Dead America: The First Week Box Set Books 1-7 (Dead America Box Sets Book 2)

by Derek Slaton

  “We have a mission to accomplish, and you’re endangering it,” his second-in-command declared calmly. “Now sit down and calm yourself.”

  The cartel heir snarled. “Do you have any idea who you are talking to?”

  Rodriguez inclined his head towards the windows. “Someone who will learn to fly if they don’t learn how to take orders.”

  Angel drew his bottom lip between his teeth, fear rippling in his eyes. There was a tense moment before he clenched his jaw and huffed, throwing himself into a nearby armchair in defeat.

  “I believe you were going to get us some beverages, Miguel,” Rodriguez said, and the quivering man in question rushed off to the kitchen. The sound of ice hitting glass echoed as the group all took seats around the comfortable living room.

  Angel glared daggers at Rogers as he sat down across from him, and the detective simply shot him a playful wink, knowing that there wasn’t a damn thing the young man could do.

  Miguel bustled in with a tray of glasses and a bottle, and set them down on the coffee table. Rogers picked up the bottle to pour, and clucked his tongue.

  “Well, that’s a disappointment,” he muttered.

  Miguel wrung his hands. “Please, please forgive me,” he pleaded. “This was the only bottle that was in the kitchen. I… I can go see if they have something else.”

  “It’s okay.” Rogers waved him off with a sigh. “Just disappointed it’s only a twelve year old scotch. You’d figure with digs like this, they could afford better hooch.”

  Rodriguez didn’t bother to hide his smile of amusement. “Well, Miguel, I’ll get right to the point,” he said, turning to the nervous man. “We need to know where your boss Juan Pablo is.”

  “I know where he is,” Miguel replied, and then took a deep breath, seeming to grow a little bit of confidence in the knowledge that he had something they needed. “So… so what is in it for me?”

  Angel pulled his fancy butterfly knife, flicking it around a few times before stabbing it down into the coffee table. “Your reward for telling us is you don’t get to see what I can do with this.” He sneered.

  “Your boss has been a bad, bad boy,” Rodriguez said as Miguel went white as a sheet. “Caused a lot of trouble on both sides of the border. Now, we know you’ve played a role, but Senor Rivas is willing to overlook your transgressions and reward you if you are willing and able to help bring an end to the current hostilities.”

  Miguel continued to wring his hands, mouth opening and closing a few times before finally finding his voice. “We can save specifics for a later discussion,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I will tell you where he is. There is a warehouse complex about a mile north of the Westside Open Reserve. I don’t know the name, but it’s a huge grey building with a hundred trucking bays.”

  “Well, that was easier than I thought,” Stevenson piped up, leaning back and curling his arms behind his head.

  “Getting the information is the easy part,” Miguel replied with a shake of his head. “Getting there will be a whole other ordeal. I left there eight hours ago, and came in on the I-10. If I wasn’t in an escorted vehicle I would have been cut to shreds. Every exit and overpass has been reinforced with heavily armed men. Side streets are no better as there are two thousand men clearing the sick out house by house. The only way you are getting in there is if you are invited by Juan Pablo himself. I can’t even get back in.”

  There was a tense silence as everyone contemplated the reality of the situation.

  Rogers leaned forward. “Where exactly is this warehouse?”

  “I told you,” Miguel replied, pursing his lips, “about a mile north of the Preserve.”

  The detective shook his head. “No, where is it exactly? Is it close to the I-10? Can you see the interstate from it? What is close to it?”

  Angel scoffed. “What difference does it-”

  Rodriguez shushed him in Spanish, and motioned for the others to continue.

  “I’d say it’s about a mile east of the interstate,” Miguel replied, scratching his head in thought. “As far as what it’s close to… nothing significant I can think of. Outside of a wall of trees.”

  “That’s our way in, then,” Rogers declared.

  “What are you talking about, gringo?” Angel blurted. “Did you not listen to Miguel? How in the hell are we getting to the woods?”

  Rogers shrugged. “Easy, we’ll just start on the other side of them.”

  “You want to go hiking?” Angel raised his eyebrows and let out an incredulous guffaw.

  “Yep,” the detective replied. “Franklin Mountain State Park runs right up against the target. It’s highly unlikely they are spending resources defending the forest, so we hike across it. There are several trails leading through it. Can’t be more than four, five miles if we pick our entry point right.”

  Angel laughed again. “I don’t believe this. Rodriguez you don’t think-”

  “I think you should learn the lesson of if you don’t have a better idea, you should keep your mouth shut,” Rodriguez snapped. As the cartel heir sulked back into his seat and crossed his arms across his chest like a pouty teenager, he turned back to Miguel. “Thank you. Your help will not go unrewarded. However, we have one more favor to request.”

  Miguel nodded emphatically. “Please, anything you need.”

  “We need transportation, as your men did a good job of trashing our vehicles,” Rogers said, downing the rest of his glass.

  “Please, gentlemen, accept my sincerest apology,” Miguel replied, and bowed as low as his belly would allow. “I will go down with you and instruct them personally to escort you to the transportation you need.”

  Rogers coughed. “We… kinda killed your men.”

  Miguel choked on his breath and then composed himself. “Even easier!” he bellowed, wide grin stretching his face. “Just head to the garage and take their vehicles. Should be a few SUVs on the second floor. Keys will be in them. Take them with my compliments.”

  Rodriguez stood and shook his hand, whispering something in Spanish to him before the group headed for the door.

  “Hiking with the cartel,” Stevenson said to Rogers as they exited the penthouse. “You sure we don’t want to ask Miguel for some food and we can make an afternoon out of it? Have a picnic and just, you know, enjoy the company?”

  “Yes, I know, Stevenson,” Rogers replied with a roll of his eyes. “This day is turning out stranger than I could have imagined.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “That trail will take us close to where we need to go,” Rogers motioned to the path between the dense copse of trees.

  Everyone readied their weapons after shutting the doors to the vehicles, and the detective studied his compass against the map in his hand.

  “The last half mile or so is going to be a bit rougher though, since we’ll have to go off the path to reach the warehouse.” He folded the map and stuffed it into his pocket with the compass and checked his own weapon.

  Angel sneered. “Oh, so you’re a boy scout, now?”

  “Eagle scout actually, but why split hairs?” Rogers shrugged.

  Rodriguez started towards the path. “We’re wasting time, let’s move.”

  The thick trees provided good shade from the sun, but reduced visibility. Every snap or movement in the woods set the group on edge, forcing them to raise their weapons until they were sure it was an animal or a falling branch instead of a zombie or a cartel enemy.

  “This hike is not going to be good for my health,” Stevenson muttered as a squirrel skittered across a thick branch overhead, kicking down dirt and leaves on his head.

  As time wore on, they grew numb to the forest noises, the background noises not freaking them out so much, and were able to move at a brisker pace.

  Rogers pulled out his map as they passed a marker on the trail. “There’s going to be a pretty deep gorge in a half mile or so. Once we cross that bridge, it’ll be time to veer off the path.”

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sp; “We seem to be making good time,” Rodriguez commented.

  “I’m impressed,” Rogers agreed. “Even your big fellas are keeping pace. Usually guys that size don’t have much stamina.”

  Stevenson grinned. “It’s all that crossfit, right big guy?”

  The two guards simply grunted in acknowledgment, and the others chuckled. As they came around a bend, however, the group froze at the sight of torn-apart camping gear on the path. They raised their weapons and took defensive positions as Rogers and Rodriguez moved forward to inspect the scene.

  There were no bodies, but there was blood everywhere, shredded tents dripping crimson. Tent pegs and unused matches floated in a pool of blood directly in the middle of the path.

  “What do you think?” Rogers asked quietly.

  “I think we need to move with haste,” Rodriguez replied just as quietly, and reached down to dip a finger in the pool. “It’s still lukewarm, so this happened recently.” He wiped his fingers on an empty backpack.

  Rogers turned and waved for the others to follow quickly, and they scurried forward silently. They shuffled as quietly as they possibly could, and met a lone zombie staggering out of the trees. It took off towards them at a run, and one of the hulking bodyguards turned and grasped the creature by the neck. He used its momentum to spin, lift and crash it hard onto the ground. The corpse thrashed around violently, limbs flailing, but the guard held fast.

  Angel began to aim his gun, but Stevenson pushed his arm away, drawing a knife instead. The cartel heir glared at the detective as he knelt and planted the blade into the zombie’s skull, cutting off the thing’s screech.

  The group froze from the noise, waiting for the fallout from the piercing noise. Screams and groans echoed in the forest, coming from all sides. It was impossible to see how many and from what direction with the thickness of the trees.

  Rogers aimed at the dirt path in the direction of the bridge, and saw a half-dozen tearing towards them. He took aim and fired, clipping one in the head. As it fell, several of the others tripped over their fallen comrade.

  “We gotta move!” he cried, and Rodriguez came up next to him, attempting to clear the path ahead. The rest of the group moved with them, firing into the trees as zombies leapt out from the dense woods. Some bodies fell, but some bullets only found foliage.

  Angel moved behind the two leaders, but a zombie knocked him clean over from the side. He flung it off of him, regaining his footing quickly.

  “You done fucked up,” he declared, and whipped out his knife. He flicked it around a few times while the zombie got back up, and then planted his foot in its chest. He kicked it down and then knelt, crushing its ribs with his knee while he stabbed it multiple times in the face.

  He stood and spit on the creature before jogging to catch up with Rogers and Rodriguez.

  Stevenson brought up the rear with the two bodyguards, fighting off five zombies together. The detective hit one with a clean headshot as the other two grappled hand to hand with one zombie each. Stevenson dispatched the first one, and the second guard panicked and threw his corpse at a group of enemies emerging from the woods.

  “Go, I got this!” Stevenson barked at the first guard, and he nodded, taking off towards the bridge. The detective fired around the almost-overwhelmed guard, hitting three ghouls in the head, ending their search for sustenance. The final zombie met the guard’s hands, and he lifted it up over his head and dropped it over his knee, shattering its spine. He threw it to the side, and grunted to Stevenson in thanks for his help.

  They took one more look at the top half of the corpse, desperately trying to claw its way along the ground to get to them. As they turned to leave, two zombies sprinted out of the trees and attached themselves to the beast of a guard. Stevenson didn’t even have time to turn around before the man was on the ground, flailing and punching and fighting for his now-much-shorter life.

  “Fuck,” the detective cursed through clenched teeth, shooting a few more approaching zombies, but knowing that the guard had no chance now. He turned and sprinted towards the bridge, feeling terrible about it but knowing it was the only way.

  As he dodged pools of blood and camping gear, four zombies burst from the woods and onto the path. He fired a shot behind him and took one out, but the next shot produced a hollow click that sounded like a nail in a coffin.

  They didn’t let up and he dove to the side, barreling into the woods. He ran through the trees, reloading as he dodged branches. The corpses chasing him weren’t as agile, smacking into trees, but more joined him, somehow managing to keep up.

  A gooey hand grasped his shirt collar and he lurched backwards, flinging his arm back to try to protect himself. His fist met with the trunk of a tall pine, and he wrenched around to see the zombie caught up in the branches, unable to get its mouth close enough for a meal.

  Stevenson finally clicked in the magazine and fired over his shoulder, but missed due to the pine branches obscuring his vision. Another zombie tore towards him from the front and he easily dispatched it, firing over his shoulder again. When he missed a second time, he pressed the barrel of the gun up against the zombie’s wrist and fired twice, tearing through the rotting flesh.

  The detective wrenched free, the severed hand flopping to the forest floor. He took off running, the pounding of his heart not quite drowning out the footfalls of the zombies behind him, eventually finding his way back to the path. The bridge was within sight, and hope soared in his chest at the sight of Rogers and the others waving wildly to him from the other end.

  Stevenson glanced behind him to see a flood of zombies filling the path about forty yards behind him. Eyes widening, he took off as hard as he could towards the bridge.

  Rogers motioned to the wooden structure, about fifty feet long and just wide enough for two people to walk shoulder to shoulder. “We need to bring down this bridge once he’s across. Or else we’re going to use all our ammo holding them off.”

  Angel and the living bodyguard just shrugged, while Rodriguez pulled out a flask. He calmly unscrewed the cap as he walked a few feet onto the bridge and dumped the contents onto the wood. As soon as Stevenson hit the other side, running full-tilt towards him, Rodriguez knelt and set the bridge ablaze.

  Rogers rushed forward and pulled out his own flask, flinging the flammable liquid forward through the flames like a priest dishing out holy water. The flying alcohol did a great job of creating a large wall of fire.

  Stevenson leapt through the blaze like a dynamo, and hit the dirt with one leg on fire. He rolled back and forth and the bodyguard kicked some dirt onto him to put it out.

  The fire on the bridge grew, and the zombies bottlenecked into the other end. Rogers and Rodriguez stood at the edge of the structure and aimed downrange, waiting for the footsteps to get closer. They opened fire, aiming at chest height to create a barricade of zombies and let the fire do its work.

  The blaze grew to an inferno, and there were a series of sharp cracks before the bridge began to wobble under the intense heat and weight of the horde. One flaming zombie staggered almost to the guarding duo, but fell flat on its face as the structure finally gave way, tumbling into the gorge below.

  Rodriguez and Rogers pulled out their flasks, giving a little toast before finishing off what little was left in them.

  “Let me guess, tequila?” Rogers asked.

  Rodriguez shook his head. “Detective, I would expect better from you. Throwing out such a racial stereotype like that.”

  “If you must know, I guessed tequila because I saw how fast it went up,” he defended with a laugh. “Brought back some bad college memories where I had to go a semester without eyebrows.”

  Rodriguez smiled. “If we live long enough, I think I would like to hear that story.”

  “Hell, that wasn’t even the best story from that week,” Rogers said, “but I’ll happily share it.” His companion clapped him on the back and they turned to the others. “Stevenson, you okay?”

 
“Yeah, I’m medium rare,” the detective groaned as he got to his feet. “So I’ll live.”

  Rogers inclined his head to the bodyguard. “Sorry about your friend,” he said sincerely.

  His companion just grunted and nodded.

  Rodriguez checked his gun. “All right, let’s get moving. This isn’t over yet.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Well detective, what do you think?” Rodriguez asked quietly.

  Rogers peered through the bushes atop the tree-lined ridge overlooking the warehouse. There was a small building with a dozen or so bays and a much larger building with around a hundred bays separated by a large parking lot. Several transport trucks docked on both buildings, and a dozen or so guards roamed the grounds.

  Rogers pursed his lips when he noted that the smaller building was largely ignored by the guards. “I think our luck isn’t anywhere near good enough for Juan Pablo to be in the small building.”

  “I tend to agree,” Rodriguez said. “It appears as though the guards are focused on the main building. The question is, how do we get there?”

  “I don’t know about y’all, but my ammo situation isn’t exactly conducive to a large scale fire fight,” Stevenson cut in.

  Angel rolled his eyes. “Even if it was, you wouldn’t stand a chance against Juan Pablo’s best. Hand selected, well-trained, and heavily armed.”

  “I’m sure you friends at the hospital thought the same thing,” Stevenson shot back with a smirk. “Last time I checked, they weren’t on the right side of the ground anymore.”

  Before Angel could lunge at the detective, Rodriguez piped up, “We need to get into the main building.”

  “I would say we could take the long way around and circle the place,” Rogers mused, “but who knows how many men we’d encounter along the way.”

  “What about a diversion?” Stevenson asked. “Distract them on one side while we get into the building on the other?”

  Rogers and Rodriguez nodded in unison.

  “I think I know how we’re doing this,” Rogers said as he surveyed the area. “Anybody have a bandana? Handkerchief?” When there was no reply, he raised his eyebrows. “A bolt of fabric?”