Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed

by Chesser, Shawn

  Seeing this, and knowing all it took from a grenade going off to ruin one’s day was the tiniest bit of shrapnel, Duncan followed suit. However, as time slowed and he was privy to a preview of his own mortality, he shot a quick glance at Cade turning toward him and read the former Delta operator’s lips: Flashbang away. Never before had those two words put him so at ease. Moving with a speed he didn’t think was in him, Duncan set the pump gun on the floor and simultaneously squeezed his eyes shut to preserve night vision, opened his mouth wide, and clamped both hands over his ears. Last thing he wanted to be doing after the thing detonated was charging up the stairs, momentarily blinded, and sporting a hangover-like concussion.

  The one-pound device hit the upstairs floor with a solid kerchunk, followed a half-beat later by a whoompf!

  Like a freight train was passing outside, the windows in the three dormers rattled in their tracks, a seconds-long symphony of shaking glass and counterbalancing sash weights banging around inside their pockets.

  The gunfire ceased in accordance with the breath-robbing concussion. With the acrid reek of accelerant hitting his noise, Cade keyed the radio and hissed, “Cease fire.” In one fluid movement, he mounted the final three stairs, leaned forward, and was aiming around the bannister, his right elbow braced on the dusty wood floor. “Freeze,” he bellowed. “Drop your weapon.”

  Because of a large queen-sized bed taking up the center of what he guessed to be the master suite, all Cade could see of the man was his profile from the waist up. He had his hands in the air and a stocking cap on his head. It was loose and drooping to one side, the fuzzy ball on top bringing it down to ear level. Judging by the way the man’s stomach was rounded out and wavy in places, Cade guessed either he was in dire need of an abs workout regimen or was wearing one of those overly stuffed down vests. Considering the temperature inside the house was hovering somewhere in the mid to high thirties, if he had to wager on one or the other, he’d put his money on the latter.

  There was a clatter of metal on wood. About seven pounds louder than the noise the tossed flashbang made when it hit the floor. Thankfully, this familiar sound didn’t precede a bright flash and jarring explosion.

  “Don’t shoot me,” the man hollered, his voice no doubt elevated on account of the sonic assault on his eardrums. “Ju-ju-just take all my stuff.” He buried his face in his hands and a loudly mumbled, “Please don’t ... shoot ... me,” escaped through his fingers.

  The man was of average height and weight. Cade figured he had about twenty pounds on the guy. The man’s face was narrow and freshly shaved, and with the way it was framed between the low-riding hat and turned-up collar of his vest, guessing his age was a matter in futility.

  Despite further aggravating his ankle from rocketing up the final handful of stairs, the instant the man’s rifle had clattered to the floor, Cade was up and rushing forward, the bed between him and the man, bellowing “Hands up!” with the M4 trained on the stammering man’s sternum.

  Chapter 54

  By the time Duncan had finished scaling the stairs, he saw only the smartly made-up bed and the upper third of Cade’s body rising up behind it. The younger man’s jaw was set in deep concentration, the rifle hung from its sling, and his hands were out of sight, busy zipping ties on the shooter’s wrists, Duncan presumed. Shotgun shouldered and trained on the shooter’s legs, he stepped over the spent flashbang cylinder, a gossamer thin wisp of smoke still curling out of one end, and cut past the foot of the bed. Seeing Cade’s knee still planted in the cuffed shooter’s back, he slung the pump gun and hustled forward to help.

  “His weapon is out on the veranda,” Cade said, nodding to his left. Then he rifled through the man’s vest pockets, finding a couple of half-eaten sticks of jerky, a half-dozen granola bars, and a fistful of loose cartridges for the rifle. The man was wearing a pair of catcher’s combination-shin-and-knee-guards over cold weather snow pants. Cade unsnapped the gear and resumed frisking the man, working both hands down his legs, one at a time, then proceeded up under his arms before rolling him over and helping him to sit.

  On the porch, in a corner, was the rest of the man’s catcher’s gear. Duncan saw a helmet and chest protector that went with the leg protection. There were some arm pieces, flexible at the elbows, that looked like they belonged to a correctional facility’s Cell Extraction Team. All of the black gear looked to have been heavily modified. Rattle-can painted a flat black and duct taped lengthwise on the shin and forearm pieces were thin runners of reinforcing steel. And no doubt to keep the swivels and clasps from squeaking when he moved, all of the moving parts were wrapped with black electrician’s tape. Cade called an all clear over the radio and stepped back into the bedroom.

  “Puts my magazine armor to shame,” he said to Duncan, casting his gaze about the room. Unfurled on the floor and sitting atop a thin inflatable mattress was an extreme temperature sleeping bag. Propped against the wall next to the bag was a well-used internal frame REI pack in dark green. It had bulging pockets on all sides and more black tape had been utilized here.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the man craned his head around. His eyes met Cade’s at a crazy angle. “I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody,” he said in a near whisper.

  Still holding the man down with a hand on one shoulder, Cade said, matter-of-factly, “I know. But you were shooting at us all the same.”

  “Tell me about the gear,” Duncan said. “You planning on going as Johnny Bench for Halloween?”

  “That gear has saved my ass more times than I can count.”

  “So you just walk around like one of them ... all stiff and clumsy?” Duncan asked, his eyes wandering to a host of framed pictures arranged atop the vanity near the stairs.

  “I only move at night. I have a pair of night vision goggles that tend to keep unwanted encounters few and far between. And I’m not real proud of this ... but I’ve taken to wearing coveralls over my armor. I smear them with innards and such and when I get to where I’m going I toss them. I’ve got a couple of spare sets in my pack.”

  “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Duncan said under his breath.

  “Huh?” the man said.

  “Never mind,” Duncan said, a sad chuckle riding the tails of his reply.

  “Help me with him,” Cade said. Grimacing, he pushed off of the prisoner, stood up, and grabbed hold of the man’s left elbow. Following Cade’s lead, Duncan grabbed a handful of the fluffy vest and together they helped the man to his feet.

  “Over here,” Cade said, leading him by the elbow towards the bed.

  “Not there,” said the man, his voice wavering. Then, in a panicked state, he twisted his torso away from the bed in an attempt to avoid even the slightest contact.

  “Stand down,” Cade said, letting go of the man’s vest. “We just want to talk to you.”

  The words were lost on the man as he continued twisting his body so that he fell hard to the floor instead of atop the queen-sized bed.

  Duncan crouched down next to the man. Looked into his red-rimmed hazel eyes and, judging from the gathered folds and crow’s feet there, got the impression that the guy was closer to forty than thirty. He stripped the man of his hat, releasing a tangle of curly brown hair shot through with gray that, along with the age lines, all but confirmed his earlier assumption. Signs of the times, thought Duncan, stroking his own silver goatee. “I know why you don’t want to sit on the bed. And I can’t say that I blame ya.”

  The man nodded, then seemed to relax a bit.

  “We saw the grave out back,” Duncan said. “Quite a mound of dirt ya dug up.” He pulled out his folding knife. Thumbed the blade loose from the handle and flicked it open with a practiced snap of the wrist.

  Watching from near the head of the bed, Cade saw the man’s narrow-set eyes go wide, making him resemble a character in one of those British clay animation shows Raven used to like to watch. For some reason the names Wallace and Gromit immediately popped into his head.
Strange how inconsequential minutiae liked to resurface at the oddest of times, he thought, pushing the memory to the corner of his mind where it belonged. “How long have you been home?” he asked the man.

  Though the man’s eyelids still seemed stretched to their anatomical limits, somehow, upon hearing Cade utter that one short sentence, more bloodshot whites of his eyes were revealed. “How did you know ...?” he asked, breathless.

  “Better call the others forward,” Duncan said to Cade. “I’ll handle this.” He cut the zip ties from the man’s wrists, folded the knife and put it away in its sheath on his belt. He sighed and turned to sit on the foot of the bed and suddenly the man was rushing at him.

  While he was busy on the two-way, out of the corner of one eye, Cade saw the flash of movement. Mid-sentence, he dropped the radio and, before it had covered the distance to the floor, was drawing the Glock from its drop-leg holster.

  Not expecting the suddenness of the younger man’s movement, Duncan tried to parry the perceived attack and instead fell sideways, arms flailing, and got a real close look and whiff of the soiled bedspread on his way to the floor. Falling face up and tensing in anticipation of the bone-jarring impact, he turned his head left and his gaze locked on the black suppressor, muzzle the size of a manhole cover, as it traced an arc across his breadbasket. And just when he expected the muffled reports and tinkling brass to reach his ears, strong hands grabbed his upper bicep and coat front and he experienced an unexpected and rapid deceleration as his body was let down slowly and without injury to the hardwood floor. As if in slow motion, Duncan looked away from Cade, who was lowering his weapon nearly as fast as he’d drawn it, then walked his gaze back across the ceiling and settled it on the younger man’s smiling face. What came next surprised him more than the abrupt hockey check. The man let go of his coat and arm and said: “I’m sorry, but I just reacted. That bed is soaked with God only knows what. Would’ve moved it out of here already if it wasn’t for the bend in the stairs.”

  Bewildered and wanting a drink now more than ever, Duncan rolled over to his stomach and, with the younger man’s help, got up on his aching knees and finally rose creakily to his feet.

  “Why the hell didn’t you just say so, Pete? I could’ve easily broken a hip there.”

  There was a slight tilt to the man’s head and now his face was a mask of confusion.

  “He’s Oliver,” Cade said. “Pete is the older of the two.”

  Duncan planted his hands on his hips and stared at the man Cade had just called Oliver. “Glenda said Oliver was thirty.”

  The air seemed to leave the room as the man drew in a deep breath and sat on the foot of the bed. He buried his face in his hands. “My mom isn’t dead?” he said, the words coming out muffled against his palms.

  Duncan looked to Cade while pointing at the man sitting on the end of the once forbidden bed. “How do you know who this man is?” he asked.

  Cade said nothing. He simply pointed at the framed photos arranged in a neat row and standing upright atop the vanity.

  The man on the bed was sobbing now, but instead of consoling him Duncan stalked over to the vanity. He looked closely at the different photos. One front and center clearly showed Glenda and a rail-thin man that had to be her husband Louie. In the photo they were dressed to the nines, he wearing a three-piece suit and her in a long flowing burgundy dress. Duncan had never met the man so there was no way for him to put his age into perspective with the here and now. Glenda, however, looked a hundred years younger than she did now. In the back row were a dozen framed pictures of younger kids, grandchildren, he presumed. There were a few more of Glenda and Louie in happier times and taken long ago—when black and white film was the norm.

  The photo in question was leaning up against the mirror. Duncan had no idea how Cade spotted it in the first place. Then again, there were a lot of things that man did that seemed utterly unconventional until all of the puzzle pieces fell together and the big old lightbulb illuminated the method to his madness for all to see.

  The 8x10 was in full color and in it were two men, one nearly a head taller than the other. The taller man was bald as a billiard ball, while the other was endowed with a full head of dark, curly hair and wore a bushy beard. And peering out from the locks hanging over his forehead were familiar hazel-green eyes. The eyes Oliver Gladson had inherited from Glenda Gladson thirty-plus years ago.

  Cade was on the veranda talking into the radio and out of earshot.

  Duncan turned away from the vanity. He parked his gaze on Oliver. “That fella out there yappin’ on the radio is Cade Grayson. He’s a hell of a good guy. Brash at times. But to know him is to love him.” Finally he offered his hand and introduced himself. Then, against his better judgment, he added, “I’m really sorry about your father. Glenda talks fondly about him, still.”

  Still, Oliver thought. Hit with the sudden realization of where he was sitting and that the body—his father’s corpse—that had soiled the bed was now buried under several feet of dirt out back, he rose from the bed and sat down heavily on the floor.

  “I get it now,” Duncan conceded. “Your mom told me what she did to make it out of here alive.” He paused for a moment. When he finally went on, Oliver was staring at him through eyes shot with red. “I’m so sorry you had to find your father that way.”

  Oliver nodded. He palmed the tears from his eyes and stared at the photos on the vanity. “She left me a note. It was in with the pictures. She waited for me or Pete to come home for as long as she could. And I did … a little bit late, though.” He smiled. It was pained, though not forced in any way. “Mom said she was going to Woodruff. As if there’s anything or anyone she knows in Woodruff. Sure wasn’t before the dead started walking.”

  “She never made it to Woodruff.”

  Oliver made a face.

  Feeling like an ass because of how he’d worded that last part, Duncan blurted, “No. It’s not what you think. She didn’t continue on to Woodruff. She’s safe, though. We have a compound east of here. We have solar power, water, food, and plenty of arms and ammo. Most importantly, Oliver ... your mom, she’s with good people.”

  Oliver’s entire body went slack like all of his bones had liquefied. He slumped back against the foot of the bed, gazing at the vaulted ceiling.

  The sound of engines roaring to life broke the stillness.

  Cade poked his head inside. “They’re coming up now. Wilson said Daymon’s real pissed. I’ll head him off at the pass for you.”

  Duncan grunted. “Me? It was your idea,” he mouthed. Shaking his head, he took a seat on the floor, knees popping as he did so. He handed the cap back to Oliver and looked him in the eye. “I can’t imagine what you went through to get here. If you want to talk about it ... I’m a good listener.”

  “Cannibals. Killers. And the dead,” Oliver said, still staring off into space. “But I’m still a good man.” He donned his cap as his lower lip began to quiver. “I never thought in a million years that I’d see any of my family alive again.”

  “You have Glenda back in your life now. Or you will soon. If you want to tag along with us, that is.”

  Oliver nodded. Eyes gone glassy, he cupped his chin with his palms and stared out the French doors toward the reservoir.

  Changing the subject, Duncan said, “You better let Cade zero that rifle of yours in.”

  “Oh, it’s zeroed,” Cade called from the veranda. “Come take a look.”

  After hauling his old bones off the hard floor, Duncan trudged out to the veranda. Without a word, he accepted Oliver’s rifle from Cade. Lev had been correct in his observation. It was an AR-style carbine with a heavy barrel and a massive scope that took up two-thirds of the top rail. Up front was a foldaway bipod and out back the cheek rest on the butt stock was adjustable in seemingly a dozen different directions. Duncan checked and found the rifle’s selector already set to Safe. He flicked the bipod legs down and snugged the stock to his shoulder. The view through th
e scope made it seem like he could touch whatever he trained it on. First off, he tracked down and left, settling his gaze on the two vehicles as they neared the corner a block south. The Land Cruiser was in the lead with Daymon behind the wheel and alone. Wilson was riding next to Taryn in the front of the 4Runner. There was movement in the gloomy back seat which Duncan presumed to be Lev and Jamie. Suddenly, brake lights flared red off the snow. Both rigs slowed through the left turn and the brake lights continued painting the street red as the SUVs crept through the maze of prone corpses.

  “Stop sign,” Cade said, pointing west.

  Duncan lowered the rifle and found the sign with his naked eye. He raised the rifle and looked through the scope. Everything in the foreground snapped into sharp detail. He tracked right and saw the red of the sign fill up the reticle and then the word STOP, big and blocky and white, was framed by the crosshairs.

  “Down,” Cade said.

  “Holy shit,” Duncan replied. Below the letter P was a smiley face. Not the perfectly round yellow thing made popular in the sixties. This one-dimensional face was rendered by bullets impacting the sign in a tight little grouping. Nine precisely punched-out holes made up the circle. There were two identical holes for eyes, closely spaced. Below was a tiny puckered dot representing a nose. The mouth was more of the same, three holes below the nose shot into the sign in a small upturned arc. Speaking to the power of the sniper rifle, they were all through and throughs. Fifteen total. And they stood out starkly on the sign’s darkened face thanks to the ambient light reflecting off the reservoir in the background.

  “Blue Ford compact. Half a block north of the sign. About your one o’clock,” Cade said, exhibiting all the emotion of a fast food worker sick of his job.