the wire. I’m watching them park the truck.”
In his mind’s eye Cade saw the jostling likely taking place as Sasha struggled to park the SUV among the handful of vehicles remaining in the depleted motor pool. Instead of answering verbally, he clicked the Talk button one time to indicate he had a solid copy.
***
Seven minutes into their wait for the point vehicle to arrive, Cade turned off the radio tuned to the same channel as the one Duncan had planted just yards from Iris’s corpse. Though he usually liked the mountain birds and had even named his daughter for them, the noise they made as they fed was beginning to make his skin crawl. And though he couldn’t make out individual sounds, his imagination conjured up an audio track to go along with the macabre mental movie in which the birds were actively burrowing into dark, empty sockets to get to the plump treat within. He was still visualizing the beady eyes rolling back as the blood-slickened beaks pistoned in and out of the dead woman’s skull when the sound of approaching engines dragged him back to the lonely stretch of Route 39 deep in rural Utah.
Instinctively, he ducked deeper into the cupola, hands on the Ma Deuce’s vertical grips. Locking his gaze on the bend where the lead vehicle would eventually emerge, he said a silent prayer that when it did the shadows hanging over the road would conceal the Humvee from view.
The first clue that the order of travel in Adrian’s convoy had been changed was the blue-white aura lighting up the ground-hugging scrub and guardrail to the right of the distant curve. This was confirmed when the blacked-out Excursion nosed around the corner and the first hundred or so feet of 39 were bombarded by piercing blue cones of light beamed from both the quad HID headlights up front and the half-dozen lights mounted on a bar riding atop the cab. As the towering SUV slowed and came to a full stop, Duncan said, “I’d have killed those Klieg lights on that rolling lighthouse until I really needed them.”
Cade said, “I think they’re hoping to ratchet up the intimidation factor.”
“X gets a square,” said Duncan. “And they’re framing the windshield wonderfully for you.”
Cade made no reply. He was wondering what the occupants were doing behind that blacked-out rectangle. Were they arguing about turning around and coming back this way during the day? Likely. They’d already proven to be mostly inept and prone to cowardice. Was the garishly painted van still bringing up the rear of the convoy? More importantly, if it was still tagging along, was Adrian inside and currently receiving a situation report? Cade hoped so. For that would spare him from having to go north to perform the much-needed decapitation.
Lastly, given the fact that the Thagons’ house had been stripped of all the gear and weapons they had collected from National Guard posts early on in the apocalypse, were the passengers in the lead vehicle presently scanning the road through night vision goggles or just binoculars?
After pondering the former question for a second, he ruled out that night vision technology was in play. If so, they would be traveling with lights extinguished. From years of experience going up against enemies in all types of conditions, the edge one gained from seeing prior to being seen trumped every form of intimidation short of bringing on station an AC-130H Spectre gunship complete with Gatling guns, Bofors cannon, and 105 howitzer a’blazing.
After arriving at this conclusion, Cade’s confidence was further bolstered by the two things besides the element of surprise that were in their favor. First off was the knowledge that the trees behind the Humvee, which were completely blocking any light from the westering sun, would serve to soften any hard lines breaking the horizon. Then there was the fact that the scrub and dirt beside the road was nearly the same color as the paint on the rig. And a quick glance confirmed that both were changing in accordance with one another as darkness descended on the valley.
Beyond that, he was praying that the continual starting and stopping without being engaged by hostiles had sufficiently worn down the point driver to the extent that hubris was edging out caution. Like hounds on the scent of quarry and in a complete bloodlust after seeing their brethren slaughtered, he knew that they were likely aware of how close they were getting to their prey and wanted nothing more than for them to cut the recon short and bomb down the straightaway into his kill zone.
Only time would tell.
He ran a hand over the linked .50 caliber rounds, jingling them a bit in their box which was attached to the left of the weapon.
During the handful of seconds the big rig sat blocking the road with its diesel engine idling discordantly, the east/west swathe of sky overhead changed from dark gray to a light-swallowing shade of purple.
With twilight in these parts a very short-lived affair, Cade willed the convoy forward.
Chapter 58
A full thirty seconds passed before the Excursion started moving again. The rattle clatter of the diesel picked up and a black cloud roiled from the driver’s side exhaust pipe. Ten more seconds elapsed as the point truck crept forward.
It was a full minute from the time the Excursion entered the scene and the trees flanking the curve behind it were again being bathed in the ghastly blue-white glow. A half beat after the Excursion vacated the loiter spot, its diesel exhaust note was drowned out as the rest of the vehicles made their grand entrance. The pair of black Suburbans were in the two and three position and racing to catch up with the Excursion. Tucked into the four position and falling behind was the patrol Tahoe. And lastly, bringing up the rear with a two- or three-car-length following distance, the black and red A-Team van crept slowly around the far bend, its headlight wash cutting the darkening state route into tiny wedge-shaped slices.
Duncan caught himself unconsciously ducking his head below the top edge of the steering wheel. Straightening up, he grabbed a radio and let everyone listening know that the enemy vehicles were on the move again. As the convoy rounded the curve he gave a play by play of what he was seeing. Once all five vehicles were committed to the straightaway, he signed off with a reminder for Lev and Jamie—more so for the latter since she was so fired up after being shot—to hold fire until Cade opened up with the big gun.
A handful of seconds after the van cut the corner, the unthinkable happened. Or, as Cade was wont to say, Mr. Murphy inserted himself into the equation.
The gunshot-like sound that emanated from somewhere near the middle of the procession was sharp and not all too unlike the report from a Glock or Beretta. In the blink of an eye, it affected the ambush in two ways.
First, assuming she was taking fire, Jamie instinctively thrust her finger into her rifle’s trigger guard and squeezed off a shot of her own.
In the Humvee, Duncan jabbed his thumb down on the Talk key and blurted, “Backfire. That was just a vehicle backfire.”
Too late. He heard the crack of the long gun discharging in the woods somewhere off his right shoulder. Muttering an expletive, he dropped the radio between his legs and reached for the ignition start lever.
Down on the road, still trying to determine the true source of the first report, the driver in the Excursion saw the wing window to his left spider and without pause ducked down and matted the pedal to escape the kill zone.
Hearing the backfire and near simultaneous crack of the premature shot, Cade yelled “Engaging!” and depressed the Ma Deuce’s stamped-steel thumb paddles.
A harsh vibration coursed through the Humvee as the heavy machine gun spit a dozen rounds downrange. After crossing the distance travelling nearly three thousand feet per second, the thumb-sized hunks of hurtling lead found their mark in the A-Team van, punching the windshield in and leaving fist-sized holes stitched horizontally in the sheet metal from the driver’s side door to mid-chassis where they walked vertically and then traversed the roof in a ragged diagonal line.
Cade let up on the paddles, silencing the booming reports and ending the tinkle of metal belt links and spent brass impacting all around his feet. He saw the van’s headlights sweep across the two-lane as it slewed left, clipping the Tahoe’s rear quarter in the process. And though there was a low buzzing in his ears from the hammering of the Ma Deuce, the squealing of tires and resulting crunch of metal still registered.
With the Browning silenced momentarily, the low rumble and vibration of the diesel engine idling in the Humvee underneath him became evident. Also, in between the sharp cracks of Jamie’s rifle discharging somewhere to his right, he picked out the soft reports of the suppressed MSR spitting lead. In the time it took Cade to acquire his second target—three seconds at most—all order was disintegrating where the convoy was concerned.
Propelled by the impact from behind, the patrol Tahoe surged forward and then listed hard right when both passenger-side tires jumped the shoulder and carved deep furrows into the roadside ditch.
As the Tahoe continued to roll forward while scraping against the earthen berm, the A-Team van hit the guardrail nearly head on and came to a sudden grinding halt, its headlights and engine cutting out simultaneously.
In the middle of the column the second Suburban cut left in what Cade guessed was a poorly thought-out attempt at conducting the first leg of a three-way turn.
And finally coming into Cade’s sights, the point vehicle was zigging and zagging and nearing the original spot in the road he had wanted to start the engagement.
Leading the Excursion by half a truck-length, Cade waited until its front tires turned away from the guardrail and the rig was tracking toward the earthen berm before depressing the paddles. The bullets struck the slab-sided vehicle at an oblique angle, starting a geyser of steam from the engine compartment and shredding both thin-skinned doors on the driver’s side.
With the pebbled glass from the destroyed windows tumbling and bouncing and glittering blue in the Suburban’s headlight wash, the Excursion, moving much faster than the trailing vehicles, hit the berm at a forty-five-degree angle and travelling well over thirty miles per hour. However, instead of spearing into the dirt or being redirected back to the shoulder, the SUV’s massive off-road tires and long travel suspension absorbed the impact, which in turn allowed the rig to summit the sloping wall.
No sooner was the Excursion straddling the thin strip of scrub-covered soil atop the berm than gravity and Newton’s law and the top-heaviness of the vehicle, all working together, was dragging it back to earth—roof first.
Cade saw flames lick from the undercarriage up front, twin rooster tails of red dirt arcing away from the free-spinning passenger side tires, and a woman ejected forcefully through an open door.
The small form cartwheeled rag-doll-like through space ahead of the still-moving vehicle.
From all four corners of the Excursion’s partially flattened roof, sparks shot horizontally across the road.
The body struck the asphalt ahead of the vehicle, bounced once, then ended up slithering limply down the two-lane for another twenty feet before coming to rest face-up, spread-eagled and unmoving.
After raking the overturned SUV with another short ten-round burst, Cade brought the Browning online with the nearest of the two Suburbans. The damage his compatriots had already wreaked on it and the occupants was immediately obvious. The windshield was spidered, the meandering web-like cracks interconnected by a trio of small, puckered holes. The driver was clutching hi
s throat and bucking against a taut shoulder belt. Blood, black and shiny in the failing light, was pulsing between his fingers. On his face was an expression that could only be construed as shocked disbelief.
A millisecond after setting eyes on the macabre sight, Cade saw two things happen in quick succession. First, a single round fired from the silenced MSR snapped the driver’s head back, ceasing the man’s struggle with the seatbelt and sending his body into a violent death spasm. Then, before the body up front had stopped quivering, someone in the back of the Suburban stuck a rifle barrel through a six-inch gap in the blacked-out window and opened fire.
The star-shaped muzzle flash drew Cade’s attention; he panned the Browning right and hunched over the weapon.
Well-aimed bullets crackled over the cupola. Then a pair found their mark, impacting the cupola’s top edge with hollow thunks.
“If you can’t play nice, you die,” said Cade, caressing the paddle triggers ever so lightly.
At once, the muzzle flashes stopped and a human form enveloped in shadow was thrown backward as the window glass and driver’s side passenger door bore the full force of the new salvo.
Knowing that counting rounds fired by a weapon with such a high cyclic rate was a task not even Charlie Babbitt of Rain Man fame could accomplish with one hundred percent accuracy, Cade added a ten-round buffer to the fifteen he’d just fired into the Suburban and combined those with the running tally in his head. He quickly subtracted the accumulated spent rounds from his starting count and, considering the damage doled out by the venerable weapon, came up with a number he could live with.
Seventy rounds left. More than enough to tie up these loose ends.
As if reading Cade’s mind, Duncan called up, “You’re down to about sixty rounds.”
Incredulous, Cade said, “How’d you come up with that number?”
Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 12): Abyss Page 31
