“Understood, sir, but we need the dog,” Fish argued.
More silence and then Dobson finally agreed.
“Okay. Pittman, you’re Christian’s shadow. If he so much as sprains an ankle…”
“Roger that, sir,” Pittman replied.
“Alright, team, suppressors on and call out any targets. Move out,” Dobson ordered.
The hatch on the back of the cab opened. Pittman squeezed his large frame through and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t make me put a leash on you,” he said with a stern smile.
I smirked and nodded as I checked to make sure the suppressor DJ made for my AR15 was securely fastened on the barrel.
Everyone on the scout team exited their vehicles. Preacher jumped in the driver’s seat of Jenna’s truck while she jogged back to Big Red with her hunting rifle. Jenna mounted the turret on the spine of the fire engine. It was made out of steel and provided decent cover. The rest of us met up near the front of the F350.
Now that we were almost right on top of the strange debris, we noticed there was something definitely off about it.
Both steel and wooden spikes were sticking out of the asphalt under the leaves and trash on the road. Originally, they were probably very well concealed, but it seemed that time and weather had disturbed their camouflage.
All eyes were on Boomer as he sniffed the air, but he showed no zombie or scab sign.
“Why they do this to road?” Enrique asked. The short man from Mexico City was still adorned in his white, Stormtrooper-like armor, though he no longer wore the motorcycle helmet.
“Maybe they were robbing people. Modern day bandits,” DJ offered.
“Don’t think so,” Fish disagreed. “Don’t know why anyone would be this disorganized with laying road traps.”
“Stay on the edge of the road,” Dobson said as we began to move toward the road intersection. “And stay off the grass. They may have set some traps in the brush.”
Fish took the lead and we moved out with ten-foot spacing between us.
The people that had volunteered to go to Hoover Dam had all received a crash course in tactics from Fish and Dobson. Everything from calling out targets, breaching buildings, patrolling and hand-to-hand combat was taught. They even demanded that we start referring to zombies as Zulus so there was no miscommunication. Up until that point, we had four different references for the walking dead.
Boomer, Pittman, and I were right behind Fish. We were the exception to the rule. After all, how could Pittman take a bullet for me if he was ten feet away?
Dobson made a good call when he told us to stay off the grass. It became evident within the first twenty feet that the traversable grassy areas had been booby trapped as well. One of the cars we passed had its front tires impaled by steel spears jutting out of a long, wide ditch in the median.
With rifles raised and scanning the foliage on the right and left, we marched on.
Boomer was still calm but alert, sniffing the ground and air regularly. There was no sign of danger from the canine.
The State Trooper vehicle was a couple dozen feet away when Fish stopped.
“Wasn’t humans, Major,” Fish said turning his head partially toward the rest of us.
“You sure?” Dobson asked as he moved past me and up to Fish.
“Take a look at the patrol car,” Fish responded, waving the barrel of his M4. “The shotgun is still locked to the center console. Who would leave a street sweeper behind?”
I peered at the car. The windows were busted out and all four tires were flat. Fish was right. Standing straight up between the driver and passenger seats was a long, black shotgun barrel.
“You’re telling me…?” Dobson trailed off.
“Scabs, sir,” Fish confirmed.
Dobson spun and glared at Boomer.
“Are you sure he isn’t detecting anything, Christian?” he asked sharply.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not hiding off in the woods somewhere, or in the gas station. We’re still far out and unless something’s down wind or had crossed this part of the road recently, he won’t know.”
“Update, Major?” my earpiece crackled with Campbell’s voice.
“Numerous road traps, Captain,” Dobson responded. “Fish thinks they were made by scabs. No sign of the living.”
“Want me to get a drone up?” Campbell asked.
We had collected a few small drones from two hobby shops in Melbourne before we made the trip. Tom, the engineer who made the voyage across the Atlantic with Dobson, upgraded them for us. The one mile radius for the drones had been multiplied by three, and he had attached better cameras that linked to computers in the CDC bus.
The idea of using them first when going into an area was quickly shot down by the Major. Drones were a giveaway that someone was scouting ahead. The original plan was to use them sparingly. With only three drones, we didn’t want to lose one to a sniper or a scab with a really good throwing arm.
That was, of course, before we knew scabs set up road traps.
“What do you think?” Dobson asked Fish.
“Couldn’t hurt, sir,” he replied. “If someone is in the woods, they already know we’re here.”
Dobson nodded. “Roger that, Captain. We’ll hold a defensive position here. Scout the gas station first and then circle south from there.”
“Pablo,” Fish called to Enrique, “help me open this trunk.”
The two moved to the back of the patrol car. After some work with a crowbar, the trunk hatch popped open.
Just then, a small buzzing sound came from behind us as Campbell launched the small, quad propeller drone from the CDC bus. The drone lifted up and cruised south. Its altitude never dropped below a hundred feet as it turned south toward the gas station.
“This confirms it, I think,” Fish said confidently.
“What’s that?” Dobson asked, leaving his position near the hood of the car.
Fish reached in and pulled out a yellow and black striped metal box the size of a brief case. He sat it down and pulled on a rope attached to one side. The box opened and road spikes slid out.
“Humans would have damn sure used this if they were robbing people on the road.” Fish turned back to the trunk, digging through the contents. “There are also stop sticks and jacks in here, along with a couple boxes of shotgun shells, flares… a whole ton of useful stuff.”
“That’s not confirmation,” DJ said, “but it ain’t lookin’ good, either.”
“Scab traps,” Fish said. “These fuckers are getting too smart.”
Enrique pried the shotgun loose from the console and strapped it to his back.
The tiny drone flew past the gas station, toward the hidden homes of Holopaw.
“All clear around the gas station, Major. As far as I can tell, that is,” Campbell informed us.
“Roger that, Captain. Keep checking south. Go about a mile and then circle back from a different perspective,” the Major ordered.
“Will do, sir,” Campbell replied.
“How long to clear a path, DJ?” Dobson asked.
DJ scratched his beard as he examined the road.
“Not sure. Maybe an hour. Preacher may have some ideas.”
“Okay, break into two teams,” Dobson ordered. “Pittman, Christian, Fish and Enrique, check out the gas station and make sure nothing is hiding in it. Myself and DJ will pull Preacher up here and see what we can do to make a safe path for the trucks.”
Everyone acknowledged and the four of us, plus Boomer, moved out.
“Christian, you and Boomer take the lead with Pittman,” Fish said. “Gather on the doors of the building.”
I nodded and Boomer and I marched forward. Pittman stayed half a step ahead of me, marching parallel with the dog.
The walk to the gas station was short, though we did have to avoid the occasional road trap in the pavement. As we passed under the large overhang, I noticed one o
f pumps had a tattered sign that read “Out of Gas”.
The days leading up to the Awakening put a drain on resources. The trucking industry had all but come to a standstill, leaving many stores with only the stock they had left on their shelves. The same was true for gas stations. Without petroleum trucks moving fuel, gas stations ran dry quickly as people frantically bought up all the resources they could manage to weather the crisis.
The gas station was littered with debris, both natural and trash. Scabs, it seemed, were not very clean.
We were twenty feet from the building when Boomer alerted to something. He had come to a stop and his cackles raised. A low rumble echoed in his chest.
“What do you have?” Fish asked as he moved up to my position. Pittman stopped and began to scan the left with his rifle. Enrique did the same on the right.
“Not sure,” I replied, examining Boomer.
He began to sniff the air, as if the wind had brought trouble. The hair on his back may have risen, but he wasn’t rigid, like when scabs were around.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the dog’s handler?” Pittman asked, annoyed.
“Give me a break. I’m self-trained,” I retorted and turned to Fish. “I’m pretty sure it’s not a scab. Not the living either. Maybe a zombie…err, I mean Zulu,” I corrected myself.
“Of the three, I prefer Zulus,” Fish sighed. “Move on the door.”
As we came closer to the smashed entrance of the station, Boomer began to sniff the air and move toward the edge of the building.
“Boomer!” I hissed. “Get back here.”
Boomer turned his head and huffed. He didn’t comply, but he did stop moving forward. He swiveled his nose back to the side of the building and continued to sniff the air.
“Whatever it is, it’s that way,” I told Fish.
“No shit,” he scoffed. “Alright, Pablo and I will make entry. You two stay back and watch our rear.”
“Roger that,” Pittman responded.
I moved over to Boomer, laying my hand on his back to calm him. He didn’t appear overly aggressive, but was still on alert.
Fish and Enrique breached the building. After ten minutes, Fish reappeared in the opening.
“Your mutt sense anything?” Fish asked as he opened the shattered door and exited the gas station.
“Still the same,” I replied. “He wants to check out the back.”
Boomer had taken a few more steps toward the side of the building, but held just short of rounding the corner.
“What about inside?” Pittman asked Fish.
“Just bones,” Enrique said morbidly. He hadn’t left the gas station and was standing at a busted-out window behind the register. “Lots of bones.”
Fish let his M4 dangle in front of him and pulled out his .45. “Pittman, take the boy wonder and his dog around the building. Pablo and I will exit through the back door. Maybe we’ll surprise whatever is back there. Let me know when you’re in position.”
“Will do,” Pittman replied. “Come on, Christian.”
Fish joined Enrique and the two disappeared as they walked deeper into the dark store.
Pittman and I rounded the building and walked along the side until we came to the corner. Boomer became excited as we finally followed his lead.
“Boomer, stop!” I said in a low tone. Again, he was hesitant, but complied.
“In position,” Pittman whispered into the transmitter. “Taking a peek.”
Pittman quickly looked around the corner. Within a second, he brought his head back and clicked the transmit on his radio.
“Two dumpsters lining west to east along the wall,” Pittman reported. “The back door is just to the side of the west dumpster. No sign of danger, but there are a few places for Zulus to hide. Foliage just south of the building. Dense. Can’t see further than fifteen feet in.”
“Captain, is your bird still in the air?” Fish said over the radio.
“Roger that,” Campbell replied. “Need a fly over?”
“Would be helpful,” Fish said. “Keep overwatch if you can.”
“On my way,” Campbell said and in just a few seconds, we heard the buzz of the drone coming from behind us.
It startled Boomer. He glared up at it and tilted his head.
The drone flew down, hovering around fifty feet in the air. It moved back and forth a couple of times before Campbell reported what he saw.
“Nothing moving back there. I’m going to fly over the woods and see if I notice anything,” the Captain told us.
“Roger that, sir. We’re moving,” Fish replied. “Pittman, move up. We’re five seconds behind.”
“Moving now,” Pittman replied, and then shot me a look. “Go!”
Boomer sensed we were moving and beat both Pittman and me around the edge. We were quick on his heels and rounded the building in a wide arc.
During our training, Fish had told us how to move. Pittman rounded the corner, facing the target. In this case, it was the dumpsters that Boomer was quickly approaching. The second man was supposed to guard the flank. My instincts told me to follow Boomer, but I stuck with my training and focused on the woods behind the gas station.
A tinge of decay was in the air. It wasn’t ripe, but something dead was definitely nearby.
I heard the squeaky hinges from the back door and knew Fish and Enrique had exited the building. I slowly walked backwards, while still keeping an eye on the woods, until I joined them at the dumpsters. Just as I was about to turn around, something moving in the grass caught my eye.
“Movement!” I called out.
Campbell must have seen it, too. “I’ve got movement just inside the vegetation. Zulu crawler, I think,” he reported. Zulu crawler usually meant the zombie didn’t have legs or didn’t have the ability to walk.
As he finished, I saw mangled hand reach out from the brush. Punctured through its wrist was a long, metal spike.
I moved my weapon’s sight to where I thought the head would be. The hand pulled at the grass in front of it, dragging its body forward. I could see the oval outline of its head through the grass. The danger was minimal, but you still didn’t let a zombie roam free.
I pressed the trigger of my AR15. The suppressor coughed and the bullet flew true, smacking the zombie in the forehead. After the head violently rocked back, it face-planted in the grass.
“Pittman, check it out,” Fish ordered. “Pablo, watch his rear.”
They moved into the grass and stood over the zombie.
“Target down,” Pittman whispered into the radio. “Checking the woods.”
“Acknowledged,” Fish responded. “Don’t go too far.”
I watched Pittman and Enrique enter the tree line and disappear.
“Your dog likes these dumpsters,” Fish said, catching my attention as he approached one of the large green bins.
Boomer was next to him, huffing and puffing with agitation at whatever was in them.
The trash containers were closed, but as I came closer, the smell of death grew.
“I’ll open it,” Fish told me, “You be ready.”
I nodded as Fish grabbed the side of the lid.
Boomer let out a snarl as I came closer. Something bad was definitely in there.
Fish flung the lid open and backed up.
The rotting smell intensified, hitting my nose like a fist. My eyes began to water and I backed away, gagging.
“Fish peered over the edge of the trash bin and grunted.
I joined him, trying to stay downwind of the smell. It didn’t work.
Piled up over halfway to the top of the bin were body parts. Most were human, though I did see part of a wild pig and two rotting racoons near the top of the pile. There wasn’t much meat left on the bones. Strangely, there were stands of thick, grey webbing laced around most of the flesh and bones. It reminded me of what the zombies grew to replace muscle tissue.
“This is strange,” Fish said, edging closer to the bin.
&
nbsp; A gooey sound reverberated from the dumpster as a wave ran through the gaggle of body parts like a ripple in a pond.
Boomer growled as Fish and I quickly took a few steps back.
“Did that just happen?” I coughed as more fumes of decay entered my lungs.
“I think so,” Fish said. He pressed the transmit button. “Major, I think you should grab the Doc and make your way behind the gas station.”
“On our way,” Dobson responded.
Fish and I inched back to the trash bin. Again, the flesh churned and bones shuddered. This time, however, a hollow, quiet moan echoed from the depth of the monstrosity.
“Let’s stay back,” Fish cautioned, grasping my arm and halting me.
We waited at a safe distance for a few minutes until Major Dobson and Doctor Tripp joined us.
“What is it?” Dobson asked impatiently. “We’ve barely cleared half the traps.”
“That,” Fish said, pointing at the dumpster.
Both Dobson and Doctor Tripp began to approach the bin.
“Don’t!” both Fish and I said in unison.
They stopped cold.
“Don’t get too close,” Fish said and walked past them. “Watch.”
Fish edged close to the large container. The flesh churned and the moan returned.
“So, there’s a zombie in there?” Dobson asked as he and the scientist inched up next to Fish, scanning the contents of the dumpster.
“More like the whole thing is a zombie…or something else,” I said, joining them.
Boomer seemed displeased with us. He laid down a few feet away with his muzzle buried in the dirt. I think he wanted us to kill whatever “it” was.
The dumpster creaked and I saw the metal push out on one side as the pile of decaying bodies shifted again. It moved as one giant mass.
“Jesus,” Dobson said.
“More like amazing,” Doctor Tripp smiled. She seemed excited.
“You think this is amazing?” Fish mocked. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“I simply mean it is interesting,” she sighed, ignoring his stare. “If you’re right and scabs were camped here, they probably used this as a dump site for victims. I would say one or two of the Zulus were animated and began to engulf whatever tissue was left over in an attempt to heal themselves. It’s just a theory, but from what I see, it makes sense.”
The Hunt Chronicles (Volume 3): Crusade Page 2
