There was a ten-second stretch of silence filled only with the sound of tires thrumming on asphalt. Then the radio came alive. It was on low volume and the needy voice sounded distant.
Ignoring the radio, Brook went on, “But to be safe ... you know the drill. You do your part. And I promise. If it comes to it. I’ll do my part.” She could feel Chief’s eyes boring into her.
He said, “Promise?”
Although she wanted so badly to tell Chief about the most important reason for Cade going on his latest mission, she held back and said only, “Cross my heart.”
Adding to that, Chief said, “And hope to die ... a natural death.”
Brook snatched up the Motorola two-way. “What?” she said, sounding annoyed.
Wilson said, “Sasha has to pee.”
Having a hard time holding her tongue, Brook said, “OK. There’s a real clear stretch coming up. Max could use a pit stop, I’m sure.” She pulled over gradually. By the time the gravel crunched under the tires Max was on the seat beside Brook and sniffing Chief up and down, paying particular attention to his lower extremities.
Chief scratched Max between the ears. Said, “Turning crotch hound on us?” Oblivious to his condition, he opened his door and let the dog out. “Let’s see what resides in the next town.” He powered on the truck’s navigation device and found some kind of an error code splashed on the screen. Short of calling the 1-888 number connected to it he was at a loss getting it to work.
***
Chief hit Brook with the bad news when she returned to the truck. “Just going to have to keep our eyes open, then,” she said, still avoiding eye contact.
A beat later they were on the road. Same thrumming of the tires. Same uneasy silence. And the same driving order. The F-650 in the lead, with Taryn keeping the Raptor tucked in tight to the black truck’s blood-streaked bumper.
All the while the three purple punctures Brook had located under Chief’s right butt cheek wouldn’t leave her mind. Not a good liar, she was surprised he hadn’t called her on it.
So she locked her eyes forward and prayed for two things. One, that she was wrong about the wound. And two, if she wasn’t, that Cade was on his way home with the proper remedy.
***
Three minutes later, a bullet-riddled road sign, the words on it reading Randolph, Pop. 476, zipped by on the right. The State Highway became another Main Street. It seemed to Brook some old rule book must have mandated every town and city include a Main Street in order to be recognized by the state or perhaps even the Union itself. But she knew that that was probably incorrect. The abundance of Main Streets was probably due to equal parts lack of imagination and mankind’s natural inclination to cling to the familiar.
Some farmhouses with rusting farm implements and more broken-down cars than one residence needed sat near the town’s outskirts. Barbed wire fences, some constraining small numbers of Zs inside their perimeter, bordered the road. Telephone poles, wires drooping under the weight of dozens of ravens and crows, paralleled the fencing overhead.
They crossed over a winding creek on a flat two-lane bridge with narrow sidewalks bordered by waist-high railings. Main Street stretched ahead of them and was lined with more telephone poles with thin wires crossing perpendicular to the road every few hundred feet.
Craning his head and peering east down a side street, Chief said, “Not much to this town either.”
“It’s all I’ve got,” replied Brook.
“There’s no other way to help Raven?”
“There are a couple of last resort things I think might work. But due to the fact she’s pre-asthmatic I don’t want to go that route unless I have to. Risk of infection runs pretty high.” She slowed the F-650 to walking speed and let the truck’s bumper nudge a small group of rotters out of their path. The hollow bangs of palms slapping along the truck’s side rang out but thankfully the spine-tingling crunch and squelch of bone and internals pasted under the Ford F-650’s tonnage never came.
Seeing Taryn successfully negotiate the cluster, Brook sped up to match the posted thirty-mile-an-hour limit. The end of town came and a Zions Bank and auto parts place slid by left and right, respectively. Brook continued on 16 looking for a place to turn around. Ahead, the low hills on their left curled around and caressed the horizon. A patchwork of some kind of crop, inexplicably still green, swung by outside the windows as Brook cranked the wheel and pulled a modified U-turn.
With the Ford’s grill pointing south now, Brook stopped in the right lane, let the motor idle, and powered her window down.
The white rig pulled tight next to the black rig and Taryn pulsed her own window down. She said, “What now?”
“Hate to do it,” Brook answered. “Since time is of the essence we have to split up.”
The window aft of Taryn’s rolled down and Sasha’s tightened features framed by her wild red mane filled the opening. She asked softly, “How is Raven?” She thought: And Chief? But deathly afraid of the answer she might receive, couldn’t bring herself to ask.
“No word yet,” Brook answered. “But for now ... I’m taking that as good news.”
Sasha nodded. Swallowed hard but still couldn’t find the courage or words.
Taryn asked, “Where do you want us to search?”
“I’m going to canvas the town east to west starting with the first cross street. You go one more street south and start off to the right and then skip every other street.”
“A modified grid pattern,” added Chief.
Wilson’s brow furrowed. He looked past Taryn, locked eyes with Chief, and asked, “Are you OK?”
Unsmiling, Chief merely nodded and again powered on the navigation unit to no positive result.
Seeing this, Brook released the brake and made room then waited while Taryn put the Raptor into a K-turn in the middle of North Main Street. When she saw the white truck’s grill with its big black lettering spelling out FORD in her side mirror, she tromped the gas and was off to the races.
The first pass on East Field Street took Brook and Chief by a number of them on the left, fallow and brown, and then a few two-story houses ringed mostly with white picket fencing on the right. Another pass took them by a high school with darkened windows and brown grass and ringed by a six-foot-tall run of chain link. In there somewhere was a Mormon tabernacle. The tallest structure by far, and obviously the reason the town had continued growing for, presumably, an entire century after the building’s foundation had been laid.
There were few Zs and even fewer places resembling a medical office. The only one of note was a squat brick building with a shingle hanging outside with one name on it—Jerry Layne—and the letters MD preceding it. Private practice, thought Brook as she pulled into the lot.
Chief hailed the Kids and filled them in. A beat later he and Brook were armed and picking their way over broken glass and ducking through the still locked but windowless front door.
Mainly to rouse any dead lurking in the gloom, Chief called out, “Hello,” and trained his carbine at the darkened doorway to their fore.
Ten long seconds ticked by during which they heard nothing coming from the rooms in back. No moans. No rasps. No footfalls.
Then the unmistakable low rumble of the Raptor’s motor filtered in from the street.
The radio crackled, and in case Brook and Chief had suddenly been struck deaf, Wilson said, “We’re here. Want us to wait ... same as before?”
Chief keyed the radio and, adopting a firm tone, said, “No honking. And stay in the cab.”
“Copy that,” said Wilson.
***
Three minutes later Brook was in the parking lot, her chin touching her chest and both hands on her hips. To say she was utterly dejected would be an understatement. Old magazines and medical records weren’t going to do her daughter, or Chief for that matter, any good.
Understandably, the place had been cleaned out of anything of use. There wasn’t so much as one tiny gauge needle used for
administering a diabetic a dose of insulin. And there wasn’t even a tube of Neosporin that had gone overlooked.
However, in one drawer Brook had found, and quickly pocketed, a few blister packs of Celexa meant to be distributed as samples only. Twenty-four pills in total that she hoped to pass discretely to Daymon or Heidi as soon as possible.
“Nothing?”
“Nope, Taryn,” Brook said, lying again. “Just a couple of six-year-old Sunset magazines and handouts pushing Viagra.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sasha, tears running down her cheeks.
“For the last time, Sasha. It was not your fault.”
“How can I help?”
“Keep your eyes open for anything you think might have what we’re looking for ... a store, vet’s office, anything,” answered Brook. She clambered aboard the Ford and slammed the door. She looked into the Raptor and locked eyes with Sasha, who was biting her quivering lower lip and nodding in acceptance to the task given her.
***
They’d been back trolling side streets for a couple of minutes and passed by the courthouse, a squat structure with far fewer stairs than its cousins in larger cities. There were no cars with county plates in the lot and so far the two-vehicle convoy had come across not one emergency vehicle in the entire town.
Trash, however, had accumulated underneath the front and rear bumpers of the handful of static cars left in places against the low—almost non-existent—curbs bordering both sides of Main. On one corner up ahead Brook saw what looked like a mom and pop general store. Promising, she thought to herself. But the positive feeling she’d felt in her gut disappeared a beat later when she spotted the twinkle of broken glass and realized the place had already been looted—and set fire to afterward. The door hung from one hinge and the flames had blackened the overhead sign leaving inky vertical streaks of soot obscuring the business’s name.
Brook snatched up the radio. “Find anything?” she growled.
“Negative,” said Wilson. “Just more rotters.”
Brook hissed into the radio. “We’re done here.”
“Where to now?” asked Chief.
“Depends upon how you feel.”
“I’m a little shaky,” he conceded. “Probably because I haven’t eaten for hours.” And to confirm that his stomach made a low rumble.
Chapter 59
Schriever AFB
The mess dress blues were stored in a garment bag that Nash kept tucked away in a closet. Worn only during very special occasions, much like a civilian’s tuxedo or ball gown, the ensemble displayed all of her ribbons and medals and had a frilly satin cummerbund and brass buttons. And as ornate as the thing was, even if it was put away in good shape, it always required special attention.
So Nash laid the uniform out on the small couch in the corner of her office. Then she fetched the lint brush and Brasso out of the garment bag’s pouch.
With a dab of the Brasso on a moistened fabric scrap and applying a little elbow grease, Nash shined all of the buttons on her tunic to a high luster.
The lint brush took care of any rough spots, smoothing the navy blue wool out on the top and ankle length skirt with only a couple of passes.
The shoes didn’t need much attention. Just a light buffing and they were shiny and reflecting her face all wavy and distorted like a funhouse mirror.
Nash put the shoes on the floor and went to the filing cabinet and retrieved her semiautomatic pistol. On the way back she took the photo of her and Nadia from the wall and placed it and the pistol, side-by-side, on her desk.
She picked up the full shot glass from her desk blotter and, without a toast or even pause, quickly downed the tequila.
After shedding her ACUs, she tossed them in a pile in the corner. She poured another shot and dressed in her mess dress, being careful to remain regulation while doing so.
Lastly, saying screw it to the wrinkles, she sat at her desk, her gaze moving between the photo and the shot glass.
The decision-making process lasted a few seconds and the tequila was downed and Nash was removing the magazine from her weapon. She racked the slide back and found the chamber clear. Next she inserted the magazine and placed the pistol on the blotter next to her open laptop and the satellite phone.
She filled the glass again and started the image running on the laptop’s screen and watched D.C. die for what seemed like the twentieth time. And as she did she couldn’t help thinking about what was happening 2,300 miles away from the nation’s capital when the heartbreaking footage was being recorded.
She picked up the glass and said, “To you, Nadia,” and just held it aloft, her eyes misting over.
She downed the shot and thought to herself, “And to you, Cade Grayson. Bring my girl back. And the information on those hard drives. Two birds ... one stone.”
Eden Compound
After enduring a thorough full-body inspection from a young blonde woman named Heidi and having been declared bite free as a result, Glenda was given a towel and led to a crudely strung tarpaulin shower stall and given a five-gallon bucket full of sun-warmed water. The thought of sudsing up and rinsing with a commodity she knew was worth its weight in gold for the scattered pockets of humanity trying to ride this mess out made her feel a pang of guilt and she balked at first.
But the thin fellow who relieved Heidi and introduced himself as Tran had insisted. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. There’s a creek nearby, he had said. We’ll collect more. So, reluctantly, again, Glenda stripped away her jeans and top and finished the job she had started in the creek earlier, vigorously scrubbing away the bits and pieces of Louie that still clung to her.
Afterward Tran had given her a full set of sand-colored army fatigues, two sizes too big, and a fresh pair of socks which felt like butter against her bruised and blistered feet. He also provided some kind of a prepackaged meal that was appetizing enough and which she ate hungrily.
Finally, with the promised hot meal of venison and fresh foraged greens and mushrooms keeping her mind occupied, Glenda was handed off to one of her rescuers—a balding man named Jimmy—who gave her a tour of the well-thought-out compound.
From the look of her guide, who was carrying an extra twenty pounds and hiding a double chin and filled-out cheeks behind a close cropped beard, hot meals looked to be a frequent occurrence and something Glenda Gladson could get used to.
After meeting another of the survivors named Seth, a young man with a budding beard and long stringy hair parted in the middle and who looked like he would be more at home at Haight-Ashbury during the Summer of Love than lording it over a high-tech security system, Glenda was shown to a room filled with dry goods and supplies. There, Foley set up a cot for her and started a gentle interrogation. A sort of fact-finding interview sans turning of screws or vicious backhands. If she said anything that sent up a red flag he’d note it and have Duncan or Cade follow up. He learned about the attack by men in helicopters on the brigands who had been terrorizing Huntsville. Immediately he thought of Carson and Bishop’s men. Better odds of getting struck by lightning, he thought, than there being another group of killers out there with black helicopters who left death cards scattered about their fallen victims.
The story of her trek from there was remarkable. He was really struck how she’d fashioned her armor from magazines and duct tape and instantly thought of the stacks of Guns and Ammo and Field and Stream magazines sitting in his home back in Idaho.
But the thing that nearly knocked him over was that, like Brook, the matronly soft-spoken woman used to be a nurse. Hopes buoyed, he led her to the Kids’ quarters not only to meet Raven, who was awake and had stopped coughing, but to mine her for a second professional opinion. Which after a three-minute exam was relayed to him in private and was precisely what Brook had said before setting out on her foraging mission.
So he left Glenda with Heidi and Raven and went topside to get ahold of Brook and relay the good news. Maybe take a load off the woman’s shoulders while
she was away from her ailing daughter.
Chapter 60
The navigation system was still glitching and not showing the business, town, or road names, let alone the distances between. But nearing the junction with State Route 39 and with the bust of a town, Woodruff, gliding by, Brook spotted a north-facing sign that indicated Bear River, Wyoming was thirteen miles south and Evanston an additional ten beyond it. Last resort, thought Brook.
Then there was a warbling sound she was unaccustomed to hearing. She looked at the two-way radio. Furrowed her brow and took her foot off the accelerator while digging in a pocket for the satellite phone.
Chief wiped his brow and stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. He opened the console and the electronic tone intensified, filling the cab. “It’s the long range set,” he said, fishing out the bulky black half-of-a-brick-sized CB radio.
Brook put the sat-phone aside and took the CB from Chief. She spent a few seconds looking for a way to receive the transmission. Finally she keyed the correct button and listened as Foley caught her up to date on the new arrival.
“What’s your gut telling you?” she asked.
“She’s legit. I think she’ll be a real asset going forward,” he answered. “And she’s with it too. A real survivor ... for sure.”
“Keep an eye on her, though. I crapped out in Woodruff and Randolph.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” replied Brook. “So we’re going south. Maybe Bear Lake or Evanston, which are just over the border in Wyoming, will have what we need.”
“Alright,” said Foley. “I’ll keep this radio close. Supposed to have a forty-mile range. Call if you need anything. And stay frosty.”
Suppressing a chuckle, Brook said, “You do the same.”
“Why didn’t you tell him about me?”
“Because you’re not bit,” she said, not so sure if the statement was still a lie or not. But she thought: If you are there’s nothing I can do about it until Cade returns with the carrots Nash dangled in front of him.
Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 32
