Zion nodded, keeping his hands up to make sure the other trucks stopped behind him. “Yeah, I’m good,” he assured him. “Stand down for me, will you?”
Harold gave him a thumbs up through the opening, and Zion leaned back into the truck.
“Maybe next time your dumb ass will listen to me?” he asked. “It don’t matter if I’m with you or not, if they don’t know that I am.”
The driver shook his head at his own stupidity, and sighed heavily as Zion slammed the passenger door.
“Dumbass,” he muttered to himself as everyone got out of the trucks.
“What the hell, man?” one of the guards demanded as he helped the shell shocked driver disengage his shirtsleeve from the wooden stake that had just missed him.
Zion stared pointedly at the driver. “Go on, tell him what a dumbass you are,” he said.
The guard hung his head. “Yeah, this was my fault.”
“All right,” Zion declared, “I want you guys to hang tight while I go explain the situation.”
Calvin raised a hand. “Could probably use the bomber,” he suggested. “He might have some ideas.”
“Good point,” Zion agreed, and looked around. “So which one of you is my bomber?”
A tall and lean blonde kid stepped forward, no older than Zion himself. “Yep, that’s me,” he said.
Zion cocked his head. “What’s your name?”
“Everybody just calls me Fingers,” the kid replied with a shrug.
Zion raised an eyebrow. “Fingers?”
The kid raised his hands, revealing only seven and a half fingers between both of them. “Yeah, let’s just say I had a steep learning curve on these beauties,” he said with a grin.
“Guess we should just be thankful you never dropped on in your lap,” Zion replied.
Fingers shook his head. “You ain’t kidding.”
“Come on,” Zion said, and waved for him to follow. They headed inside, where Tori and her group waited, looking concerned.
She crossed her arms. “What are they doing here?” she asked.
“They’re here because they need our help,” Zion replied.
Tori growled. “Need our help?” she snapped. “After attacking us?”
“Yep, there’s a horde a few hundred strong coming up the interstate,” Zion replied. “I told ‘em we’d help take them down.”
Jack shifted his weight. “And then what?”
“Then the four of you are gonna come back with me to Portland,” Zion explained. “Get you set up in a nice apartment in my building.”
Tori put her hands on her hips. “That’s the deal you cut?” she demanded. “Best you could do?”
“Yeah,” Zion replied with a nod. “But I was also able to get you twenty percent of the store, so whatever you want.”
She turned to the others, and they all suddenly looked tired, tired from being on guard and fighting all the time.
“Might be nice to feel safe,” Missy said.
Jack nodded. “No more waking up in the middle of the night because we hear a sound.”
“Or having to stay up all night on watch,” Harold added.
Tori nodded at them and turned back to the others. “Thank you,” she said, and took a deep breath. “Now, what do you need us to do?”
“Well, if you have a way to thin out a several hundred zombie horde, that would be a great start,” Zion replied.
She pushed her glasses up her nose. “How much time do we have?”
“Maybe an hour,” he said.
Harold scratched his head. “Well, the stake-thrower isn’t going to do much against a group that size, but I can modify it to shoot something larger,” he said. “Maybe something up to ten pounds?”
“How much power behind it?” Missy asked.
“It’ll have enough power to punch through several of those things,” he replied.
She glanced at the wall, appraising several spindles of chain hanging there. “Would it have enough to pull a secondary weight? One connected by a chain?” She motioned to the spools.
Harold thought for a moment, and then nodded, his eyes lighting up. “Oh yeah, I think I can make that happen,” he said, a smile growing on his face. “Set the back weight off-center so when it goes out, it’ll rotate and we can get a several foot spinning death radius.”
Zion rubbed his forehead. “I suppose that sounds good?”
“It’s going to rock!” Missy declared.
He shrugged. “What do you need?”
“Every ten pound and under dumbbell you can get your hands on,” Harold replied.
Calvin stepped forward. “Is there a gym in town?”
“I think there’s one three blocks up,” Tori replied.
“Calvin,” Zion began.
The cowboy put up a hand. “I’ll get everything they have.” He headed out the door, and his partner turned back to the group.
“What else do you need?” Zion asked.
Tori shook her head. “It’s a shame we don’t have any explosives,” she said.
“Sounds like someone’s talking my language,” Fingers piped up, and took a step forward. He took Tori’s hand and kissed her knuckles with a grin. She blinked at him blankly, in shock by the gesture, and then looked down at his hand missing a finger and a half.
Jack scoffed. “And who are you?” he demanded.
“Name’s Fingers,” the kid replied with a little wave. “Explosives expert extraordinaire, at your service.”
“Oh… good to know,” Tori replied, a small blush creeping up her cheeks. “Thank you?” She adjusted her glasses, even though they hadn’t moved.
“My pleasure,” Fingers replied. “I’m glad you have an interest in my particular hobby, but I’m unsure of how exactly pipe bombs are going to be effective here. I haven’t had much luck using them against a group of zombies.”
Jack crossed his arms. “Probably because you lack imagination.”
“Well, by all means sir, enlighten me,” Fingers replied, spreading his arms.
Jack inclined his head. “You got one on you?”
Fingers held up one of his half-digits and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a ten-inch bomb and tossing it over. “Metal PVC, does a pretty good job of shattering, but not in nearly enough pieces to do much damage.”
Jack turned it over in his hands, and then tossed it back. “Meet me at the counter. While you’re there, dig up some tape from behind it, if you would.”
“Happily,” Fingers replied, intrigue on his face. He headed off to the counter, and Jack headed over to the shelf containing nuts and bolts. He tore the plastic backing off of a spindle and started packing it full of a wide variety of nuts, bolts, and nails. After a moment, he headed back over to the counter and set it down.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Fingers stared for a moment, and then flattened out the plastic bag, setting his bomb on top of it. Then he rolled it up like a burrito, a grin widening on his face. “Oh, we’re gonna have some fun today,” he said.
“So that’ll work?” Tori asked.
He nodded. “And then some,” he promised. “We’re gonna need something to protect ourselves though, because my goodies pack quite the punch. The last thing we want is getting taken out by our own weapons.”
“There are some plexiglas sheets in the back,” Jack said. “Pretty sure I can rig us up something.”
Fingers nodded. “If there’s enough to spare, double it up, just to be safe.”
“I think that can be arranged,” Jack replied. “Why don’t you come give me a hand to make sure it’s gonna be thick enough?”
The explosives expert slipped out from behind the counter. “With pleasure.”
As they left, Tori turned to Zion. “Thank you, for everything you’re doing.”
“It’s what I do,” he replied, and then shrugged. “At least these days.”
She cocked her head. “You mean, you haven’t always gone out of your way to s
ave total strangers?”
“If you only knew,” he replied with a dark chuckle.
She pushed her glasses up her nose. “Well, regardless of what you were pre-apocalypse, you’re a hell of a good man now.”
His mouth went dry and he shrugged it off, uncomfortable with her praise. “So, uh, what can I do to help?”
“Well, you can help me get this large air compressor into a truck bed,” Tori replied, okay with changing the subject to avoid awkwardness.
He nodded and headed for the door. “Done. I’ll get the truck.”
She laughed and shook her head, impressed with herself that she was able to throw such a beast of a human being off of his game with a little adoration.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The three trucks rumbled down the interstate towards the horde. As they came around a bend, they saw the front edge of them. Most of the stumbling corpses were on the westbound lane, with a small cluster on the eastbound.
“Let’s hold up here,” Zion instructed, and the driver nodded, rolling down his window and waving his hand at the trailing vehicles. They stopped in the road so he could do a three-point turn, the back of the truck facing the oncoming ghouls.
Harold, Missy, and Jack hopped out of another vehicle and rushed to the reversed truck with the air compressor in the back.
“Leave it up there,” Harold said, waving towards the machine. “Missy, Zion, help me unload the gun.”
Zion nodded. “On it.” He headed over to help.
“Jack, get the power going,” Harold instructed, and the taller man set to work while the other three gently lifted the large modified out and set it gently on the ground next to the truck.
Jack jumped into the front cab and opened the back sliding window, reaching out and grabbing the power cable. He attached it to the makeshift adapter that he then plugs into the lighter socket.
“You’re juiced up!” he called. “Just don’t turn it on until you absolutely need it, because it’s going to drain the battery pretty quick.”
Harold nodded. “I’ll give you a two minute warning before we need to fire.”
Jack gave him a thumbs up from the driver’s side window.
Zion watched as Harold and Missy set up the gun and platform. Harold took a five pound weight with a chain connected to it, and slid it into the new larger barrel. His partner set up a simple wooden platform next to it, setting the other five pound weight on it.
“You sure this is going to work?” Zion asked.
Missy nodded with a grin. “Oh yeah, it’s just a modified version of the chain shot.” She turned to him at his look of confusion. “It was used in the Civil War as anti-personnel munitions, as well as by various Navy’s and pirates to take out ship masts. We had a whole chapter on it back in high school.”
“Let’s just say you and I had very, very different education options growing up,” Zion replied, poking his tongue into his cheek.
She paused, and then nodded, not wanting to push the issue. As they set up the gun, Calvin, Fingers, and Tori came up from the other truck, flanked by two guards carrying large sheets of plexiglas-like shields. Metal handles had been attached to them so they could hold them up.
“You guys ready to rock?” Zion asked.
Calvin raised a fist. “Oh yeah, we got a dozen of these pipe bombs ready to go,” he said.
“The trick is going to be getting them to explode in the air over the zombies, and not on the ground,” Tori said thoughtfully.
Fingers grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ve become quite adept at timing these blasts,” he assured her.
“Says the man missing three fingers,” Calvin quipped.
The explosives expert winked at him. “How do you think I became adept?” He headed towards the horde with a bag full of bombs.
Calvin shook his head and laughed, heading after him with Tori and the shielders in tow.
“If you can manage it, try to space out your targets,” Zion instructed. “Chances are we’re going to have to get down and dirty with these motherfuckers at some point, so having them spread out will make my life easier.”
Calvin nodded. “You got it.”
They continued to move up, the horde slowly shambling towards them. The stench wafting towards them was overwhelming, the sun baking their rotted flesh, radiating on the blacktop. Even though it was a fairly cool day in the Pacific Northwest, it didn’t take much to set the smells off.
Calvin and Fingers stood shoulder to shoulder, about fifty yards from the front edge of the horde. They each held a bomb in their hand, and a lighter in the other.
“You know, I’m still pissed at you for blowing up my baby,” the cowboy said with a sniff.
Fingers inclined his head, an apologetic expression on his face. “That’s an understandable sentiment,” he admitted. “How long have you had her?”
“Going on twelve years now,” Calvin replied with a sigh.
Fingers shook his head. “Yeah, I’ve had mine for fourteen years,” he replied. “She’s got a lot of dings on her, but I’ve kept her patched up pretty good.”
“Is that an offer to repair the damage you caused?” the cowboy asked, raising an eyebrow.
Fingers chuckled. “Might need some help from you to procure some parts, but I’ll help you fix her up,” he offered.
“I’m good with that,” Calvin agreed.
Tori approached with the two drivers carrying their plexiglas shields. One of them handed her a panel, and the trio of shielders stepped up to join them.
“You two ready to do this?” she asked, pushing her glasses up on her nose.
The zombies were within forty yards, and gaining.
“I don’t know about my new buddy here, but I’m not exactly a pro quarterback,” Calvin admitted. “We’re gonna have to move up some unless you want us to just hit the front line.”
Fingers wrinkled his nose. “Agreed,” he said. “I got enough problems without tearing my rotator cuff.”
The group walked forward, and stopped at about twenty yards.
“Here looks good?” Calvin asked.
Fingers nodded. “I can work with that.”
“How long of a fuse you got on these?” the cowboy asked, turning one over in his hand.
The explosives expert held one up, showing him the glinting fuse in the sunlight. “I trimmed them down so we’re at ten seconds.”
“Throw on six?” Calvin wondered.
Fingers wiggled his head back and forth. “I’d say seven.”
The cowboy took a deep breath. “A little concerning coming from someone with seven fingers.”
“Well,” the explosives expert replied with a smirk, “there’s a reason I didn’t say eight.”
Calvin chuckled. “Fair enough.” He shook his head. “Seven it is.”
“So how are we doing the shields?” Fingers asked.
Tori held hers up. “I figured I’ll get these two to stand on either side of me, and I’ll get behind one of them,” she replied, motioning between the two drivers. “When you throw, you step through the hole and take cover, and I’ll step up.”
“Fuck it,” Calvin replied, “sounds like a plan to me.”
They took their positions, the bombers standing in front, readying their lighters.
Tori looked over at the drivers. “Remember to angle them up and out, but not too high,” she said, showing them with her own shield. “We don’t want any of the projectiles to bounce off of the pavement and sneak in underneath.”
They both nodded, and she took a deep breath.
“All right,” Tori announced, pushing her glasses up firmly onto her nose. “Light ‘em up.”
The bombers nodded at each other, and then simultaneously lit their fuses. They began counting down from ten in unison, rearing back their arms at five.
“Four…” they counted, “three!”
They tossed the bombs in a high arc over the horde, one to the left and the other to the right. As soon as they let go, they d
arted back behind the protective wall. Just as Tori slipped into position, a massive BOOM racked the interstate.
They watched through the scuffed plexiglass as both bombs detonated about ten feet over the zombie mass, about fifteen yards deep. The blast sent hardware shrapnel ripping through rotted skin and bone, with a couple dozen creatures dropping to the ground from headshots. The rest lost limbs or massive chunks of their faces, some staggering along like pincushions, nails sticking out of their shoulders.
There was a significant gap made in the lead group of thirty and the next batch, the fallen zombies not only creating a hole, but causing their brethren to stumble over them.
Fingers lit another bomb.
“What are you doing?” Tori demanded.
He held up a hand. “Trust me,” he said “and keep those shields flat on the ground.” He stepped around the shielders and underhand tossed the bomb over the front line of ghouls, landing it in the gap, right in the center of the line.
A few seconds passed, and there was another large explosion, this time dropping eight zombies in the center, leaving little more than a dozen on each side of the road.
“Zion, you’re up!” Fingers called.
Zion didn’t waste time, seeing the small groups that the explosives had created. He grabbed his new trusty weapon and rushed to the group on the right. As he did, Fingers pulled out his handgun, one of the shielders passing off to Calvin to do the same.
“You back Zion up,” Fingers instructed his companion, “and I’ll handle the other side.”
The guard turned to the right, but paused. Zion was like a hulking beast, swinging his weapon and demolishing trios of zombies with single blows. The sun glistened off of his dark skin as he fought, wild glee on his face like a madman as he took down corpse after corpse.
“Uh, I think he’s good,” the guard said.
Fingers glanced over and his eyebrows hit his hairline as he watched Zion in action, taking out zombie heads like it was an olympic sport. He nodded at the guard, and he joined him instead. They stood side by side, popping off shots to systematically take out the ghouls as they approached, one by one.
When the two split groups were merely piles of unmoving corpses, the trio sauntered back to the bombers, and Zion held out his hand.
Dead America The Third Week (Book 5): Dead America, Portland Pt. 3 Page 6
