Dead Team Alpha 2_The Stronghold

by Jake Bible

  “The turnpike!”Val yells. “She’s taking us back onto the turnpike!”

  “Good!” Diaz shouts. “Maybe we can get out of this nightmare thing and use a trolley like sane people!”

  “Dude, we’re DTA!” Alastair laughs. “We don’t do what sane people do!”

  “Second that for DTB,” Shep says as the truck hits the on ramp and races up to the turnpike and a clear shot to the Stronghold.

  Except there is no clear shot.

  When they get onto the turnpike, all they see are bodies. Bodies of what they think are friends and neighbors. Most are so horribly mutilated it’s almost impossible to identify them as human beings, let alone as individuals that can be recognized.

  The truck comes to a quick stop and the doors open, the occupants of the cab stepping out quickly, carbines up, eyes alert.

  “What the hell?” Cole snaps. “The Z herd isn’t here yet. What did this?”

  “Cannies,” Sister says. “They’re on a frenzy.”

  “A what?” Stanford asks.

  “A frenzy,” Sister says. “It’s what cannies do when they get panicked. They find people and then just kill, kill, kill, until no one is left alive. They eat some while they kill them, but mostly leave the bodies behind and come back for the meat once they’ve murdered everyone they can find.”

  “Why the fuck would they do that?” Cole asks.

  “Why do cannies do anything?” Sister responds. “They are insane. The meat makes their brainpans get all whoo hoo and shit. Someone I knew a long, long time ago explained it to me. He said it was prions. Little sparky things of whatever in your head that begin to breakdown and go all nutso when you eat other people. He said it was probably what made me different. But then we found out about—”

  She stops in mid-sentence and cocks her head.

  “Listen” she whispers. “Hear that? People need help.”

  “Jesus, how are there any people left alive?” Alastair whispers and he and the rest from the bed climb out and join the other Mates. “That’s Brenda Lighton there and Mark Velasquez over there. They’re heads of two different reclaim crews.”

  “De’Andre Talbot is there,” Val says, nodding in a specific corpse’s direction. “He’s Reclaim Crew Six’s foreman.”

  “Shit,” Cole says. “Shit.”

  “Quiet,” Sister hisses.

  She waits in the road, her head moving slowly back and forth. To all the Mates, she looks uncannily like a Code Monkey the way she angles her ears towards whatever sound she is listening to.

  “We drive,” Sister says. “Guns up and ready. You have a clear target, take it. Do not hesitate. Zs are easy to take on in this thing.” She pats the side of the truck, avoiding the sharp saw blades. “But cannies can climb and will climb. If they have weapons, they’ll gut you inside that cage where you sit.”

  “Then we don’t fucking sit,” Diaz says. “We fight.”

  “Good plan,” Sister says and hurries back to the driver’s side and climbs into the truck. “Come on!”

  Everyone barely has time to hustle back into the truck and shut the doors and tailgate before Sister is flooring it and the truck is racing around the piles of bodies, heading northwest and up the turnpike once again.

  They go almost a mile before the Mates in the bed start to look at each other like maybe Sister isn’t as sharp as she thinks she is. Then they come around a long curve and see at least two dozen cannies surrounding a set of trolleys locked in at the switching station. None of the cannies are looking at the trolleys, instead they are facing right at the truck.

  “This thing doesn’t exactly sneak up on folks,” Alastair says.

  Diaz struggles with a hatch in the top of the cage until Val reaches up and shoves the latch aside.

  “You cool?” Val asks.

  “I’m cool,” Diaz says. “My head is fucking spinning from all this shit, though.”

  He pushes the hatch open and stands straight up, his M-4 to his shoulder and aimed right at the cannies. The truck’s doors fly open and the rest of the Mates follow suit, their M-4s up as well as they take aim at the cannies.

  “I can make this easy or hard,” Cole calls out. “You put those weapons down and step away from the trolleys and you may get to live. Anything else means you fucking die.”

  The cannies don’t respond. They don’t drop their weapons- a mix of blades, chains, spiked bats, lead pipes, boards with nails, anything that can crush a skull and take down prey or keep a Z away. They don’t step away from the trolleys. All the cannies do is stare.

  “Do you think they can’t understand us?” Stanford asks. “Maybe they’re all deaf. You know, like how the Code Monkeys are all blind?”

  Cole fires his M-4 over the cannies’ heads and several flinch at the report.

  “Nope. Not deaf,” Cole says. “Just crazy.”

  “How many are we looking at?” Diaz asks from his position in the bed. “Eighteen? Twenty?”

  “More than that,” Shep says. “I’d say twenty-five, at least.”

  There’s a cry for help, faint and weak, from behind the cannies. One of them turns and bangs a pipe against the trolley bars and the voice stops instantly.

  “We risk hitting any survivors in the trolleys if we open fire,” Carlotta says. “How are we doing this, TL?”

  “Cole? Ideas?” Stanford asks. “We’re great shots, but that’s a lot of lead heading right at our people.”

  “I have this,” Sister says.

  “What the hell?” Cole yells. “Hold on!”

  Sister ignores him and walks towards the cannies, her hands raised, her movements slow and obvious.

  “Howdy,” she calls out. “Who’s the head honcho around these here parts?”

  The cannies look confused at her question. The Mates look just as confused.

  “Who’s the boss?” Sister asks, shaking her head. “Ain’t none of you watched one of them old western movies? Any of you seen a movie at all? I used to love watching movies.”

  “What the hell is she talking about?” Alastair asks Val as the Mates climb out of the bed of the truck and stand with the others, carbines ready.

  “Not a clue,” Val says. “They haven’t shown a movie in the Stronghold since we were kids.”

  “Listen up, flesh eaters,” Sister says. “I need to have a chat with your person in charge.” She says the words slowly, carefully, like she’s talking to children. “You have some of my new friends’ friends in those trolleys. We need them back without any more harm coming to them. I am guessing that the only way to make that happen is to talk to your boss.”

  The cannies only stare, but a few start to grip their weapons hard enough that the sound of knuckles cracking is like gunshots. Sister holds up a hand, making sure the Mates don’t open fire.

  “I’ll ask one more time then I start getting pissy,” Sister says. “None of you want me to get pissy.”

  She pats the machete on her hip, something she picked up in the garage where she’d kept the truck. She nods her head at, but doesn’t move a hand towards, the 9mm on her other hip.

  “I get stabby and shooty when I get pissy. I’d like to avoid the stabby and shooty and just help those folks in the trolleys. Then we’ll be on our way and you all can deal with the gigantic herd of Zs coming up the mountain.”

  No one responds.

  “Dammit,” she sighs. “I didn’t have to tell you about the herd. Although I bet y’all already know it’s coming. That’s why you’re pushing through Denver, right? Because the herd’s moved you out of your holes and hiding places? Herds’ll do that. Yes they will.”

  Still no response.

  “Jesus, do you want to die?” Sister asks. “Some of you have to know who I am. Sister? You’ve heard of Sister, right?”

  More than a few eyes widen and a couple of heads turn to look at a very tall man dressed in a long, tattered duster with a wool cap pulled down over his ears. He growls and glares at Sister then takes a step forward.r />
  “You ain’t Sister,” the man says, pointing a sharpened steel rod at her. “Sister is dead. Been dead a long time. My mama told me stories about Sister, the canny killer. The woman that Zs fear. She’s a nightmare story. The boogeyman.”

  “Boogeywoman,” Sister says. She pats her chest. “I got boobies.”

  “This is getting weird,” Cole says to Stanford.

  “Getting?” Stanford chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s like we stepped into some alternate reality a couple days ago and—”

  “Do you mind?” Sister snaps, looking back over her shoulder at Stanford. “I finally get them to talk and you two start up? What the hell, Mates?”

  “Uh…Sorry?” Stanford replies.

  “Apology accepted,” Sister says and returns her attention to the canny leader. “My friends aren’t the brightest. Sometimes they don’t know when to be quiet and let the adults talk. You get what I’m saying? Not easy being in charge, is it?”

  “You ain’t Sister,” the canny leader replies.

  “Okay, maybe not,” Sister says and shrugs. “But say I am. There are twenty-five of you. I’ve taken more at once. If you’ve heard the stories then you know that half of you will be dead before the first of you raises a weapon to me. Also, if you believe those same stories, once I get to work, I spare no one. Can’t risk it.”

  She claps her hands together and the cannies all jump except for the leader. He just glares and glares, his eyes burning with hatred and violence under the edge of the wool cap.

  “Last chance,” Sister says. “You all get to walk away alive or you get to deal with me. That means you all die. Because I could give two shits if you believe who I am or not because I know who I am. I am Sister and I am out of fucking patience, you stupid shit fuckers.”

  “These cages have wheels already,” the canny leader says. “Food stays in the cages. We take the cages with us. You fuck off.”

  The canny leader adds a snarling upper lip to his perma-glare.

  Sister gives him a look that clearly states, “Really?”

  “You ain’t Sister,” the canny leader says and motions for his people to start walking forward. “Kill the bitch. Kill her hard.”

  “Okay,” is all Sister says.

  The machete is off her hip and flying through the air before anyone even realizes she’s moved. The canny leader staggers back, the weapon suddenly sticking out of his chest. There was barely time to blink from throw to impact.

  “I’m going to want that back,” Sister says as she casually walks towards the cannies. “Val back there took her blade back from me so the machete is all I’ve got.”

  She pulls her 9mm, but doesn’t point it at the group. She lets her arm hang at her side, loose and easy like nothing has just happened.

  “I have 15 rounds in this pistol,” Sister says then looks down at the 9mm. “Or is it 17? Not sure what kind I have in my hand. Could end up that two of you get lucky and don’t die. By bullets. Don’t die by bullets. I want that clear because no matter what, y’all are going to get dead. Dead, dead, dead.”

  The cannies stand there, some staring at the fallen corpse of their leader, some staring at Sister. None of them move a muscle.

  Sister raises her pistol and then all hell breaks loose.

  “Three, two, one, die!” Sister yells as she starts squeezing the trigger.

  As the cannies rush her, their stupor over and bloodlust restored, Sister takes careful, quick aim. Fifteen cannies drop from perfect head shots before her pistol clicks empty. Then they are on her.

  She ducks the first three that swing at her. She comes up and grabs a canny by the arm, snapping it over her knee as she takes the chain from the man’s grip. The canny screams as his arm points down in a direction it was not meant to point, but that scream ends fast as Sister whips the canny’s own chain against his temple, silencing him forever.

  She spins about and takes the legs out of the other two before she turns back to the six that are left. Six. That’s it. The leader down, fifteen with holes in their heads, one brained by his own chain, and two with knees that will never hold their weight, leaves six standing cannies, armed and enraged.

  Four rush Sister head on and she snaps the chain out, destroying half of a man’s face before snapping again and crushing another man’s windpipe. Those two men fall to their knees, one suffocating slowly while the other screams and holds his hands to his mangled face.

  Sister spins the chain around in her hand and looks at the other two that try to get in close to her. She shakes her head and wraps the chain around one’s wrist, nearly breaking the woman’s hand right off. She kicks out with her right leg and catches the other canny in the gut, winding him instantly. Sister spins the broken wrist canny around and slams her into the winded one, sending both of them falling to the pavement.

  The last two look at Sister. One of them pisses himself while the other just keeps muttering some prayer over and over. Sister keeps her eyes on them while she lifts a boot and stomps hard on the winded canny’s head, popping it like a bag of Z guts.

  The piss pants canny screeches and turns to run, but only gets a foot or two before a shot rings out and his head is blown apart. The last canny, now on his knees as he mumbles his prayers, shakes his head over and over, his eyes clamped shut.

  Sister whirls about and stares at Stanford as the man lowers his smoking carbine.

  “Mine,” she says and Stanford actually takes a step back from the force of her voice.

  “Sure. Whatever,” Stanford says and holds up a hand. “My bad.”

  Sister walks up to the praying canny and grabs his chin. He whimpers, but doesn’t stop praying. She looks him over then shoves him hard, sending him ass first onto the broken pavement.

  “You have five seconds to get up and run,” Sister says. “I don’t care where you go, just away from here. If you live then you remember that Sister is real. You tell your friends that I’m real. You tell them that cannies are done in this world.” A deep sadness comes over her and she nudges the man with her boot. “Everything is done. Go. Get the fuck out of here.”

  The canny hesitates for only a second then glances around, looking for the trick. He finally stands up and starts running as fast as he can. He’s off the turnpike, over the edge, and lost from sight in a flash.

  “Are we really letting him go?” Stanford asks.

  “Yeah,” Sister replies. “He’s dead anyway. Too many Zs.”

  “Unless he heads west,” Cole says. “If he lives getting over the pass and out of the Rockies then he could make it.”

  “Nope,” Sister says. “The West is gone too. Nothing but Zs on the other side of these mountains.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Stanford asks.

  “How the hell do I know anything?” Sister replies. She taps her head. “Because it’s my shit fucking job, that’s how. And I am very good at my shit fucking job.”

  “You like saying shit fuck,” Val says. “A lot.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Sister says and smiles. Then she turns to the wounded cannies strewn between the slain ones. “You guys take care of these assholes while I open the trolleys. I’m done with cannies for today.”

  “Yeah, sure, no problem,” Stanford says. “Anything else you need us to do? Maybe wash the truck later when we get back to the Stronghold?”

  “Wash the truck?” Sister responds. “That’s a waste of time and water. Don’t be stupid. Stupid is dumb.”

  “Stupid is dumb,” Stanford says and nods. “That’s wisdom right there.”

  “Val, go help the crazy woman with the trolleys while we clean up,” Cole says. “DTA! Quiet the screamers and silence the corpses. I don’t want a single one of the bastards getting up and walking his or her way up to our front door. Plenty in the herd behind us already.”

  “DTB1!” Stanford says. “Same orders. And drag the bodies out of the way so we don’t have to drive over them.”

  The Teams get to work as Sister an
d Val walk up to the trolleys.

  Basically heavily reinforced steel cages on wheels designed to hold reclamation crews or the materials they scavenge, the trolleys are hooked to a series of heavy duty steel cables that start and end at switching stations all up and down the turnpike. Once a trolley reaches a station, a winch jock uncouples the trolley from one cable and then couples it to another cable that will take it down, or up, to the next switching station.

  The trolleys in front of Val and Sister have seen their last days and are at their final switching station. The winch jocks in charge of the cables are nothing but fleshy smears across the gears and levers that move the vehicles. Those trapped inside the trolleys watch Val with hopeful eyes and watch Sister with wary eyes.

  There are only four people trapped inside. Four alive, at least.

  Blood drips from the edges of the first trolley as corpses empty their liquids from multiple stab wounds. Behind those corpses, using them to block the attacks, is a woman, cut and bruised badly, looking from Val to Sister and back.

  “TL Henshaw?” Val asks, recognizing the TL from Denver Team Beta Four.

  “Hey, Val,” Henshaw whispers, her voice a hoarse crack. “Who’s this?”

  “You didn’t hear my speech?” Sister asks. “I’m Sister.”

  “Yes, I heard,” Henshaw replies. “But that doesn’t tell me who the fuck you are.”

  “She’s Commander Lee’s field agent,” Val says. “A spy sent out into the waste to check on the other survivor pockets.”

  “Former survivor pockets,” Sister says.

  “So she says,” Val adds. “I’ll tell you all about it as we drive up to the Stronghold. Let’s get you guys out of there now first.”

  “Can we get out too?” a man asks from the other trolley. “I plan on never getting in one of these things again.”

  “Benji? No, sorry, Billy. Damn you twins. Hard to tell you apart,” Val says as she looks over. She shakes her head and smiles. “And I always forget you’re with DTB2.”

  “Was with,” the other man replies. “DTB2 is gone now. We’re all that’s left.”