Dead America - El Paso Pt. 5 (Dead America - The Third Week Book 2)

by Derek Slaton

  The duo nodded and he flung open the door. The trio rushed into the office area, a vast space filled with cubicles. The room was moderately bright thanks to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows along the one side.

  As they moved, they spread out, each of them taking an aisle and walking carefully down it to sweep the area.

  Rogers accidentally kicked a stapler on the floor, and it slammed into one of the flimsy cubicle walls, causing enough of a clatter that reverberated in the space. A few moans rose up in response, and within moments, half a dozen zombies emerged from the far end of the room.

  They staggered through the aisleway fairly spread apart, and the trio managed to take them down with their bats without incident.

  “I think we’re clear,” Rogers declared as the last one fell.

  Whitaker smirked. “You want to kick another wall just to make sure?”

  Hammond moved to the end of the building, taking position at the far wall. He pulled back the blinds to look towards their next target, the apartment complex.

  “How are we looking, Sarge?” Whitaker asked as they caught up.

  He shrugged. “Could be worse.”

  Whitaker and Rogers looked out to see about a hundred zombies in the open field leading to the apartment complex. They were spread out fairly well, a few feet away from each other.

  The Detective let out a deep breath. “That’s going to be a hell of a run,” he said. “What’s on the other side of the apartments?”

  “Just the college building, then the armory,” Whitaker replied.

  Rogers shook his head. “Man, you weren’t kidding about this being a small town.”

  “There’s even a movie theater if you want to catch a flick later,” she quipped.

  The Detective grinned. “Are you asking me out?” He winked at her. “Because I need to be wined and dined.”

  “Are you two done?” Hammond asked. “Cause I can give you fifteen minutes if you need it.” He cocked his head, and they sheepishly turned to him. “Now, we’re gonna have to run like hell through these fuckers. Looks like there’s a mess of them on the road, so we’re going to have to plow through the complex.”

  Rogers nodded. “What’s the layout like?”

  “Eight buildings situated in a square, two on each side, and a big courtyard in the middle,” Whitaker replied.

  The Detective raised an eyebrow. “So we get through there, then what?”

  “With any luck, it’s a clear path to the college building,” Hammond replied. “We get inside, cut through it, and the armory is in the building adjacent to it.”

  “All right,” Rogers declared. “Lead the way, Sergeant.”

  Hammond readied his bat and put his hand on the door. The Detective winked at Whitaker again, drawing out a small smile. The Sergeant threw open the door and rushed towards the nearest zombie, grabbing it by the jean jacket and throwing it to the side into a cluster, knocking them all down.

  As the corpses hit the ground, several turned around, moaning, arms outstretched.

  “Spread out, or we’re going to get surrounded!” Hammond barked.

  Whitaker zoomed to the left, and Rogers to the right, hoping to keep the crowd manageable. They ran through, shoving zombies left and right, knocking them down like bowling pins as they tore across the field.

  Hammond swung his bat like a machete in the jungle, cracking heads and leaving a trail of fallen corpses behind him. Even if they weren’t dead, at least they were out of the way. Whitaker punched a short and stout zombie, jumping up to run up its back like a springboard and jump clear of a cluster of three.

  Rogers spun and twirled, ducked and leapt, swinging only when he needed to so he could keep up his forward momentum. As they got closer to the apartments, the crowd began to thin, and Hammond pointed towards the breezeway of one of the buildings.

  The trio came back together, running full tilt towards the corridor.

  “Everybody good?” Hammond huffed as they sprinted, receiving grunts in the affirmative in return. “Good, come on!” He led them through the breezeway, cracking a zombie in the face on the way through. He skidded to a stop at the courtyard, near dropping his bat in shock.

  “Fucking christ,” Rogers breathed as he nearly slammed into the back of the Sergeant, Whitaker next to him.

  The courtyard was packed with zombies. Hundreds of them. It was as if people had huddled there as they died, and then reanimated, unsure of how to get back out again. It didn’t take long for them to notice the huffing trio had arrived.

  “Upstairs, quick!” Hammond cried, and darted up the stairs to the right, leading them up to the second floor. He ran to the far end of the walkway to the corner apartment. “Cover me.”

  Rogers and Whitaker took up defensive positions at the top of the stairs as he worked the lock. The horde of creatures navigated the stairs with clumsy legs, slowly but surely making progress towards the top.

  “So what kind of movie girl are you?” Rogers asked, voice tight as he tried to break the tension. “Action? Horror? Chick flick?”

  Whitaker gaped at him. “Chick flick, really?”

  “Just because you’re rough and tumble doesn’t mean you don’t have a sensitive side,” he defended. “You should see me at Christmas with those Lifetime movies.”

  She laughed. “Hope there’s alcohol involved.”

  “I’m a homicide detective, thought that was implied,” he replied.

  They shared a smile, and then lunged forward to start playing whack-a-mole with the zombies. They struck repeatedly in an attempt to stem the tide. One creature lunged forward, grabbing Whitaker’s tricep, and Rogers swung down hard enough to sever the limb from its body. She grabbed the arm and wrenched it free of herself, tossing it aside before they continued their assault.

  “How we looking Sarge?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Fuckers locked the deadbolt, gonna need a minute,” Hammond replied.

  Whitaker grunted. “May wanna make that thirty seconds.”

  The Sergeant glanced back to see that a mere fifteen feet away, his comrades desperately fought a swell of rotted corpses. “Fuck.” He took a deep breath, and finally managed to pop the lock. “We’re in!”

  He rushed inside, holding the door open for the duo to sail through, and then slammed and locked it behind them.

  Rogers and Whitaker immediately moved through the apartment, sweeping for zombies. When they found it clear, they headed for the living room, the Detective stopping in the kitchen. He opened the fridge and gagged at the smell of rotted food. He grabbed a few bottles of water from the door and then strode into the living room, tossing one to each of his teammates.

  “So now what?” Whitaker asked as she unscrewed the cap from her bottle.

  Hammond took a deep breath. “Pretty sure we aren’t going out the same way we came in.”

  “Thank you for that insightful sit-rep, Sarge,” she replied, sarcasm evident as she rolled her eyes. “That’s why you’re in charge.”

  He grinned. “And don’t you forget it.”

  Rogers headed over to the patio door, sliding it open carefully to keep the noise low. He looked out to the side, noting that the next building over was pretty close, the patio only about ten feet away. Down on the ground, there were no zombies in sight.

  He stepped back inside. “How do you feel about patio jumping>”

  “Are they that close together?” Hammond asked.

  The Detective shrugged. “You tell me.”

  The soldiers approached and peeked out, taking stock of the area.

  “That’s a hell of a gap,” Whitaker mused. “Rogers, you think you can make that?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “With a little bit of help I can.”

  “You want me to cheer you on?” She raised her hands in the air, miming pom poms.

  He chuckled, trying to ignore the image of the lithe soldier in a cheerleading uniform. “I was thinking more of a tug-o-war.”

  It took
a moment, but his friends slowly caught on to what he meant.

  “Not bad, Detective,” Whitaker said thoughtfully. “Let’s see what we can find.” She waved for him to follow her, heading back to the bedroom while Hammond measured the jump.

  The Sergeant stepped out onto the patio, and counted the steps to the railing. He walked through the motions, planting his foot and then pretending to jump off. He pursed his lips and then let out a deep sigh.

  “That’s gonna be close,” he muttered, and then turned as the others came out holding a large bed sheet. “Rogers, how’s your back?”

  The Detective held up a hand and wiggled it back and forth. “Iffy, and I’d like to keep it that way if possible.”

  “Springboard Sarge?” Whitaker asked.

  Hammond nodded. “Yep.”

  “I gotcha, where do you want me?” she replied.

  He pointed to a spot on the ground a few feet from the railing. She got down on all fours and braced herself as he grabbed the sheet, walking back to the edge of the patio. Rogers stepped out of the way.

  “You ready?” Hammond asked, cocking his head.

  Whitaker nodded. “Bring it, Sarge.”

  Hammond bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet and then leapt forward, planting his foot on the Private’s back, launching to the railing, and then propelling himself across the gap. He landed on the other railing with his gut, the wind knocking out of him, but he held on tight. Grunting, he was able to flop over, landing with a thud on his back.

  He caught sight of the open patio door and struggled to his feet, gasping, as a zombie came out of the shadows, moaning and grasping. He grabbed it by the shirt and belt, flinging it over the trailing. It landed hard on its head, snapping its spine.

  Hammond glanced back at the others, nodding and giving a thumbs up. They tossed their baseball bats, and he caught them, propping them up next to him. He dropped the end of the bed sheet and planted his foot on top of it, balling up the rest and tossing it across. Whitaker caught it and wrapped the end around her arm.

  “Help me up, will you?” she asked, and Rogers gave her a boost up onto the railing. She locked eyes with Hammond, and then held up three fingers to signify a countdown.

  When she got to one, she leapt, and the Sergeant jerked hard on the sheet, giving an extra boost to pull her across. She landed on her gut as well, but he pulled her over, setting her down on the ground. She gave him a thumbs up as she caught her breath, and he clapped her on the shoulder, balling up the sheet to throw it back across to Rogers.

  The Detective climbed up on top of the railing, wrapping the sheet around his arm tight. He did his own countdown, and then leapt. Hammond jerked, but it wasn’t enough, and Rogers lashed out, managing to grab the bottom of the rungs. He bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out at the strain on his shoulders.

  Whitaker hit the ground, reaching through the rungs to grab one of his hands, and Hammond leaned over the top of the railing to grab the other. They struggled as Rogers attempted to hook a leg up onto the patio, but soon they had him over, slumped in a heap on the concrete, huffing.

  “Never skipping leg day again,” he wheezed.

  The Sergeant grunted. “Goddamn right you’re not, Detective.” He clapped him on the shoulder, and the three of them staggered into the apartment to catch their breaths out of sight.

  Whitaker headed for the door, keeping through the peephole to look for enemies. “Nothing on the landing,” she said.

  “Still going to be too risky to go that way,” Hammond replied.

  Rogers finally regulated his breathing and headed back out to the balcony, walking to the far end and looking down. “I don’t think we have to risk it,” he said as he reentered the apartment. “There aren’t any of those things below us, and the field to the next building isn’t too bad. I say we just climb down and make a run for it.”

  “You think you can handle that?” Whitaker raised an eyebrow.

  The Detective nodded. “I’m a lot better vertical than I am horizontal.”

  “That’s a shame.” She smirked.

  Rogers winked at her. “Not if you’re flexible.”

  “I swear to god, I will shoot you both,” Hammond groaned.

  The duo apologized, sharing a playful smile.

  “Now,” the Sergeant said, “might want to tie a few knots in that sheet to help you out, Detective.”

  Rogers saluted him. “On it.” He set to work, tying some knots, and then secured the sheet to the railing, dropping it down to the ground.

  Hammond clambered over the side, and began the climb down. As soon as he hit the ground, Whitaker tossed down the bats, and he headed off to secure the area. There weren’t any zombies on the side of the building, except for the paralyzed one he’d thrown off before. He stayed out of sight of the ones in the field as best he could as the other two climbed down without incident.

  The Sergeant handed out their bats. “Everybody ready?” he asked quietly.

  They nodded and then the trio took off running. The zombies were mostly oblivious, but Whitaker took the legs out from under one on her way by to keep it from getting too close to her comrades. It flipped onto its ass, moaning in surprise.

  Rogers grabbed a collared shirt and flung another corpse behind him, knocking over two more in the process. Hammond clonked one on the head, not sticking around to see if it fell, just making sure it was out of the way.

  They made it to the college building door, which happened to be unlocked. Hammond opened it, peering into the pitch darkness as the windows had been left shuttered closed.

  “Flashlights,” he whispered, and soon three beams of light cut through the space.

  Blood splattered the walls, corpses everywhere, chaos reigning supreme in the dim hallway.

  “Some shit went down here,” Whitaker murmured. “Stay frosty.”

  They walked cautiously, feet flat on the tiles to keep from making any noise. Every classroom they came to, one would break off to shut the door, just in case something was waiting to jump out at them and surprise them from behind.

  They got halfway down the hall when moans echoed towards them. Hammond motioned for Rogers and Whitaker to move forward, and he illuminated the area. As they came up to the corner, there were about thirty zombies gathered together, and then immediately turned at the sight of lights in their faces.

  “Beat ‘em down!” Hammond barked, and leapt forward.

  Rogers followed suit, and the two of them cracked a few skulls before stepping back again. Hammond flanked the group, smacking his bat on the ground to draw some of them from the pack. He darted forward, using his bat as a spear to catch the lead zombie in the chest, and shoved it back into the others, creating a seven-ten split among the group.

  He smacked back and forth with two precise swings, and got the upper hand on the others that struggled to find their footing over their writhing brethren. He drove his weapon down forcefully multiple times like a man possessed, leaving a squashed bloody mess in his wake.

  Once the Sergeant looked up, he saw the dozen or so zombies still pushing towards Rogers and Whitaker. He ran up to the back end, and thwacked them in the backs of the heads, dropping them one by one.

  Finally, the room was silent, except for the heavy breathing of Hammond, who looked around, looking crazed with blood streaked across his body.

  “Sarge, you okay?” Whitaker asked gently.

  He let out a deep, shuddering breath, and then looked at her. “Huh?” He scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, sorry. Just got a little possessed.”

  “Safe to say, if we ever start a town softball team, you’re my fist pick,” Rogers declared.

  Whitaker clucked her tongue. “Hey now.”

  “Rookie mistake, Detective,” Hammond said with a chuckle. “Rookie mistake.” He smacked the Detective on the shoulder and walked past him, leading them to the exit that faced the armory.

  As they reached the exterior door, they looked out the s
mall window. There were a few dozen zombies standing between them and their goal.

  Hammond reached for the knob, but Whitaker put a hand on his arm. “Sarge, I think we need to take five.”

  “Let’s get this done, Whitaker,” he said firmly.

  “Sarge,” she replied, voice gentle. “Let’s take five.”

  He took another deep breath, and then nodded. “You’re right,” he agreed, and stepped back. “Five it is.” He headed down the hallway a bit to calm down.

  “Is he okay?” Rogers asked, motioning to the wired Sergeant.

  “Sarge?” Whitaker nodded. “Yeah. I think being in this darkened environment and being surrounded just triggered his PTSD.”

  The Detective looked over at the man in question. “What happened to him?”

  “Not a story for me to tell,” she replied, shaking her head.

  He raised his hands. “Understandable.”

  “Bottle of Jack just might get you the answer, though,” she said with a smirk. “Just sayin’.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll add it to the shopping list.”

  “Well add two, because I’m a Jack girl,” Whitaker said with a wink.

  Rogers grinned. “Two cases, added to the list.” He pressed himself against the wall and sat down, patting the floor beside him for her to join him for a well-deserved break.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Clara sat cross legged, staring down at her hands as the gunmen held her at bay. The silence was tense at best, and the minutes dragged on as they waited for Andrew.

  Finally, a beat up old pickup truck rumbled down the road, stopping behind the barricade where the crucified men were. A tall cowboy stepped out and hopped the barrier, strolling over to the group.

  He stared down his nose at Clara. “I have to say, I’m disappointed to see you again,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “We do have an understanding,” she began.

  He crossed his arms. “Obviously not.”

  “As I was saying,” she growled, and her voice rose, “we do have an understanding, but this is a special circumstance.”