The handcrafted survival knife was a single-tang item measuring eleven-and-a-half inches from its spear-point tip to its weighty brass pommel. Sporting a razor-sharp six-inch blade complete with sawtooth top edge, the knife looked like something Rambo might wield.
Flush with new money, Riker hadn’t balked at the eight-hundred-dollar price tag when Jon, the owner of the gun store in Florida, had placed it on the counter alongside the assortment of firearms Riker was already purchasing.
The petite blonde had been in her mid-twenties when she had died and come back as a zombie. It looked to Riker as if she had fought hard to survive the attack that did her in. Both arms were riddled with bite marks and crisscrossed by deep scratches. As if ripped by brute force, a jagged half-moon tear—beginning on the left side of her mouth and running away toward her ear—had left her with a perpetual lop-sided grin.
The young woman’s dirty LSU tee shirt was torn down the front, exposing a flesh-colored bra and a pair of bloodless, dime-sized gunshot wounds. Black gunpowder burns around the entry points suggested the weapon had been pressed against her ribcage when she’d been shot. That there was very little blood in the vicinity made Riker think the damage had been done postmortem.
Judging by the bloat and intense stench, Riker figured this one had contracted Romero in the early days of the outbreak. A couple of weeks spent hunting the living while exposed to the elements had left her hair matted to her head and given insects time to make her body their new home.
Jaw hanging open and breathing through his mouth, Riker lashed out and snatched up one of the grabbing hands.
Crushing down on the wrist, he found the pale flesh ice cold to the touch, the sensation triggering an eruption of gooseflesh all up and down his ribcage. As he yanked the undead thing off balance, his eyes were drawn to the thin silver bracelet encircling its wrist. Shiny beads spelling out Petra jangled out a tinny rhythm as he changed his footing to keep the majority of his weight on his good leg. As he did, he couldn’t help but note how the nails on the hand he was holding were uneven and cracked in places. And how flesh and dermis had collected under the nails and blood had dried around the cuticles—evidence, Riker decided, that Petra had killed in the not too distant past. Maybe the one who had shot her. A person who had not been versed in the rules and had aimed for center mass instead of the head, thus signing their own death warrant.
Just like the cause of the pileup spread out before him, the whereabouts of the Life Flight pilots and crew, and the true reasoning behind the dump trucks parked across the highway south to Santa Fe, Riker would never know Petra’s true backstory.
Last kill, lady, was what went through Riker’s mind as he stabbed at her left temple with his new blade.
Unlike the way this particular killing stroke was portrayed in movies and on television—the blade slipping in quietly with little to no resistance—Riker felt a lot of initial pushback.
Immediately following the strike, there came a grating sound and the blade tried to twist from his grip. As he added more muscle, the tip speared through the bone offering resistance, dug in a few inches, then struck something solid and came to a grinding halt.
Similar to the male zombie’s second death, as if a switch had been thrown, Petra’s body went limp. However, instead of disappearing behind the barrier, the unmoving corpse remained upright, the entire hundred or so pounds suspended on Riker’s blade, its sawtooth serrations acting like the barbs on a fishhook.
While Riker had expected some kind of a physical response after killing one of them in such a deliberate manner, maybe a cold shiver or wave of nausea coursing his body, he felt only empathy. For the first time since this had all started in Middletown, he saw the act of killing the dead as not an affront to who they used to be, but a favor to them and anyone they may have left behind. For if the shoe were on the other foot, he would want someone to afford him the same courtesy.
Standing there, staring his ultimate destiny in the face, he said a silent prayer. A prayer asking that when it was his time to go, the person performing the act be anyone but Tara.
Last thing Riker wanted was for his only known living kin to see him as one of these lifeless automatons, let alone have her shoulder that kind of responsibility.
Seeing that he had been mistaken in assuming Shorty was going to find an alternate route around the pileup, Benny mouthed, “What the hell?” Tapping Riker on the shoulder, he said, “Snap out of it, Lee. She’s gone.” He paused and pointed at the EarthRoamer. “I think you’re going to want to take a look at what Shorty’s about to attempt.”
After stealing a final glimpse into Petra’s dead eyes, in which not a flicker of life had been detected before, during, or after the clumsy killing stroke, Riker gave the knife a quick twist.
Sliding free of the blade, Petra’s head and upper body pitched forward. A hollow thunk sounded as her forehead butted the top edge of the barrier. Following that was a wet slap as one arm hooked the barrier. Then, as if in slow motion, the diminutive corpse slithered from the top of the barrier and rode its angled cement face to the shoulder, where it finally came to rest, arms and legs bent in crazy angles, yet another life cut short by a heinous act against humanity Riker was still struggling mightily to comprehend.
Chapter 13
From Riker’s first contact with Petra, to her lifeless shell riding gravity to its final resting place, ten seconds had elapsed.
During that ten-second span, a lot had happened.
Off of Riker’s right shoulder, acting on the simple instructions Benny had given him, Steve-O was beginning to strip the helicopter of its medical supplies. A pair of white boxes sporting the ubiquitous red cross already sat on the road beside the helo’s open left-side door.
Beyond the pileup, Shorty had driven the EarthRoamer as far south on the shoulder as he could. It was now awfully close to running over the backboard left behind by the ambulance crew.
Remembering how the road had seemed so close to his window when he drove the Shelby on the embankment, Riker said, “I don’t think Shorty knows that thing’s limitations.”
On the heels of Riker’s assessment, the squall line passed them by and the sun got back to shining its flat light of winter over the scene. As wisps of steam lifted off the road all around the EarthRoamer, the sound of a second motor kicking in emanated from the vehicle’s undercarriage. It was much quieter than the rig’s V8 and definitely not running on unleaded or diesel.
Recognizing the rapid-fire piston noise for what it represented, Riker said, “I spoke too soon.”
Benny said, “What do you mean?”
Showing up at Riker’s elbow, Steve-O said, “I put the boxes in Dolly. What next?”
Scanning their surroundings, Riker said, “Keep an eye out for Monsters. A real keen eye.”
Steve-O threw a salute and trotted off toward a spot in the road nearby where his view north and south was unimpeded.
Indicating the EarthRoamer, Riker said to Benny, “Watch what that thing does next.”
Barely perceptible at first, the EarthRoamer’s left side began to lift up. After running for a few seconds, the second motor went silent. A beat later, with the rig already adopting a little bit of a sideways lean in the embankment’s direction, there was a soft hiss of air and the EarthRoamer’s right-side suspension began a slow, controlled collapse.
“You did speak prematurely,” Benny said. “Dude knows what he’s doing.”
Feeling a bit foolish for having doubted the crafty survivor in the first place, Riker flashed a pained grin in Benny’s direction. “I should have known he had something up his sleeve. What he’s doing is no different than altering ballast on a seagoing vessel.”
Benny said, “Like his ferry … what’d he call her?
Riker said. “Miss Abigail.” He paused. “Shorty named her after his late wife.”
“She had the big C,” Steve-O called.
“We still good, Eagle Eyes?” Riker asked.
“Coast is clear the way we just came. There is one monster walking and one crawling towards us from the overpass,” answered Steve-O. “But they’re still a long ways away.”
Riker craned to see past the pileup. Confirming Steve-O’s report, he directed his attention back to the EarthRoamer just in time to see it slow-roll onto the embankment.
Crossing his arms, Benny said, “He’s fuckin’ going for it.”
Keeping the driver-side tires tracking on the soft dirt just outside the frost-heaved shoulder, and with the passenger-side tires carving a deep furrow into the embankment, Shorty maneuvered the EarthRoamer around the pileup.
It was slow going, the rig bobbing to and fro as it crept along at a walking speed. And though Shorty’s close-up view of the road was likely similar to Riker’s when he had skirted the pileup in the Shelby, thanks to the EarthRoamer’s adjustable suspension, the towering vehicle was clearly in no danger of turning turtle on Shorty.
“That man,” said Benny, “has King-Kong-sized balls.”
“Shorty still has a small penis,” Steve-O said.
Riker removed his Braves cap. After beating it against his leg to shake the rain from it, he said, “I don’t think we need to go back down that road, Steve-O. Especially not in front of Shorty.”
Steve-O harrumphed. Planting his hands on his hips, he said, “Shorty made it. He’s on our side now.”
Once they reached the end of the clogged stretch of road there was a hissing noise and the EarthRoamer’s driver-side suspension began to compact. As the vehicle transitioned from the embankment to the southbound lane, maybe fifty feet from Riker and the others, the compressor motor started up again.
Slowly but surely, as the air Shorty had bled off before the maneuver was being pumped back into the passenger-side suspension, the vehicle crossed the shoulder and steered into the far lane.
By the time the EarthRoamer had come to a complete stop on the rain-slicked freeway, the compressor was silent, the ride height had returned to normal, and the vehicle was again sitting level with the road.
After seeing up close all the craftsmanship that had gone into the EarthRoamer, Riker was convinced he had seen it, or one just like it, on the cover of one of those extreme overlanding magazines he liked to thumb through at the QVC.
The big diesel ceased rumbling and the driver-door swung open.
The second Shorty poked his head out, in complete disregard of Riker’s warning, Steve-O blurted, “Looks like I was right about your penis, Shorty.”
If Shorty heard Steve-O, he didn’t let on.
Shooting Steve-O a look that all but screamed: Did you have to go there again? Riker greeted Shorty, saying: “Hell of an entrance.”
When Shorty took hold of the grab handle and climbed down to the road, he did so gingerly, favoring his left hand, which was wrapped with a blood-stained bandage.
Hand hovering near his Glock, Benny cast a suspicious, side-eye glance at Riker. Whispering, he asked, “How do we know he’s not infected with Romero?”
Shorty said, “Because I’m not infected with anything, Slim.” He reached up into the EarthRoamer’s footwell and came out with a stubby shotgun. “Long story on how I got this”—he showed off the bandaged hand—“but I assure you, it was not the work of a biter.” As if just the idea of being infected had put a bad taste in his mouth, Shorty spit a long stream of tobacco juice onto the road.
Still not sold on the middle-aged midget with the face only a mother could love, Benny regarded Riker. Still whispering, he asked, “You sure about this guy, Lee?”
Placing a hand on Benny’s shoulder, Riker said, “Stand down. He’s good people. Saved our lives more than once.”
Nodding emphatically, Steve-O said, “Lee’s right, Benny. Shorty let me drive Miss Abigail, too.”
Riker said, “Miss Abigail’s a boat. You pilot a boat, Steve-O.”
Ignoring the correction, Steve-O said, “Nice boots, Shorty! Where’d you get them?” He paused. Then, smile growing wider, he said, “Did you go to Dollywood?”
Resting the shotgun on his shoulder, Shorty said, “Nope.”
“Graceland?”
“Guess again.”
“Nashville?”
Shaking his head, Shorty said, “I got ‘em at a tack and feed store just outside of Thompson’s Station, Tennessee. They’re Stetson Outlaws. Hand-tooled. I figured they’d be right up your alley, so I picked you up a pair.”
Smile growing even wider, Steve-O pumped a fist.
Closing the door behind him, Shorty started across the lane toward Riker. His bib-style ski pants made a swishing sound as he walked. They were bright yellow and held up by the attached suspenders. Apparently a little bit on the long side, the pant legs were rolled up, leaving the fire-engine-red cowboy boots impossible to miss.
Perched on Shorty’s head, complete with a mesh back and perfectly shaped brim, was a black trucker’s-style hat. Booty Hunter was screened in red up front. Below the words, the image ubiquitous to anyone who had spent time on the road behind long haul rigs, was the silhouette of a buxom, seated woman. And in keeping with the hat’s theme, the crude caricature was encircled by red crosshairs.
Partially obscured by the bunched-up fabric of a wool button-up shirt was a shoulder holster containing a boxy black pistol. Clutched in Shorty’s right hand, its stunted barrel aimed groundward, was the Mossberg 590 Shockwave Riker had given him when they had all parted ways in Mississippi roughly two weeks ago.
Boot heels clicking on the road and a wide smile appearing on his face, Shorty quickly covered the distance to the Shelby.
Knowing that Shorty had likely spoken to Tara once he’d gotten within radio range of Trinity House, Riker spared the inquisition for later. While he wanted to hear how the rest of the country was holding up, he spread his arms wide, saying: “You finally made it to our neck of the woods.”
Shorty spread his arms wide, too, and wrapped them around Riker’s midsection.
The men slapped each other on the back then quickly disengaged.
“I was almost to your place and then I came up on a roadblock.”
“Couple of mega dump trucks?”
Shorty nodded. “Hailed Tara from there. She told me you’d gone south. I had no choice but to turn around and backtrack anyway. So here I stand.”
Riker said, “You think about going through Santa Fe’s suburbs?”
“Lots of biters,” Shorty said, grimacing. “No way I was chancing getting my ass trapped on some side street and becoming walker chow. So I went south to 25 and—”
“And here we all are,” Riker finished.
“And here we all are,” repeated Shorty. Looking to Steve-O, he said, “About your penis wisecrack. It ain’t the size of the boat, my friend.” He pumped his hips. “ It’s the motion of the ocean.”
Steve-O’s cheeks flushed red.
Regarding Benny, Shorty asked, “Where’s Scooby Doo, Shaggy? The biters come between you two?”
Glad to see that Shorty knew how to take it and dish it out, Riker smiled and shook his head.
Responding to Shorty’s barb, Benny said, “Never heard that one before, Napoleon. And now that we’ve got the insults out of the way … tell me how you heard what I said to Lee? The thing about you and Romero? I didn’t exactly say it through a bullhorn.”
Shorty said, “Jamie Sommers I am not.”
Benny furrowed his brow.
Catching the reference, Riker cupped a hand behind his ear and made a che-che-che sound with his mouth.
Reacting to the blank look on Benny’s face, Shorty said, “Does Bionic Woman ring a bell?”
Throwing Benny another bone, Riker said, “She’s that hot blonde with the bionic ear.” He paused. “Hearing so good she could hear a mouse pissing on a cotton ball from across the room.”
If Benny knew who Jamie Sommers was, he didn’t let on.
Finally, Shorty said, “I read lips, Slim. Spent a lot of time out on the water. Deep-sea fishin
g. Crabbing on the Bering sea. Captaining boats inside a nice warm glass-enclosed wheelhouse. It’s just a little something I picked up along the way.”
Only response out of Benny was, “Whatever, Napoleon. By the way, my name’s not Slim … or Shaggy, or whatever other slight you got loaded up.”
To break the Grand-Canyon-sized rift growing between the men, Riker interrupted and proceeded with long-overdue introductions. Finished, he said, “Now kiss and make up, fellas. It’s time to get to doing what we came here to do.”
As the men buried the hatchet, Riker instructed Steve-O to keep watch.
Finished shaking Shorty’s hand, Benny looked a question at Riker.
Handing Benny his Gerber multi-tool, Riker said, “Get the radios out of the Chief’s rig and the ambulance. Save as much of the wiring as possible.”
Taking the multi-tool, Benny drew his Glock and started off down the road, toward the Tahoe, all the while giving the grabby zombie in the crumpled sedan a wide berth.
Going up on his tiptoes, Riker called out to a retreating Benny, “Be careful, bro. I think there’s a biter in back of the ambulance, too.”
Benny acknowledged Riker with a wave of the hand holding the multi-tool.
Shorty asked, “What do you need me to do?”
“There’s a length of hose and a bunch of empty gas cans in back of Dolly. Why don’t you start siphoning fuel? I figure the Chief’s rig has a pretty deep tank. The ambulance, too. When you’re finished with that, we need to use that winch of yours to move a couple of these Jersey barriers.”
“No need for the hose,” Shorty said. “I’ve got a cool little toy in back of Marge. You can keep your cans. I’ve got plenty of those, too.”
Cocking his head, Riker said, “Who’s Marge?”
As Shorty strode off toward the EarthRoamer, he called, “It’s short for Large Marge. She’s the bad guy in Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure.”
Riker's Apocalypse (Book 3): The Precipice Page 9
