Omega Days (Book 3): Drifters

by John L. Campbell

  It reeked.

  And then it moved.

  The drifter’s head snapped up, yellow eyes and teeth gleaming in the flashlight beam, and it let out a snarl. Then it scrambled to its hands and knees and began quickly crawling toward her.

  Skye’s M4 was equipped with a suppressor, something she had taken from the pile of gear left on the Nimitz by the dead Navy SEALs, but so was the pistol under her arm. She chose the rifle, dropping prone and sighting on the snarling thing, squeezing off a round. It clipped the top of the thing’s head, digging out a chunk of rotten gray meat and making a spang sound in the tunnel beyond, but the drifter kept coming. She took a breath, held it a half second, and then blew it out slowly, squeezing.

  The 5.56-millimeter round punched a hole next to one of its eyes and blew out the back. The creature flopped limply onto its face.

  Even with the suppressor, in this tight metal space the shots had been loud, and she shook her head to clear it before crawling forward. By the time she reached the corpse she had her knife in hand, and she plunged the blade through what turned out to be a soft, giving skull, just to be safe. Up close, the corpse was pungent, flesh starting to slough off its hands. It had been a man, maybe in his seventies and dressed in overalls. Not Dean, she was sure of that.

  Skye bit her bottom lip and crawled over it, her knees and one gloved hand sinking into the fermented rot with a squishing sound. She hurried and was quickly past, crawling faster to get away from the smell, knowing it was now clinging to her. Then she realized it might not have been down here alone, and she slowed her crawl to let the flashlight probe ahead.

  After what seemed like an hour, a crescent of light appeared in the distance, the far hatch, partially open. She still needed the flashlight, but in short order she could see that nothing else had crawled into the escape tunnel. When she reached the end, she found another wheeled hatch, again capable of being locked down from within, the exterior a smooth steel face painted brown and green to blend with the forest. She pushed it open and saw pine trees all around, a carpet of brown needles underneath.

  In the light spilling through the opening she saw something on the curving, ribbed steel wall to her right. It was a single word, spray-painted in black. She reached for her Hydra radio to tell Angie what she had found, ask her what it meant, and realized the radio was back with her pack.

  “Damn,” she muttered, crawling out into the forest and straightening, stretching her back for a moment and breathing untainted air. The forest was quiet around her.

  Then she started crawling back.

  • • •

  When Angie finally emerged from the bunker her eyes were red and puffy, and she was holding her daughter’s blanket close. Vladimir had since shut down the Black Hawk’s engines to conserve fuel. Angie saw that the Russian and Carney were using entrenching tools to dig a hole in the front yard, a figure wrapped in a green poncho on the ground nearby.

  The crucifix had been pulled down and was now empty.

  Angie began to cry again, torn between running at them, demanding to know which one of them had shot her dad, and just curling up on the ground to weep for the people she had lost. Instead she simply stood near the helicopter and watched them finish digging, then carefully lower the wrapped figure into the earth before covering it quickly. When the dirt was tamped, the men looked at each other, then at Angie.

  Skye came out of the bunker then, walking to them and taking it all in. Telling her friend about the word on the tunnel wall could wait.

  The pilot, towering over Angie, put an arm around the woman and lowered his head. “I do not have the words. I am sorry.” Carney just looked at the sky.

  Angie nodded, hugged the Russian, then did the same to the former inmate. She looked down at the fresh dirt for a long moment. “I wish Xavier were here. He’d make it better. At least he’d know what to say.” She wiped at a tear and blew the dirt a kiss. “Bye, Daddy.”

  They gathered at the helicopter, looking around at the devastation, the burned buildings and Dean’s shattered Suburban. No one knew what to say, where to start, but they all shared Angie’s hurt. And then a voice called to them from the road leading into the ranch, making them spin and raise their weapons.

  A man was on the road less than a hundred yards away, standing next to a side-by-side green quad. He was simply dressed and wore a John Deere ball cap, a rifle slung over one shoulder. He raised a hand.

  “Angie West! Don’t shoot, I’m coming in.”

  • • •

  Halsey squatted with his arms resting on his knees, as if he were about to draw a picture in the dirt. He spat tobacco and looked up with a weathered face at those gathered around him.

  “It was over by the time I got here,” he said. “I was hunting, and it sounded like a damn war up here. I came through the pines on foot.” The ranch hand gestured back at the trees and spat again. “I’d been up here a week earlier, just to check on everyone. Dean was here with your folks, Angie, and Leah was just as right as rain.” He smiled. “Pretty little thing. Your folks asked if I’d had any trouble over at the Broken Arrow, wanted me to pack my gear and bunk with them. Course I told them I was just fine at my place.” He looked at the dirt. “If I’d taken them up on the offer, if I’d been here, then maybe . . .”

  Angie was sitting in the door frame of the Black Hawk, looking at the ranch hand, a man just a few years younger than her father and a man Angie had known her entire life. Halsey worked for Carson Pepper and was the caretaker and general handyman for the Broken Arrow Ranch, but he had often come over to help her dad with jobs around the Franks spread.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said. “I’m glad you’re still alive.”

  The cowboy nodded, still staring at the dirt, and then looked up. “Same here.”

  “What happened?” Carney prodded.

  Halsey looked at him. “Everything was burning. The house, the barns, Dean’s truck. They were emptying out the bunker, and your daddy was . . . already up there.”

  Angie fought back tears. The family bunker hadn’t been the big secret they had all thought. The TV notoriety, the publicity had obviously seen to that, and it had drawn looters.

  “Dean and your daddy must have put up a hell of a fight,” Halsey continued, “’cause there were bodies on the ground, and plenty of ’em. It just wasn’t enough. Too many of them. And they had an armored vehicle, something from the National Guard, most likely.”

  Angie didn’t speak for a moment, and when she did her voice was low and had a different tone. “Who were they?”

  Halsey shrugged. “Can’t say. Even with the binoculars I couldn’t recognize any of them at that distance. Some locals, I expect. The rest looked like biker trash.” The ranch hand looked at the woman whose childhood home had been reduced to ashes. “I wanted to cut your daddy down, Angie, to see him off proper. I feel real bad about not doing it. But by the time the trash left, the dead were up and walking. I was gonna risk it even at that, but then the Stampede came out of the trees.”

  The others looked at the man, eyebrows raised, and he spat.

  “I can’t help thinking of them in terms of animals,” Halsey said. “A life spent on a ranch and all. When I see ’em walking alone or in pairs, I see them as strays, and they’re easy to handle. I call it a pack if it’s less than a dozen, and if you’re holding the high ground with a good field of fire, they’re manageable too. Crowds of twenty or thirty, that’s a herd, and you’re best to steer clear, especially if you’re alone.” He squinted, his eyes seeming to disappear into leathery creases. “But there’s a bigger group out there, wandering the forest.” He waved at the trees and hills again. “Got to be a thousand or more, all staying close and moving together, damned if I know why. When they pass through, it looks like something out of that Kevin Costner movie, the one with him and the Indians, hunting buffalo. The Stampede leaves a crushed-down path in its wake. And that’s what come out of the trees that day.” He spit again. “I head
ed out right away, and I haven’t been back until today.” He shook his head. “But I’m still awful sorry about your daddy.”

  Angie let out a shaky breath. “He’s resting now, Halsey. What made you come back now?”

  “I saw your chopper,” Halsey replied. “Made it out to the Skyway just in time to see you bank over this way. There’s nothing out here except your daddy’s ranch.” He told them he had no idea Angie was on board. He had only wanted to know what all the helicopter activity was about and that maybe it was a sign that things were getting under control. Then he told them about seeing the Black Hawk wreckage shortly before their arrival. He hadn’t gotten close to it and could offer no suggestion as to who they might have been.

  “What about Dean and Leah?” Angie asked. “We didn’t find their bodies. Are they . . . ? Did they . . . ?”

  The ranch hand shook his head. “I was watching, and if those sons of bitches had taken them when they left, I’d have seen it. Maybe they got away.” He didn’t add that maybe Dean and their daughter rose from the dead and just wandered off. Halsey was a direct man, but that didn’t mean a person had to deliver unnecessary cruelties.

  “What about my mom?” Angie said. “Did you see her?”

  The cowboy’s eyes cut away and he said nothing, only spat tobacco.

  “Halsey, did you see her?”

  He sighed. “After.” Then he looked up at the woman. “Your mama’s dead, Angie, but she came back.” Halsey thought again about unnecessary cruelty, and weighed it against a young woman’s right to know what had happened to her mother. “They took her. That trash put a collar on her and chained that woman into the bed of a pickup truck, like they’d caught a mountain lion or some damn thing, and they took her.”

  Angie closed her eyes as her body shook. Carney put an arm around her and pulled her close.

  “When did all this happen?” Skye demanded.

  Halsey took a moment and squinted up at the misting, slate-colored sky. “Oh, I’d say two, three weeks after all this started. Call it the first week of September.”

  Skye looked at her friend. “I found something at the far end of the tunnel, Ang. A single word spray-painted on the wall.” She told them what she had seen, and Angie became animated, hugging Skye fiercely, new tears in her eyes, but smiling now.

  “They’re alive,” she breathed.

  The others simply nodded, none of them prepared to throw cold water on their friend’s sudden relief by reminding her that had been more than four months ago. A lot could have happened in that time.

  Angie planted her fists on her hips. “I’m going after them.”

  Skye looked at her friend. “You know I’m in. No matter what we find.”

  Carney nodded, a thin, unpleasant smile on his face. “And we need to kill some motherfuckers.”

  Angie squeezed their shoulders, mouthing a silent Thank you at each.

  Vladimir clapped his hands. “Yes! We will find Angie’s family, and there will be killing of the motherfuckers. I like this!” He pointed at the Black Hawk. “That, however, is going to be a problem.”

  When they looked at him, Vlad shook his head and spat out something in Russian, folding his arms. When he spoke, it was as if to children. “Tell me, is there anything left in this world that draws more attention than a working helicopter?”

  “How about an aircraft carrier?” muttered Skye.

  The Russian wagged a finger. “You are most amusing. The answer is nyet. It calls to the dead like a bell for the dinner, and it will alert the men you seek long before you find them.”

  Halsey stood up from his crouch. “He’s right. They’re most likely headed this way already. The dead, I mean, maybe the biker trash too, ’cause there’s no telling who saw you fly in here. Pray to God it doesn’t attract the Stampede.”

  Angie nodded and looked at the Russian. “You’ll need to stay with the bird, you know that.”

  “Being the only pilot here, I have come to that conclusion,” Vladimir said, not unkindly. It made the woman smile, despite the fact that it was the last thing she felt like doing. “You have your radios,” he said, “and when you call for an extraction, I will come.” There was no bravado in his voice, and the others knew that this tall, homely man who had spoken so simply would keep his word. Even if Vladimir Yurish had to fly into the fires of hell, he would come when called because it was his mission. And he would probably have a sarcastic remark for the devil when he got there.

  “Staying here’s no good,” said Halsey. “You can park that thing at my place, if you like. It’s out of sight, and we can see anything coming from a good distance off.” The cowboy smiled, his face seamed with lines. “Hope you don’t mind simple chow. Don’t have any caviar, I’m afraid.”

  The Russian thanked him and shook the cowboy’s hand. “An adult beverage, perhaps?”

  Halsey grinned and winked. “Now that I can deliver.”

  • • •

  The ranch hand gave up his Polaris Ranger, and Angie, Skye, and Carney unloaded their gear from the Black Hawk and piled it in the short rear bed. They would use back trails and fire roads, entering Chico—where Angie was convinced Dean had gone—without being detected. Hopefully. Halsey would ride with Vladimir and guide him into the Broken Arrow Ranch from the air.

  And then the Black Hawk was airborne, slipping over the tops of the pines and out of sight. Angie knew the terrain, so she drove as Carney rode shotgun and Skye settled into the back among the gear, facing backward with her rifle between her knees. The Barrett fifty-caliber, still in its hard plastic case, was so long that it stuck out the back.

  As the Ranger churned along a dirt road, heading for the shadows of the tree line, a blue teething ring bounced around Angie’s neck on its chain.

  SIX

  January 11—South of the Skyway

  Halsey suggested the landing zone, and after circling the ranch, Vlad agreed and set the Black Hawk down about halfway between the mass grave and the cabin. It had been a short flight, taking them past the charred ruins of a mansion and over a hill before reaching Halsey’s place. There was only one walking corpse in view, out across the fields about half a mile, slowly making its way in.

  Vladimir grabbed his bag of personal gear but left the rest of the supplies—spare ammo, extra weapons, and food—strapped to the deck of the troop compartment. Together the two men walked slowly toward the cabin.

  “What is this place?” Vladimir asked. “The large house that burned?”

  Halsey spat tobacco. “Pepper’s Broken Arrow Ranch. Carson Pepper’s place, one of his places, anyway. He has several. One for every million in the bank, I expect.”

  Vlad didn’t know who Carson Pepper was. The look on his face said as much.

  “Pepper Boots,” Halsey said as an answer to the unspoken question. “Kinda like Tony Lamas, only lots more expensive. Cowboy boots of the stars, Pepper used to say.” The ranch hand stopped and lifted a boot. “Wearing a pair right now, only they’re a little beat-up. Pepper used to give me a new pair every year for Christmas. I could never afford to buy them myself, they cost over a thousand dollars, and I wouldn’t spend that kind of money on boots anyway. I gave ’em away as presents. I’ll get four, five years out of a pair, and hell, they’re not even broke in for two.”

  The pilot nodded. To him they were boots and he had still never heard of the brand, but then his taste in footwear leaned more toward comfort and utility. He looked over his shoulder toward where he had seen the moving corpse in the field, but his view was blocked by a long, low building. The cowboy beside him seemed not to notice or care where the creature was.

  Halsey ambled slowly toward the cabin. “The Broken Arrow was Pepper’s California ranch. He has—had—others in Montana and Wyoming. He had a lot of money, no denying that, but he was a down-to-earth fella. I liked him.” He spat again. “It felt bad, shootin’ him like that.”

  The Russian raised an eyebrow.

  The ranch hand pointed out at t
he airstrip, where the small FedEx plane had merged with the private jet. “Pepper must have decided to ride out the plague right here at the Broken Arrow. He’d called and said he was flying in from Los Angeles. He’s still in that jet over there, though I had to put him down. He was trapped in the wreckage, burned up but still moving.”

  Vladimir looked at the crash, his pilot’s eye doing a quick assessment. “The jet landed, and turned to taxi back in,” he said. “The cargo plane attempted to land. . . .” He clapped his hands together.

  Halsey nodded. “It’s like you saw it happen. Burned like holy hell too. Nothing I could do but watch. And shoot down the FedEx pilot when he came walking out, all on fire.”

  Now it was the Russian’s turn to nod. Aviation fuel burned extremely hot, and the cowboy wouldn’t have been able to get anywhere near it. He thought about the FedEx pilot, attempting to land on an obstructed runway. Idiot. Or desperate beyond reason. Who knew what his crew members had turned into? Vladimir had some experience with that.

  They were standing in the hard-packed dirt yard in front of the cabin now, and the pilot gestured up the nearby hill. “It was not the aircraft fire that burned the big house, though.”

  “Nope,” Halsey said, resettling the straps of the two rifles on his shoulder. “Lit the fire on that myself after what happened at the Franks place. A place like that attracts folks, and even after I burned it down, there’s been a couple of times when trucks started up the main driveway to have a look. They turned right around when they saw what was left, though, and you can’t see my place because of the hill.” The ranch hand jerked a thumb back at the Black Hawk. “Same reason no one’s gonna see your bird.”

  Vladimir thanked him and looked around at the barn and the stables, asking about animals. Halsey explained why there were none. He didn’t go into detail about what had happened at the stables.

  “I can offer you a damned comfortable couch, Vladimir,” Halsey said, “someplace to lay your head without worrying about something biting you in your sleep. The food comes out of cans, mostly, but I’ve smoked some venison. You don’t strike me as a man who needs a lot of luxury.”