Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed

by Chesser, Shawn

  “Roger that,” Cade replied. “No more experiments.”

  “Outcome?”

  “She passed with flying colors,” Cade replied.

  Then as expected, Duncan quipped, “That’s not all that was flying.”

  With the older man’s cackle filling the Mack’s cab, Cade took a breath and began to steel himself for what lay on the other side of the rise.

  Chapter 33

  Thankful for the full-face helmet, Gregory swiped the visor clean of snow and then nosed the sled off the fire lane and parked it under the low-hanging branches of a massive fir. He killed the engine, dismounted, and then shed his rifle, backpack, and helmet.

  He sat with his back to the snow machine’s paddle-shaped tread and ate a snack of venison jerky and dried berries given to him by Helen three days ago. After poring over the map again, he decided he was close enough to his imaginary X to strike out on foot.

  Before setting out on the solitary trek, he policed up a dozen flat rocks and erected them into a conical pile he heard was called a cairn. He threw a shudder as he remembered a horror flick called the Blair Witch Project. What a bitch it would be if he had to deal with more than just the walking dead during his hike. Always a little superstitious, he scanned his surroundings and conceded they were strikingly similar to the woods the students were traipsing around when they came upon the trail markers that turned out to be harbingers of the evil they’d soon face. He regarded his cairn and thought the only harbinger this represented was cold food coupled with a long night alone in the woods. However, superstition or no, he left the foot-high cairn standing so he could find the sled if his tracks became completely snow-filled.

  With vestiges of that jittery, fright-filled, docu-style movie running through his head, he pulled a green stocking cap on, hoisted the heavy pack up, and slipped his arms through the padded straps. He shouldered his rifle, then adjusting everything for the slog ahead, tightened straps and made sure the Glock semi-auto pistol was snugged securely in the drop-thigh holster on his leg. A cursory check told him that his boot prints and trio of tracks made by the sled were the only things pointing to his being here. And judging by the dark clouds slowly edging out the watery sun, that evidence was sure to be erased before long.

  ***

  During this, her third trip upstairs in an hour, Helen saw something she couldn’t write off as a figment of her imagination. It was a flare of light right in the center of Ray’s brambles. It blossomed briefly like a struck match then was gone. As far as she knew, rocks didn’t smoke.

  “Ray … someone’s smoking in your brambles.”

  “Are you sure, Helen?” he asked in a skeptic’s voice. He put down the oiled rag. Set the AR-15 parts aside still disassembled and pushed away from the table. “Keep an eye out. I want to check the front property and the road before we do anything.”

  “I don’t want you to go it alone, Ray.”

  “It’ll be fine, dear,” he called over his shoulder. He donned a coat and buttoned it up. Forgoing the shotgun, he grabbed a carbine off the hook by the door, snatched up his walking cane and left the house without another word.

  He drove down to the State Route, the old Chevy pickup, carried by gravity, slipping, sliding, and steering itself as the snow-filled ruts grabbed the tires in their muddy embrace.

  After making it the half-mile to the two-lane and adding only a few minor scrapes to the already fingernail-raked powder blue paint, Ray left ‘Ol Blue running and, with his wooden and brass cane in one hand, stepped onto the firm level ground and slammed the door shut behind him. Looking left, he saw nothing but a white ribbon of road curling and rising south. To his right, he counted roughly a dozen bodies languishing in the right lane. A small amount of snow had collected in the creases of the dead’s clothing. Their eye sockets and open mouths had accepted all the snow they could, leaving the pallid upturned faces looking like plaster of Paris death masks. Nearby and nearly covered over were two pairs of tire tracks, the ones running off to the north barely discernable. However, an identical pair following the road up and over the rise south looked fairly fresh.

  With the ornate duck head cane poking neat little holes in the snow, Ray approached the tangle of death and saw that some of the corpses were cleaved in half while others had merely been decapitated. He approached a pair of severed heads. Strangely, like they had been arranged and left in view as a kind of warning, both rested with an ear to the ground, one peering east and the other west.

  The sword came out of its oak scabbard with a snik and Ray used its needle-sharp tip to make certain the severed heads wouldn’t become deadly Omega-carrying land mines once the thaw happened. There was a soft squelch and a grating sound of metal on bone as he ran the thin blade through each one, sticking it all the way into each upturned ear until he felt the point meet the unforgiving road. He left them as he found them, silent sentinels keeping watch for all eternity—or at least, he thought with a sad chuckle—until a passing vehicle pasted them to a slushy pulp.

  He cleaned his blade by sticking the tip into the firm soil just beyond the shoulder. Then he sheathed the sword and, relying on it for balance, walked back to his truck with two of his questions answered. Based on the fair amount of snow drifted against the bodies, he concluded the monsters on the road were culled by Dregan prior to his unannounced and wholly unnecessary welfare check.

  Before turning back to the idling truck, Ray inspected the tracks. The fact that the ones heading south towards Bear River held less snow than their identical northbound counterparts told him that Dregan was most likely back home and enduring the end to another day with no kind of closure.

  He’d be back, of that Ray was certain. And he and Helen would remain neutral, of that Ray was unwavering.

  So that left the identity of the watcher in the field the only unanswered question of the day. And if Helen had her way—as she usually did—Ray figured that by hook or by crook they’d be making the fella or gal’s acquaintance before long and entirely on their own terms.

  Chapter 34

  As the Mack’s transmission geared down for what seemed to Cade like the fifth time in as many yards, the extra weight in the box and angle of attack caused the plow blade to momentarily lift off the road. At the apex of the hill and finally free of gravity’s strong embrace, he pulled the rig close to the right guardrail and engaged the air brakes. With the rattle clatter of the diesel serenading him, he looked out over downtown Huntsville and saw a scene that instantly reminded him of pictures he had seen in history books of cities firebombed in World War II. Albeit on a smaller scale, he conceded, much like Dresden or Tokyo or Nagasaki, very little in Huntsville was left standing. Down near the water, in the abbreviated business core, was an L-shaped building constructed with what from a distance looked like cement block. The yellow exterior was tinged black, yet the windows and steel roof were intact. Somehow it had escaped the conflagration that had engulfed most of the one- and two-story buildings for blocks around.

  East of downtown, on a sparsely vegetated hill, a trio of grand houses—Painted Ladies was what he thought they called them in San Francisco—still stood defiantly. Untouched by fire and facing west, the windows fronting the two-story homes reflected the shimmering pewter waters of the Pineview Reservoir and the snow-covered Wasatch Range off to the west.

  Taryn’s voice came over the radio. “Should I shut it down here to save fuel?” she asked.

  Not wanting to rely too much on the two-way radios in case someone was listening in, Cade rolled down his window and waved her forward. Once she had pulled up alongside, he met her eyes, wagged his head slowly side-to-side and mouthed, “We’re not stopping here.” He turned away and, as he did, heard brakes engaging and motor noise but focused his attention solely on the town itself. Because, from the moment he’d swept his gaze northwest, he was struck with a familiar and unshakable sensation, a cold chill that was spreading its tendrils from the pit of his stomach to the base of his neck. Other run
ners were caressing his rib cage and sending gooseflesh rippling back and forth there. And in that moment he’d never been more certain in his life that he was the watched, not the watcher. He ripped the binoculars from off the seat next to him then quickly scanned the town left-to-right starting with a trio of sailboats wallowing on the reservoir’s choppy surface, moving over the bare concrete pads and skeletal remains of downtown before finally settling the Steiners on the houses on the hill.

  Cade’s swift recon produced nothing. Not a glint of sky off of glass—the telltale sign of optics being trained on the multi-vehicle spectacle clogging the road in plain sight. With his Spidey sense now tingling worse than ever, he set the brake, climbed down from the truck, and hustled back to the Land Cruiser in a combat crouch. Catching Duncan’s eye, he said, “We’re being watched.”

  Duncan answered immediately. “I feel it too.”

  “Time to go,” Cade said.

  On the way back to his ride, Cade stopped at each plow truck and—to a pair of confused looks—told Taryn and Lev to raise and retract the blades on their trucks.

  Shaking his head, he loped around front of Taryn’s truck and hopped in his. He clicked his seatbelt and worked the plow controls before him and, eavesdroppers be damned, with the hiss of hard-working hydraulics filtering into the cab, took up the radio and talked the others through the process.

  In the third plow truck, Lev was listening intently and without a hitch managed to get the plow apparatus to fold up and out of the way.

  Taryn, on the other hand, demanded to know why they couldn’t just stop at the bottom and take the time now to dismantle the roadblock entirely.

  “Just trust me,” Cade said, as he put the blade on his own truck back into the lowered position.

  After a short pause, Taryn was back on the radio. “You haven’t failed us yet,” she said. “Lead the way.”

  Realizing how big and tempting a target they were for whoever was watching them, Cade released the brake and goosed the throttle to get the truck rolling forward. Then, on the start of the downslope, as the truck picked up speed, he eased up off the gas and let it coast. Steering one-handed, he snatched up the radio and thumbed the Talk button. “Keep a generous following distance,” was all he had to offer. He couldn’t say: These trucks might be too wide for the gap. That would be wholly counterproductive.

  Duncan came back on the radio. As if he’d been reading Cade’s mind, with a touch of skepticism evident in his voice, he asked, “You sure these things are gonna fit?”

  Trying to sound confident, Cade answered, “Brooke drove the F-650 through there on the way to the compound. I figure these can’t be that much wider.”

  “If they prove to be,” said Duncan, “y’all will soon find out … the hard way.” For a brief second before he released the Talk key, the beginnings of one of his trademark cackles filtered over the air for all to hear.

  Shaking his head, Cade set the radio in the console. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, squinted against the glare, and fixed his gaze on the National Guard roadblock dead ahead. It had been set up on the west end of a viaduct crossing, and Cade figured that the ink on the President’s declaration of Martial Law wasn’t even dry before the soldiers who died here had come under attack. Just a few short weeks ago, while traveling overland from Mack, Colorado to the Eden Compound, he, Brooke, Raven, and the Kids had happened upon this scene of carnage. Using the F-650’s winch, and with Wilson’s help and Brook driving, they had managed to clear a lane, but not before discovering the bodies of the dozen soldiers who had died there protecting it. At the time, without stating his intentions, Cade struck out on his own and with only a couple of cans of gas and a Bic lighter gave the fallen heroes a modified Viking’s funeral.

  Thankfully, due to the cement Jersey barriers and coverage of drifted snow, things were different this time around and he wouldn’t have to look at the burnt and bullet-riddled bodies again. Nosed into the Jersey barriers in the eastbound lane was a long line of cars whose owners had failed to escape the horrors of Huntsville. Since morning, an inches-thick layer of snow had accumulated on their trunks, roofs, hoods and, to a certain extent, their side windows—obscuring the handful of Zs still locked inside.

  The right lane, however, was a different story altogether. The cement barriers that had been blocking the westbound lane and shoulder were now resting in the ditch along with several cars, the latter of which were snow-covered and canted at odd angles, some listing to the point where their driver’s sides were planted in the dirt, leaving the grime- and grease-streaked mechanical components exposed to daylight.

  Just before the hill flattened out, and with only a couple of hundred yards or so to go before entering the narrow breach between the barriers and bridge rail, Cade flicked his eyes to the side mirror. He liked what he saw. He had a three-truck’s-length lead and the other two plow trucks were a like distance apart. The 4Runner was partway down the hill and the Land Cruiser was just now moving off the flat spot atop the rise.

  Here goes nothing, he thought, toggling his blade up and out of the way while simultaneously increasing the volume of rock falling through the spreader out back.

  All at once, the blade up front juddered violently and there was a hollow twang, followed a tick later by the shrill keening of metal molecules being instantly reshaped.

  ***

  In the 4Runner, Wilson was gripping the grab bar near his head with one hand and had the other, fingers splayed, planted on the dash right next to where the words SR5 AIR BAG were embossed in quarter-inch script into the pebbled gray vinyl. Praying that Jamie was half the driver Taryn was, he saw the horizon tilt in his side vision. As the two trucks in front tackled the decline, everything seemed to slow for him. He saw clearly the load shift in back of Cade’s truck as it entered the level stretch of road running up to the roadblock. Then he noticed the massive plow blade lifting off the ground and simultaneously merging with the apparatus up front.

  “Cade’s big ass F-650 barely shot that gap before,” Wilson said. “I don’t think this one stands a chance.”

  Like a square peg fed into a round hole, Cade’s plow truck, bouncing and slewing slightly to the left on the slick surface, entered the gap traveling at what looked to be north of forty miles-per-hour. Feeling slightly prophetic, Wilson witnessed the shower of sparks erupt from down low on the truck’s left side the second the orange sheet metal came into contact with the thirty-five-hundred-pound Jersey barrier. Consequently, the equal and opposite reaction came in the form of the Mack truck caroming towards the right shoulder, where the truck impacted an incredibly small two-door car. Originally resting with its stunted front end jutting from the roadside ditch, the collision with the plow truck blasted every flake of snow off the compact car and sent it tumbling nose over tail. Wilson saw the running gear underneath show itself first; then, as the car neared one full revolution, clear as day, he saw the red and blue interconnecting bars of the Union Jack flag painted on its roof. Then the sound of the car—clearly a Mini Cooper—landing wheels down atop the sedan behind it was lost on Wilson; however, the resulting eruption of pebbled glass and powdery snow was not.

  As the Mini settled into its final resting place, the UDOT truck veered back to the left at a shallow angle toward the static line of vehicles.

  ***

  Taryn winced at the first sign of sparks, but there was nothing she could do. Already committed, she held the wheel straight and felt the air suspension swallow up the dip at the base of the hill. She looked at the speedometer and saw the needle creeping toward forty miles-per-hour. When she looked up again there was a flash of color and movement and an eruption of sparkling debris as a compact import went airborne then landed smack dab atop a much larger passenger car, causing every one of its windows to implode. The finale to the unexpected chain of events happened as she watched the truck driven by Cade veer back to the left and sideswipe the dozen or so static cars there. Consequently, like old-timey flash bul
bs going off one after another, splintered plastic and shards of mirrored glass bloomed from every wing mirror down the line until the UDOT truck was rolling free.

  “That should do it,” Cade said glibly over the radio.

  Taryn tensed as the blade on her truck came parallel with the Jersey barrier. To her relief, there were no sparks or sounds of rending metal as she saw it flit cleanly by on the left. The side mirrors on the row of cars that weren’t sheared clean were now swinging wildly from their control wires. On her right, she saw the cars in the ditch flash by in a blur of white and red and black and maroon. She didn’t allow herself to relax until her truck was clear of the roadblock and she saw the brake lights of Cade’s truck flare red.

  ***

  Immediately following the chain-reaction collisions with the line of cars, Cade watched a dozen prostrate Zs disappear under the vibrating blade. Next, the truck bucked slightly, and then a prolonged chorus of breaking bones assailed his ears until the rig literally ground to a halt atop the mangled bodies. He consulted the side mirror and saw that all of the vehicles were off the hill and three of the four had made it through the block. The Land Cruiser was just entering the widened opening and he caught a brief glimpse of the dead soldiers, the snow blown off of them by the passing slipstreams, their charred prostrate forms standing out in stark contrast against the white backdrop.

  He sensed the truck driven by Taryn as it pulled even. Ignoring the movement in his peripheral, he manipulated the controls to get the blade moving. There was a hiss of hydraulics, but nothing else. He toggled the switch rapidly back and forth.

  Nothing.

  Then there was a loud banging followed by a high-pitched whine, and at the end of the sloped hood he saw the blade moving into position. When he looked left, he saw Taryn standing there, beaming at him, an eight-pound sledgehammer clutched in her gloved hands.