Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed

by Chesser, Shawn

  “You OK?” Cade asked.

  Holding a finger up, Duncan nodded and gulped air.

  Taking the gesture to mean the older man needed a short breather, Cade rose and went through the swinging gate the way they’d come in. He scurried back and forth, inspecting a few of the corpses on the flat part of the drive near the garage and learned that they had already been granted a second death, their primitive brains scrambled by something long, thin, and sharp inserted into either an eye socket or temple.

  Cade padded back through the gate and crouched next to Duncan. “The Zs on the driveway were all done just like the others,” he whispered. “Whoever’s claimed Glenda’s place as their own has been cleaning up the hood.”

  “I seem to have missed the neighborhood watch sign,” Duncan quipped.

  ***

  Through the Leupold scope riding atop his M4, at the exact moment the sun had lit up the entire veranda and most of the elongated room behind it, Lev got a quick snapshot-in-time look at the shooter. Standing with his back wedged into a corner that a second prior had been fully ensconced in shadow, the man had been aiming some kind of a scoped rifle in his general direction. Whether the man had been able to see him through the 4Runner’s smoked glass was unknown. And strangely enough, though the shooter had the high ground, which was a serious advantage in most battlefield scenarios, the look of indecision and fear etched on his youthful and clean-shaven face was anything but that of someone determined to make a stand.

  Half a heartbeat from acting against Cade’s wishes, and just when the sun slipped away and shadow again embraced the man two blocks distant, Lev listened to the gut that had saved his ass many times in the Sandbox and eased up on the trigger. Instead of putting a bullet into the gloomy corner in hopes of shattering the man’s sternum and calling it a day, he swung his rifle to the right and watched Cade and Duncan scurrying up the snowy drive. Multitasking, he kept tracking his friends through the scope as they neared the garage and, once they disappeared around the corner behind the first house, he asked Wilson to get them on the two-way.

  Chapter 52

  Still crouched beside Duncan, Cade felt the radio vibrating against his thigh and fished it out with two fingers. He held it up equidistant between him and Duncan, its volume turned to a whisper, and together they listened to Wilson dictating a situation report via Lev.

  When Wilson was finished, Cade turned the volume all the way down and, obviously contemplating something, looked left and walked his eyes up the steps, finally settling his gaze on the wooden four-panel door looming over them.

  “Kind of figured there was maybe two at the most holed up in there,” he said. “Based on what Lev saw and given that the potshots being lobbed our way were few and far between ... I’d be willing to bet we got ourselves a lone shooter. A novice shooter at that.”

  “And dollars to doughnuts,” Duncan added, “that good ole boy is hoping to keep us at arm’s reach until full dark. Then he’s gonna squirt out the back and make a run for it.”

  Cade nodded, then, thinking out loud, said, “If we wait for him to make the next move, chances are he’ll have already worked his courage up and then he’ll no doubt be operating on a hair trigger and shooting to kill.”

  Duncan nodded.

  “Right now,” Cade said, “he has no idea he’s been flanked. That makes me think he’s probably just a Joe Citizen who scooped his rifle up at a roadblock.”

  Duncan said nothing.

  Cade said, “Lev’s convinced that our shooter’s got some kind of a high-powered sniper rifle. It’s not far out of the realm to think that he also has a pair of NVGs. That would really put us at a disadvantage if we wait until full dark.”

  “Let’s take the house,” Duncan said forcefully, his respiration now slow and steady.

  Cade nodded. “Wait here.” He scaled the four steps. Opened the screen door a few inches and tapped on the weathered door. A minute crawled by and nothing went bump inside, so Cade tried the knob and found it locked. He fished the lock gun from a pocket and had the deadbolt defeated with the sophisticated lock pick tool in seconds. Carbine leading the way, he entered through a mudroom of sorts. There were coats and galoshes and a multitude of cobwebs with a mosaic of bug husks trapped in the wispy strands. Ignoring everything save for any out-of-place noises, he traversed the kitchen and padded through the entire downstairs, memorizing the layout. Judging by the fact that two of the three houses, save for minor changes in the architectural detail—different dentil moldings and florets and such—looked to be identical in build on the outside, Cade figured their floor plans, though likely flipped for sake of avoiding monotony, would be strikingly similar in layout and room dimension. However, what he really wanted to know was where the stairs were in relation to the front and back doors.

  All total, Cade burned ninety seconds between breaking in and his return to the back stoop. During that minute and a half, he came across nothing living, dead, or undead while inside.

  Face screwed up in concentration, Cade said, “The stairs are sandwiched between the kitchen and dining room and are about twenty feet in from either door ... front or back.”

  “Makes sense. The same fella probably built all three of these Easter-egg-looking things.”

  “Copy that,” Cade said. “That’s what I’m banking on.”

  After drawing up a plan and hashing out all the ways it could go wrong—of which there were many—Cade was on the move north, through the expansive backyard to the waist-high picket fence bordering Glenda’s place. The fence was easy enough to surmount, and once both men were on the other side they took refuge with the car in the garage, where they could observe both the south-facing side and rear of the towering home.

  Leaning against the low-slung sports car, Cade scrutinized the house. The small window set high off the ground on the south side closest to them had its horizontal blinds parked at half-mast, while, as expected, the windows closer to the ground were all boarded over. The drapes in the upstairs windows were pulled tight save for the ones looking out on the backyard and garage. The smaller of the three, presumably inset in the bathroom wall, was darkened and looked to be shuttered from the inside. Near the corner closest to them, underneath a small overhang held up by wrought iron columns, was the newly reinforced back door. It was shored up with squares of plywood and, as if it had withstood a lengthy siege of hungry Zs, smeared bloody handprints marred every inch of its undulating surface.

  ***

  Moving with the urgency of a tree sloth, Daymon had wormed his way in reverse along the gutter, with the charred car offering him minimal cover. The rough stone curb grated against his left side the entire way until he cleared the front tire and rolled to his right, putting the vehicle and stacked corpses between him and whomever was shooting at them. He locked eyes with Taryn, who had also crawled to cover from the opposite direction and was pressed flat next to the corpses, her head resting on the metal bumper just below the gaping opening where the car’s plastic grill used to reside.

  Seeing Lev looking his way and motioning with an open palm to the ground—universal semaphore for keep your head down—Daymon tore off his hat and erupted in anger. He was claustrophobic by nature, and though he wasn’t underground or trapped within the fenced perimeter of a sprawling Air Force base, being pinned down by the shooter was no different. His freedom had been stolen and he was pissed.

  The diatribe that spewed from Daymon’s mouth was filled with epithets and death threats, all directed at the shooter. With cheeks gone redder than Wilson’s, and the short wiry ends of his dreadlocks whipping wildly, he continued hollering at the top of his voice until the bullet zinging off an abandoned compact a stone’s throw up the side street silenced him.

  After the report dissipated and all Daymon could hear was his own heartbeat, he called out to Lev, “Cover us,” while making his intention known by walking two fingers in the snow in the direction of the 4Runner.

  Lev shook his head side-to-sid
e. He whispered across the divide, “Not part of the plan. Keep your head down.”

  Still crouched by the 4Runner’s bumper, Wilson mouthed, “I love you,” to Taryn, who simply shook her head and pointed uphill as if saying pay attention.

  Again Daymon called out across the open space. “I know you don’t give a shit if I get my ass shot off, but”—he was jabbing a finger at Jamie—“don’t you want your lady here over there with you?”

  Glancing over, Lev said, “She can take care of herself. And regardless of what happened between us earlier … I do give a shit about you. But right now, I need you to quit distracting me.” He turned back toward the house and shouldered the scoped carbine.

  Wilson had been shifting his gaze between Taryn and Jamie, but after the verbal sparring he glared at Daymon, who was silent for the moment, though his face was still wildly contorted. A few seconds went by and strangely enough the shooter took a page from Daymon’s book.

  Chapter 53

  The second serving of sausage and hash lasted a little longer than the first, and Cleo was finishing his second snifter of brandy and completely sated and a little fuzzy of head when Helen began asking him questions. She poured him another two fingers of the amber liquor, set the bottle down close to their guest, and looked across the table at Ray. “Now I realize Alexander was going to call Cleo any minute, but I just couldn’t see letting him sit out there any longer.”

  “There’s not a single bone in my body that cares if that boy goes back out there in the cold or not,” Ray said, laying the bad cop on real heavy. “Furthermore”—he dropped his fork on his plate, rose from his chair and shot a serious look at Cleo—“I don’t care if Dregan offered this man free propane all winter, every winter, for life—from where I come from—neighbors do not spy on neighbors.”

  “Give him a break,” Helen said. “Alexander Dregan is a convincing fellow.” She refilled Cleo’s snifter. “The poor boy was nearly freezing to death as it was.”

  Ray harumphed loudly. “I’m going to bed,” he said, pushing his chair against the table. Muttering under his breath, he shuffled towards the stairs, leaving Helen and Cleo and the brandy alone in the dining room. Halfway up the stairs he heard Helen’s voice. So he paused on the stairs just in time to hear the good cop say: “So what is our Ukrainian American neighbor to the south up to anyway?”

  ***

  In his new hide overlooking State Route 39, Gregory Dregan was sweating under a pair of long johns, two fleece layers, and the Arc’teryx jacket and snow pants worth more than two weeks’ pay in the old world. Having set up the three-man four-season Vaude backpacking tent without an undue amount of cursing or breaking a pole or having a zipper malfunction, he was busy unrolling his sleeping bag when a mournful baying rolled up from the deep woods across the road. The hunt ensued for a couple of minutes, and by the time the rowdy pack had moved off to the east, his heart rate was back to normal and the little hide was all set up. Tent, check. Thermarest pad, check. Sleeping bag, check. All that’s missing, he thought ruefully, is a roaring fire and a warm lady. Sadly enough, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be with the latter. Truth be told, though he was loathe to admit it, he hadn’t so much as held hands with, let alone bedded a woman, since before the fall. That silly little thing known as survival coupled with his strict moral upbringing had seen to that.

  He tugged the handheld radio from his inside pocket. Powered it on and switched the channel to match Cleo’s. He thumbed the Talk button. “In place,” he said. Just the two words. No greeting or other formalities. This was strictly business, so none were necessary.

  After hearing the soft click meaning message received, he selected the previous channel and hailed his dad. A few seconds of dead air ensued and then the elder Dregan answered. “Dregan here.”

  “I’m in place,” Gregory said. He released the Talk button to a burst of squelch, probably caused by the double canopy tree cover.

  “Have you seen anyone since the shooting?”

  “Not a soul. Heard some coyotes, though.”

  “Watch your back, son,” Dregan said. “Call me if anything changes. Out.”

  “Good night, Dad.” Gregory left the unit on, with the volume turned low. He had more batteries. Besides, the white noise made him feel less alone.

  Huntsville

  “What the hell was that?” Cade exclaimed, shooting an incredulous stare at Duncan.

  “Sounded to me like our friend Daymon just lost his temper and done went and got himself shot.”

  Cade shook his head. “There was no return fire from our side. I explicitly told Lev to let loose if any of our own started taking direct fire.”

  The two-way vibrated. “Scratch one Honda passenger side door,” Wilson said. “Hurry the hell up and do whatever you’re going to do. We’re effin freezing down here.”

  “What’s up with Daymon?” Cade asked.

  “Oh, Daymon. He’s on the verge of going postal. You know how he gets when he’s feeling trapped.”

  “Do I ever,” Cade answered back. He released the Talk button to consult his Suunto. Twenty-five to eight. The sky was darkening by the minute, and if the previous night between sunset and moonrise was any kind of barometer, this one, considering the layer of thick black clouds riding high in the sky, should prove to be just as inky black, if not darker—if that was at all possible. He flashed Duncan a tight smile.

  Duncan shrugged, brows creasing.

  Still holding down the radio’s Talk button, Cade said, “Piss him off a little, would you?”

  “What do you mean?” shot Wilson.

  “Just get him cussing like that again. Have Lev return any fire ... same as before. High and non-lethal. Six rounds only. Two seconds between each.”

  “Lev’s listening in,” Wilson said. “He just flashed me … er, I mean, you, a thumbs-up.”

  Cade took the lock gun from a pocket. Letting his carbine dangle from its center-point sling, he scaled the back steps one at a time. He felt a tug on his jacket sleeve. Craning around, he saw Duncan point at his shotgun, then at the door.

  Cade shook his head. Put a vertical finger to his lips. “Quiet,” he said. “We use Daymon as the diversion and if need be, nonlethal means once we’re inside.”

  “Why?” Duncan whispered.

  “You’ll see,” Cade replied. He went to work on the doorknob and had the inset lock defeated in seconds. The newly installed deadbolt a few inches above the knob was another story altogether. It was a real heavy-duty item, like it had come off of a door serving one of the businesses in the town below. Gun sticking into the lock’s guts, he paused until the dreadlocked former firefighter with the vocabulary of a pissed-off Marine started braying about something or other. The words, though unintelligible, were dripping with venom and spoken at full volume. Hearing the distraction ensue, Cade bit his lip and manipulated the pick deep into the lock’s inner workings. A tick after the cursing began, the lock clicked open with a fairly audible report. “We’re moving on the house now via the back door,” Cade said into the Motorola even as he was stowing the pick tool and leaning a muscled shoulder into said door.

  Someone had oiled the hinges recently, so it started the journey inward silently. However, something with substantial weight to it was hanging off the opposite side of the door and bumped and clanked against the lower panel.

  Cade held his breath and listened hard while the noise subsided. Nothing. Nobody was shooting or moving around upstairs—yet.

  “Let’s go,” Duncan said, his voice suddenly gone hoarse.

  After determining that there was nothing dead awaiting them and that the item hanging off the inside of the door was just an overstuffed daypack in desert tan—probably the shooter’s go-bag—Cade was on the move. The stench of standing water in the sink hit his nose as he passed it. Three strides later, he was at the west end of the kitchen, a mountain of dirty dishes and empty tin cans behind him.

  Shaking his head at the poor display
of sanitation, Duncan closed the door and then maintained a yard’s separation between him and Cade, the stubby pump gun held at a low ready, its gaping muzzle pointed at the floor a foot-and-a-half in front of his boots.

  Cade held his hand up, fingers curled into a fist, and took a knee by the stairway leading up and away off his right shoulder.

  The gunfire resumed from upstairs. Like before, the pattern was the same, two quick shots followed by a pause of three or four seconds. Only this time, between the first and second volley, three things were added to the mix. There was the tinkling of shell casings bouncing off of the broken glass from the shot-out dormer windows. There was also a harsh crunching and grating sound of glass being ground into the veranda floor, presumably under the solo shooter’s feet. Lastly, there was another volley of curse words, only this time clear as day and filtering down from upstairs. He heard only one man’s voice. And that man was pissed off that the dumbasses wouldn’t just leave him alone. “Pick another town,” he said loud enough to be heard throughout the house and most assuredly blocks away.

  Suddenly silencing the man, bullets were incoming. The first smacked glass in a window somewhere.

  Cade counted in his head.

  One-one-thousand.

  He said to Duncan: “Stay here.” Which Duncan correctly took to mean watch our six.

  Two-one-thousand.

  He started up the wood stairs, knees bent to keep his center of gravity low, while being careful to step only where he figured the treads were nailed to the stringer below. Less chance of a groan or squeak giving him away. By the time he was four steps committed, any noise rising from the stairwell didn’t matter, because the man half a house length west of where Cade was had stopped cursing and instead was letting his carbine do the talking for him.

  Not one to let a golden opportunity slip away, Cade pulled an olive drab metal cylinder from his parka pocket. Eschewing Hollywood’s glamorized way of pulling the pin, he spared his teeth and wiggled it free the old-fashioned way—with his thumb and forefinger. The spoon flew one direction and, like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar delivered his famous skyhook, Cade lobbed the grenade over the railing, ducked and covered.