Holding the five by seven in his gloved hand, Cross asked Lopez, “What’s the building the target is standing in front of?”
“Nash called it the Widney Alumni house.”
“But her daughter wasn’t an alum yet.”
“Nope. That was orientation day ... three years ago.”
Cade sat up straight and corralled his carbine, trapping it between his knees. He yawned and stretched and looked out both side windows. Then cracked his neck and placed his clasped hands on the M4’s collapsed buttstock. Parking his chin on his glove’s rigid knuckle protection, he gazed straight ahead through the cockpit glass, back among the living. Why the bitch seat was abhorred by Lopez and then by the late CIA nuke specialist Scott Tice after he’d been forced into it was beyond Cade. There was great situational awareness to be had from here. Plus, with the bulkhead at his back and the sensation of forward momentum not contradicted by terrain moving in opposition, overall, he felt more in control.
As Cade looked out over the quiet city he couldn’t believe how far south and north he could see. The lack of traffic, both air and ground, and the emissions produced by the hundreds of thousands of vehicles in and around the sprawling metropolis had left the skies shining brilliant blue. Gone was the chaotic hustle and bustle and with it the gray, city-obscuring haze.
Out the port side glass Cade saw the unmistakable oval of poured concrete housing tens of thousands of red and white seats. Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. Home to an Olympics games in the thirties and again more recently in 1984 when at the height of the Cold War the then USSR balked at attending and eventually boycotted them. The rectangular natural grass playing field was now a honey-colored shade of brown, the yellow USC logos and crimson end zones standing out like brilliantly colored bookends.
Through the starboard windows, way off in the distance, Cade saw the expansive Pacific Ocean, deep blue and appearing deceptively calm from this altitude. Ari began a gradual descent and a couple of minutes later banked left. He leveled the Jedi Ride out until the ocean was completely filling the windows on Cade’s right. So he craned past Griffin, looked down and saw palm trees and a cement bike path bisecting the white sand. And jutting out into the ocean bordered by nearly empty parking lots was a wooden pier, home to a handful of one-and two-story structures shoehorned in between the beach and a four-lane highway. Beyond the buildings was a Ferris wheel and a dozen other amusement rides, all colorful and seemingly out of place when compared to the nearby traffic jam of death clogging what he guessed was the Santa Monica Freeway.
“Santa Monica Pier,” said Haynes to no one in particular.
Just south of Santa Monica, Venice Beach complete with its zombie-crowded skate park and sunbaked sports courts slid by. The helicopter’s shadow clipped along the ribbon of sand and the men sat inside in a brooding silence, the ocean’s serene Yin on their right not near enough to balance out the chaotic Yang exemplified by the picket of fire-scorched skyscrapers scrolling by on their left.
Dead ahead through the cockpit glass Cade could see the shoreline gradually curling right and noticed a vast marina and another long pier built on wooden pilings jutting out into the ocean. And as the pier grew in size it became apparent that like Santa Monica and Venice Beach it also belonged to the dead. The marina, however, was nearly deserted and it looked as if all of the vessels once moored there were now anchored and lolling in the waterway separated from the ocean by a curving, mile-long, manmade rock jetty. Putting the numerous yachts and their blood-streaked decks from his mind, Cade continued his counterclockwise one-eighty recon and locked eyes with Lopez. Saw the knowing look in them. And then knew that though the Delta captain hadn’t acknowledged it publicly, he was in agreement with Cade’s interpretation of the intel and, somewhere between Vegas and the California border, had reversed the order of importance of their two objectives which resulted in Ari altering their flight plan.
Chapter 43
Figuring she was past the halfway point to Woodruff and knowing there was a down grade after the looming challenge, Glenda tackled the steep hill with a renewed vigor. “Go, girl,” she said aloud over and over until her breathing became labored and forced the verbal mantra into her head.
To her left was dense forest consisting of firs and pines with an occasional aspen or oak breaking up the monopoly. The opposite side of the road was more of the same, a ravine gradually getting steeper and deeper, but instead of the creek and its cold waters beckoning below there was more forest, the tree tops nearly level with the roadway in places.
Taking a much needed break at the crest of the hill, she straddled the bike and followed the road ahead with her eye. After the long downhill stretch she was going to savor like a Godiva chocolate, there was a gradual right hand turn and beyond it a bridge crossing yet another chasm with what she guessed would be a creek running perpendicular to the road. But shambling away from her, currently passing through the trees’ angular shadows, was a group of about a dozen dead, their attention seemingly directed at something around the bend.
“Now or never,” she said, putting her throbbing left foot on the pedal. Oh what she would have done for an Ibuprofen—or six—at that moment. In fact, if the herd of flesh-eaters weren’t still following somewhere back there she would have been inclined to strip off the hikers, found a shady spot and cooled them in the afternoon breeze. But the hungry beasts were at her back and Woodruff, and hopefully one or two survivors—or if there really was a God, a whole town full of them—was beyond the ones she could see.
Then the realization that she had not seen a living soul for weeks hit her. The loneliness came roaring back as did memories of Louie. As she stood there cooling off, a dull throb started behind her eyes and moved to her shoulders. Then the cramping in her calves started and a tenseness radiated up her back until it felt like all of the skin covering her skull was slowly being drawn tight. She imagined her eyes as slits and the corners of her mouth tugged into a straight, thin line. Not wanting to be caught by her pursuers curled up in a fetal ball and looking like a cosmetic surgery addict—at least in her mind concerning the latter—she forced herself to straddle the bike and let gravity have her.
Compared to the Pike’s-Peak-like hill climb, the lee side run out was better than any Godiva’s chocolate. The pain in her feet lessened as the wind rushing by invaded her Hi-Tecs. The minor relief of the wind cooling her feet relaxed her back and, by the end of the run out, she was feeling like she could ride to New York if need be.
The Glenda Glide had served her again. She whooped it up in her head as she sped silently by the group of dead. Not wanting to lose the momentum gained from the long downhill, she tucked and pedaled hard, cutting the right-hand turn by degrees, the bike leaning over substantially.
With the trees on her left coming to an abrupt end and a wide slice of daylight taking their place, she wheeled onto the two-lane bridge. As the bike’s rubber tires met the smooth white surface, the steady humming ceased and somewhere around the bend in the road she heard an out-of-place murmuring and, overriding it, the whiny peal of a two-stroke engine.
In the second or two it took Glenda to process the new sounds and conclude the latter was coming from a chainsaw engine running somewhere in the nearby woods, the bike had carried her another thirty feet and she spotted the source of the former. Which was a waist-high drift of pale corpses and the writhing black bodies of hundreds of feeding ravens and crows slowly winnowing it down. And then her stomach clenched and a cold finger of dread traced her spine as she saw a pair of SUVs, then, standing in an uneven line crowding in on a head-high snarl of fallen trees, another two dozen flesh-eaters and no obvious way of getting around them.
With the dead she’d just zipped by now lost from sight, and the ones to her fore still oblivious to her presence, Glenda let her momentum bleed off and, once she’d cleared the short span, veered left and quietly laid the bike down on the shoulder. She cast a furtive glance toward the static SUVs and the shelter they m
ight afford, but quickly ruled them out based on their proximity to the dead. She shifted her gaze west and heard hollow moans riding the wind. Between a rock and a hard place.
So, with no other logical course of action and risking sliding into the ravine, she scurried into the underbrush and said a silent prayer.
SR-39 Roadblock
Chief placed the chainsaw gently in the truck bed along with the empty gas cans and tools and spare parts, and then sat on the tailgate wiping sawdust and woodchips from his shirt and face.
Foley climbed over the guardrail and traipsed slowly across the road towards the truck, drinking from a bottled water. “These are going to run out pretty soon,” he said. “What are we going to do then?”
“What we always did,” said Chief. He retrieved a military surplus canteen from the jumble in the bed, screwed off the cap and drank heartily. The water was tepid and tasted of plastic but hit the spot and he let Foley know as much.
“I’m no yuppie,” said Foley defensively. “Just used to the convenience. That’s all.”
“Just razzing you,” Chief said.
The sound of twigs cracking preceded Tran as he emerged from the forest. Slung over his shoulder and bulging with something he’d foraged was one of those reusable shopping bags, and screened on its side in colorful island-themed graphics Jimmy Buffet would be proud of was the name Trader Joe’s.
“What did you find this time?” asked Foley.
“Mushrooms,” answered Tran, flashing a toothy grin.
“For sustenance or hallucinogenic purposes?”
Tran didn’t answer Foley. He threw the bag in back of the truck and came out with a water of his own. Cracked the top and drank greedily.
“What do you say we make sure our rifles are zeroed in, city boy?”
“I may look like I’m just a plump computer guy,” Foley said. “Truth is ... you don’t really know me, Chief.”
The fifty-five-year-old Native American smiled at that but said nothing. He turned his ball cap around, rose to standing and, with his Les Baer carbine in hand, shuffled along the bed and braced his butt against the cab’s sliding rear window.
Tran moved backward a few paces and covered his ears.
Showing a little shooter’s savvy, Foley rose and formed up next to the pickup’s bed on Chief’s left where he wouldn’t be catching hot brass in the face.
Chief shouldered the rifle, put his eye to the scope, flicked the selector to Fire and exhaled slowly while squeezing the trigger. His first round missed its intended target, going right judging by the puff of dust that leapt off the roadside beyond the bridge. He waited for a second or two while the sky went black as the birds winged off, cawing in displeasure. Aiming for the tops of the bobbing heads, Chief snapped off four more shots, dropping one rotter to the roadway beyond the fallen trees for each 5.56 round expended.
“Gotta be a nice pile of those things over there by now.”
“Bird food,” replied Chief, snugging his rifle in tight, his finger drawing back the trigger.
Bringing the binoculars up and focusing on something beyond the 4Runner’s hood, Foley said, “Do you remember seeing a bicycle on the shoulder?”
Keeping his eye glued to the scope, Chief tracked the barrel up a couple of degrees and said, “That red piece of work?” He looked over his shoulder at Foley with one brow raised and a hint of concern on his face and shook his head slowly side-to-side.
Chapter 44
The screams jerked Brook from a deep spell of REM sleep. Her eyes snapped open to a gray gloom punched through with needle-thin shafts of light. As consciousness gripped her firmly her first reflex was to jerk upright, a move that sent the ball cap flying from her face as if shot from a catapult. The thought that the shrieks were somehow a manifestation of a forgotten nightmare or just figments of her imagination were quickly dispelled when she heard Sasha’s unmistakable voice calling her name.
The shouts of “Brook, help” continued as she sprung up from the crushed grass circle, carbine in hand.
Following the sounds, Brook ran towards the motor pool, her legs making a swishing sound against the grass. Suddenly Max was nearby, a blur of brown and white leaping gazelle-like on a divergent course.
Max made the scene first.
Brook was there a few seconds later. The screams continued and she saw Sasha, hysterical, kneeling down and tugging at the purple and white mountain bike.
“Back off, Sash,” Brook said calmly. She gripped the teen’s shoulder and sat her on her butt and out of the way. She looked back and saw Raven face down, limbs all akimbo and tangled in the bike’s handlebars.
Heavy footfalls came from the forest behind the vehicles. They were followed by a flurry of movement as Taryn and Wilson looped around front of the F-650 and skidded to a halt.
Motioning Taryn over, Brook said, “Help me with the bike.” She looked at Wilson and nodded towards Sasha, mouthing: She needs you.
Feet seemingly rooted in place, Wilson’s head swiveled slowly towards Sasha but returned at once, his eyes falling on Raven’s motionless form.
“She’s dead. And it’s all my fault,” cried Sasha. “I saw her crash in the grass. But I kept going around. This is how I found her.” She bit her lip, turning it white, then added, “I think she hit the bumper head on.”
Brook turned her head towards Wilson and through clenched teeth said, “Take your sister and sit her in the grass and come right back.”
While Taryn held the weight of the bicycle off of Raven, Brook supported her daughter’s head with one hand and straightened her legs and arms out on the grass with the other.
Straining against the weight, Taryn said, “Now?”
Brook shook her head side-to-side and helped brace the bike with her free hand. A few seconds later when Wilson returned, she said, “Real easy now ... lift it off of her.”
Taryn picked the bike up, moved it aside, and let it fall into the grass. When she turned back and saw Raven’s bloodied face, she let out a gasp, believing that Sasha was right in her assessment. But a tick later Brook said, “She’s alive. Wilson, I need your shirt.”
Without hesitation he stripped it off and handed it over.
Brook said, “I’m afraid she may have punctured a lung. I need my stethoscope and the biggest syringe and needle you can find.”
Nodding, Wilson sprang into action.
Brook called out, “Bring a sleeping bag.” Then she hunched over and checked Raven’s pupils, seeing instant dilation. She peered down Raven’s airway, finding it clear. Next Brook walked her fingers, spider-like, around Raven’s slender neck. Then, without the luxury of a backboard, Brook enlisted Taryn’s help and, working together, they turned Raven over gently on her side and Brook quickly traced her fingers from the base of Raven’s skull on down to her tailbone.
After helping place Raven back flat on her back, Taryn asked, “Is anything broken?”
“Her neck and spine ... I don’t think so,” replied Brook, grimacing. “But I can tell by the way she’s breathing that something isn’t right internally.”
Raven’s eyes fluttered open just as Wilson returned from the compound with Heidi and Seth in tow.
Brook cleared a lock of hair from Raven’s face and said, “You’re going to be alright, sweetie.”
Wilson handed over the stethoscope and the only syringe he could find. It was a small item without a needle, useful only for flushing eyes and irrigating wounds.
Brook took the stethoscope and syringe from him. Turned the syringe over in her hand and looked up, confused. “That’s it?” she said.
“Yep,” answered Wilson. He unfurled an olive-drab sleeping bag. “Where do you want this?”
Ignoring him, Brook looked at Seth and then to Heidi and said, “Who’s in the security container?”
They looked at each other and said simultaneously: “Nobody.” Then Seth went on. He held up the two-way radio and said, “Phillip is at the hide. He’s going to call me if he sees a
nything out of the ordinary.”
Relaxing somewhat, Brook put her hand under Raven’s shirt. Spent a moment moving the stethoscope over her chest, stopping occasionally and looking up and grimacing. Finally, with no kind of good expression on her face, she addressed Wilson. “Lay the bag next to her.” She scooted over and took a knee near the crown of Raven’s head. “Everyone get a hand under her body. On three we’ll gently transfer her to the bag.”
With Taryn, Wilson, Seth, and Heidi positioned equidistant around Raven, and Brook supporting her head and neck, the former nurse started the count.
Once the transfer was complete Brook took Heidi’s spot, grabbed hold of the bag, and with the others’ help began moving her to the compound.
The radio in Seth’s pocket warbled and he looked a question at Brook.
“Sasha,” Brook said. “Get the radio from Seth’s pocket.”
As the group moved across the clearing in a herky jerky manner with Raven wrapped up in the bag hammock-like and swaying side-to-side, Sasha tried to match their speed and gait. Nonplussed by the prospect of sticking her hand into a man’s front pocket, she finally got over herself, rooted around in there and came out with the radio just as it went silent. Sasha held her arms out and looked a question at Taryn that said: What do I do now?
Brow furrowed, Taryn looked Sasha in the eye and said, “Call them back.”
Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 22
