Brook keyed the radio and said, “We’re here.” And after a second glance at the impenetrable-looking barn doors, added, “We’ll turn around and park both trucks out of sight beside the barn.”
“As if we have a choice,” said Wilson. “Wouldn’t inside the barn be safer?”
Ignoring the comment, Brook put the radio aside and cut the wheel to negotiate the narrow opening between a tilling tool adorned with dozens of rusting discs and a green tractor that looked highly capable of towing it. A tick later she stopped mid-turn when the door to the home opened and out stepped a slightly stooped gray-haired man with a long gun cradled comfortably in his withered hands. The relic, looking to have hailed from the Hatfield vs. McCoy era, had an ornately carved stock and side-by-side blued barrels that were presently moving on a steady upward arc.
Staring down the dual muzzles that looked capable of slinging quarter-sized chunks of lead her way, Brook made a snap decision which was partially dictated by the last encounter, yet mainly a byproduct of what her gut was telling her. She stuck her left hand out the window, palm down, and made a patting motion she hoped the Kids would interpret as stand down. With the barrel still aimed at her open window and unwavering, she stilled the engine and smiled at the man.
Eyes moving steadily between the two trucks, the man said, “There’s a high-powered rifle trained on the tattooed girl’s head. You’re trespassing. Turn around and leave now and nobody gets hurt.”
Brook grabbed her Glock off the seat and made a show of placing it on the dash. Then she stuck that hand out the door and opened it from outside.
The man took a step closer to the porch’s edge, but stayed in its shadow. He said, “You have to five,” and started a count.
Brook lowered herself to the ground and moved into the open, hands up. She cast a glance at the Kids and locked her gaze with a wide-eyed Sasha. Slowly, she mouthed, “It’s going to be OK,” then turned back and took a step towards the old man. “Please let us stay out here, in our trucks, until those things pass. We’ll be no trouble ... we won’t ask for a thing. And we’ll leave the second they pass.”
The man was at three when he paused the countdown and said, “If you leave now, you can get ahead of them and go back the way you came from. At least you’ll live to see another day.”
“We ... I can’t. My little girl is dying,” she said. “She might not see tomorrow if we don’t get to the next town south of here. There has to be a pharmacy or doctor’s office still not thoroughly looted.”
The count didn’t resume. The shotgun barrel drooped a few degrees and the man just stared at Brook.
Brook could almost hear the gears turning. As if the pendulum of fate was once again swinging in her family’s direction. Maybe it was her lucky day and the blade had just cleaved Mister Murphy in half for her.
Finally, after a couple glances at the horde, which by now was creating a kind of humming sound from their combined footfalls and low guttural moaning, the old guy rooted in a pocket and tossed a set of keys on the dirt near Brook’s feet. “I don’t much like tattoos,” he said. “The guy in your rig goes with the others. I want you to lock them all inside the barn and then you return with the keys... and unarmed.”
I’m his insurance policy, thought Brook. She smiled and nodded to the old man and then scooped up the keys and hustled to the barn. She opened both locks and, with Wilson’s help, parted the heavy doors.
In seconds she and Taryn had wheeled the trucks inside the barn and, after sharing a few words with Chief and the Kids, Brook was alone outside the red doors and snapping the locks shut.
“Hurry. Now,” called the man from the porch, gesturing with the shotgun. “They’re real close.”
Once inside and the man had battened up the door behind them, Brook looked around at the dark wood-paneled walls, letting her gaze settle on the works of art and ceramics scattered here and there. All in all, inside, the place seemed a few decades more modern than the impression she’d gotten upon first seeing the place. Continuing her covert recon, she glanced at a stairway a dozen feet to her right and following the stairs up caught a brief glint of light off of metal. As she squinted, trying to see into the shadowy recesses, the man said, “I’m Ray. I want you to meet my better half, Helena.”
There was a creaking from the direction of the stairs and a woman with a cherubic face and rosy cheeks emerged into the bars of light spilling through the rectangular window above the front door. She smiled and lowered the bolt-action hunting rifle Brook presumed had been trained on her the entire time.
“Sit. Sit,” said Ray. He motioned to a simple bench pushed against a plate window overlooking the circular drive, barn and highway beyond.
Brook straddled the bench and said, “Thank you. And though she doesn’t know it yet ... my daughter thanks you, too.”
Ray set the shotgun aside and said, “Tell me about your daughter.”
***
While Brook was recounting the bicycle accident and the resulting collapsed lung and the type of equipment she needed to fix the problem without making it worse, Helena was banging pots and humming away in the other room which had to be the kitchen, judging from the nice aroma wafting into the parlor.
While the matronly lady set the nearby table with service for three, Brook started at Z day and told Ray how she and her small family had survived that hellish nightmare, all the while praying the multitudes of monsters of their present-day nightmare would stop filing by so she could continue her quest south.
As if he knew what Brook was thinking, Ray cleared his throat and said, “Sometimes it takes the deaders hours to pass. We knew they were coming ... eventually. Helen saw a vehicle pass by shortly before you and your friends showed up. She figured they were being followed. And she was right.”
Helen poked her head around the doorway. She said, “I usually am, Raymond.”
Brook said, “There was a vehicle at the 39 and 16 junction.”
“Camouflage paint and Wyoming plates?” asked Helena.
Brook nodded.
Helen entered the parlor and stood in front of Brook, a long kitchen knife in her hand. She hitched a brow and asked, “What happened to them?”
Brook stayed silent for a beat. Then she said, “You want the truth? Or should I tell you what I think you’d want to hear?”
Ray scooped up the shotgun and said, “While I appreciate your concern for our sensibilities ... considering the bandage on your noggin, the truth will do just fine.”
Over the course of twenty minutes Brook spilled her guts. Held nothing back. She cried a little and when she was done she felt like she’d just emerged from a confessional. Not rejuvenated. But maybe absolved. At least in her mind.
“You have a trusting look about you,” Helen said, gesturing with the knife. “And I think you all did what you had to do in order to survive. And you know, young lady ...” She paused and smiled wide. “I have a feeling Saint Peter will take that one with a grain of salt.”
Helen disappeared into the other room.
Ray paced over to the window and said, “You see those carcasses in my pasture?”
Brook followed his gaze and nodded.
“Those were Alpacas. Beautiful animals. Me and Helena are ... were ranchers,” he said. “Those bones out there were our retirement nest egg. Thirty head. Three hundred thousand give or take worth of animals and future stud fees ... all eaten by former humans that just climbed in there overnight. I gather they chased them until the poor things were tired out and then had their fill of them. Most expensive buffet ever were Helen’s exact words after we awoke and found the monsters eating them. Hell, we were planning on eating a couple of them this winter. They’re gone now. No use crying over spilled milk. Besides ... not much to spend a nest egg on going forward. There certainly is no trip to Florida in our future.”
Ray liked to talk, that much was clear. As long as he wasn’t holding the gun and Helen wasn’t hovering nearby with a knife, Brook was happ
y to continue listening and nodding. Every few minutes, though, she’d look at the Zs filing by and wish she had the satellite phone and handheld CB so she could check in on Raven and maybe throw Cade a text to see if he was alright. But she didn’t. So she remained passive and patient and sat looking out the window, willing Ray to keep talking, Helen to keep cooking, and the Zs to move faster.
Chapter 67
FOB Bastion
“We’ve been jawing for quite some time,” Beeson said. He took his boots off the corner of the desk and reached behind him. He came back with the bottle of Scotch.
Perking up like a cat hearing a can opener, Duncan adjusted his butt in the chair and said, “What do we have there?”
“We’ve talked about every war from Nam on up to the two wars in the desert and the few bubbling in AFRICOM before Omega went and changed everything. The whole time—whether you realize it or not—your eyes kept coming back to this bottle. You have to have memorized the label by now?”
Feigning ignorance while keeping his shaking hands out of sight, Duncan said, “It’s got a nice one ... looks like paper and colored foil.”
“That it does,” Beeson said, turning the bottle over. “What do you say we have a nip?”
“Maybe just a small one. Or two. But small ... I’ve got to get that bird back to the compound.”
Beeson smiled. He peeled off the silver foil and cracked the seal. Pulled two plastic Solo cups from a half-sleeve of them and poured a finger in each. Handed the red cup to Duncan and noticed the palsy immediately, but said nothing.
Duncan took the cup in two hands and quickly downed the peaty-smelling whiskey.
“Slow down, fly boy,” said Beeson with a knowing look in his eyes. “1981 Brora is meant for sipping. Spent twenty-three years in a cask. I’m sure it can stay in your cup for a few minutes. Can’t it?”
Duncan said nothing. He placed the cup on the desk and nudged it forward a few inches, universal semaphore for more please.
And Beeson obliged. He poured the same amount in the cup, corked the bottle, and put it on the shelf behind him. He raised his cup in a toast and said, “To Cade’s safe return.”
Duncan reached for his cup, the tremors subsiding noticeably.
Utah Farmhouse
After a twenty-minute dissertation heavy on the pros and cons of raising Alpacas in the high desert, Ray’s face lit up like he’d just figured out the answer to the old chicken or the egg conundrum. Brook figured either he’d had a mini stroke or was just plain out of material to talk about. With a grin on his face and the shotgun in hand, he bowed out of the parlor, promising a surprise and telling Brook to sit tight.
In the barn the Kids were getting antsy. With no windows to speak of on the ground level to see what was taking place outside, Wilson was forced to scale a treacherous ladder of simple wood slats nailed horizontal between a pair of vertical support beams. At the rear of the partially full hay loft, which—if he were to believe his own inner compass—faced southwest, he found a pair of sliding doors similar to the ones below. Only these were much smaller, designed to allow bales of hay entry into the loft, not oversized tractors and animals like the doors down below. Still, he couldn’t budge these doors. However, he did find a knothole in a slat big enough to allow him to see the portion of the highway perpendicular to where the long drive to the property began its journey up to the house and barn.
The rotters were still filing by. In the five minutes he sat there with one eye pressed to the musty smelling wood, listening to Sasha braying for an update, he got the sense that their numbers were slowly tapering off. The other positive takeaway from his brief stay in the loft: There were no monsters traipsing up the undulating feeder road—that he could see.
Having seen enough to know they were going to be cooped up for a little while longer, Wilson scooted over the edge and, risking life and limb with each step, made it the twenty-five feet to the hay-strewn floor in one piece.
“Well?” Sasha said, even before Wilson could brush the cobwebs and bird crap from his pants.
“Shouldn’t be too long,” Wilson said. “Assuming the old folks didn’t kill Brook and eat her and we’re the next course.”
Taryn put her arm around Sasha and said, “Don’t say stuff like that, Wilson. We’ve got to stay positive.”
He kicked some hay then, looking sheepish, said, “Sorry. Just kidding. I’m sure they’re vegans or something.”
Worming from Taryn’s embrace, Sasha said, “I’m fine,” and stalked towards the barn doors to look out at the house.
Letting her go, Taryn said, “How’s Chief?”
“Sleeping. I think.”
“Seems like he’s sick to me.”
Wilson said, “Like the flu or something?”
Taryn started walking to the F-650. She said, “Worse ... maybe.”
“Like he’s been bitten worse? No effin way. He’d have told Brook and she in turn would have told us.”
Taryn climbed up on the black truck’s running board. Cupping her hands, she peered into the gloom and saw Chief stir and turn away from the window.
Wilson said, “Well?”
Taryn answered, “He’s sleeping.”
Max padded up and sat next to Taryn and looked up at the truck looming over them both. Then he put one paw on the running board, head cocked, eyes, one blue and one brown, fixed on Taryn’s face.
“If only you could talk, Max,” she said, unaware how enlightening a gift of that magnitude would be.
“I see someone moving behind the windows,” called Sasha, her face pressed firmly to the vertical sliver of light where the barn doors met in the middle.
Schriever AFB
Nash picked the sat-phone off the desk. She turned it over in her small hand and thumbed it on. After the screen came to life, she scrolled to the messages and read the text. With tears forming in the corners of her eyes, she read the text again, mouthing the words. Then, with her throat constricting and hot tears of joy pouring down her face, she plucked her pistol and the half-finished bottle of tequila off the desk blotter. She walked over to the picture of Nadia and her at USC. Took it down off the wall and planted a kiss on the small figures. She put the photo on her desk and turned around again in the small office and made her way to the filing cabinet.
It opened with the usual squeal and she placed the pistol in its holster and tucked it under some papers.
The bottle went in the garbage can with the others. She policed up the broken glass and it went in with the bottles.
Standing in front of the mirror hanging in her closet, she inspected her mess dress blues. Buffed the brass buttons that needed attention with a sleeve. Straightened her collar and tie. Smoothed her skirt and looked at the ceiling reflected off her highly polished shoes.
Methodically, she undressed and stowed everything away in the garment bag. Then she retrieved the crumpled ACUs from the floor and dressed quickly. Bloused the trouser legs and laced up her boots.
Once again comfortable with her place in the world, rank in the Air Force, and her standing with her daughter, Major Freda Nash grabbed a sleeve of Rolaids from her desk drawer, her cover off the desk, and began the short, yet oh-so-long, walk to the Tactical Operations Center.
Chapter 68
Helena’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Dinner is ready, Ray.” Then, wearing a pair of red-and-white-checked oven mitts, she shuttled a shallow casserole dish from the kitchen and placed it on a coaster on the table. “Come, Brook. Let’s eat.”
Brook’s eyes locked on the dish. The aroma seeping from under its lid was familiar. She’d had whatever it contained before, of that she was certain. Then, with a rattle indicative of a loose pane of glass, she heard a door open and close from somewhere beyond the kitchen, near the back of the house. A beat later Ray called out, “How long until we eat, honey?”
“I just called for you,” screeched Helena.
“I was in the shed,” Ray hollered as he shuffled through the doo
rway carrying a paper bag.
There was a rustling and a clunk when he set it on the floor.
Helena brought out another serving dish, the smoky aroma of ham wafting after it. She arranged it near the head of the table, placing a carving knife and fork at its twelve o’clock. Another couple of forays back and forth and Helena had some pumpkin pie filling and cranberry sauce on the table as accompaniments. “Sorry,” she said. “I would’ve made a crust for the pie if I’d have known we were having company for dinner.”
“What are you cooking all of this with?” Brook asked.
Helen put a pepper mill and salt shaker next to the casserole. She looked up and said, “Gas,” as if she thought the question absurd.
Brook pulled out a chair and sat to the left of the head of the table. Having company for dinner. She shook the morbid thought and looked dead ahead at a curio cabinet, all dark wood and glass and filled with dust-catching knick-knacks. She glanced over the spread of food, pausing to watch the cranberry sauce, still in the shape of the can it slid out of, jiggle as she accidently jarred the table. The whole surreal scene was part dinner at her mom’s house and part dining in the Twilight Zone. She was surprised Helena hadn’t drawn up a placard and provided a fourth place setting for Rod Serling. Shaking her head, Brook asked incredulously, “How can you eat right now with so many of those things out there? And how can you expect me to eat while my friends are out there locked in the barn?”
Ignoring the question, Ray took his seat at the head of the table. Started carving the still steaming and very obviously—based on its perfect symmetry—canned ham. “Helena always cooks special when the surge of deaders shows up. They’re back and forth here every couple of days. Means we eat real good at least three days out of the week. But we scrimp the rest of the time,” he said. “So you better eat up.”
Brook thought: Like the last supper. Feeling her stomach growl, she pushed her plate forward and shook her head. She said, “No way. I can’t eat with you. Not now. Not in good conscience.”
Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 36
