Moments ago, after starting his watch timer running, Steve-O had launched the drone and set it flying off on an easterly course. Keeping it just above treetop level, he had followed the curve of the boulevard until the drone was out of sight.
Now, forced to track the drone’s progress solely via the crystal-clear image being beamed back to the screen before him, he cut the speed in half and said, “I’m turning at the next street and coming back up beside the mall.”
Craning to see past the brim of Steve-O’s hat, Shorty said, “Look out for traffic signals and power poles. And you should probably—”
Cutting Shorty off, Steve-O said, “Don’t be a back-seat pilot, Shorty.” He activated the drone’s auto-hover feature, dropped his feet to the floorboard, and turned in his seat. “I can’t concentrate with you yammering on. Please. Be. Quiet.” He continued with the flint-hard stare until Shorty said, “Fine. Fine. I’ll zip it, sit back, and watch the master do his thing.”
Satisfied with the answer, Steve-O went back to his flying posture: feet on the dash, head bowed, a laser-like focus on what was taking place on the tiny screen.
Steve-O had just started the drone on the return leg of the flight when the camera picked up movement through the treetops. Trudging uphill, dead center on the gently arcing thoroughfare south by east of the mini-mall, was a large knot of dead things.
“Let’s see what kind of monsters we have here.” Face a mask of concentration, Steve-O flew the drone over the heads of the zombies, spun a crisp one-eighty, then stopped it fifty feet ahead of the lead zombie and engaged auto-hover.
The group was at least twenty strong, the men and boys among them wearing dark slacks and button-up shirts, the women white dresses and colorful tops. All of them bore the telltale signs of a ferocious zombie attack: purple-rimmed bite wounds to the hands and arms. Hands missing fingers and thumbs. White cartilage ringing a blood-crusted orifice where an ear used to be.
One of the men had had his throat torn wide open, the jagged mouth-like vertical wound opening and closing with each step.
Leading the group was a young undead teen. Dark, braided hair and brown eyes contrasted sharply with her elaborate white dress. A sheen of blood coated her lips, chin, and neck—it presented as crimson on her talc-white skin and reddish-black where it had sluiced over the dress’s ruffles and pleats.
“Reminds me of Aunt Bea’s wedding,” observed Steve-O. “Only this bride is way too young to get married.”
Breaking his oath of silence, Shorty said, “I think we’re looking at the sad ending to that girl’s quinceañera. It’s a coming-of-age party Hispanic and Latino families throw for their daughters on their fifteenth birthday. Kind of like we throw a sweet sixteen party here in the States.” He paused for a moment as he was ambushed with memories of his missing daughter, Megan. Finally, tone all business, he asked, “What do you think, Ace? Can you lead them away with your toy?”
Steve-O flashed a tight smile at Shorty, “It’s not a toy.” Regarding the screen, he said, “I shall do my best.”
Vern’s Hardware and Garden was locked down tight as a tourniquet, every window covered with half-inch-thick plywood, heavy-duty lag bolts securing the sheets at every corner. A liberal amount of what looked to be masonry screws were used all around the edges. The screws had been countersunk so deep into the brick façade that Riker doubted he could slip a sheet of paper under the plywood, let alone the jaws of the pneumatic spreading tool.
Whoever riot-proofed Vern’s had had everything inside the hardware store at their disposal. No wonder the place was sealed up like Fort Knox.
The front door was recessed in a shallow alcove. The only chinks in the storefront’s armor were a horizontal mail slot inset waist-high in the door and a half-inch-wide space that had been left between the plywood sheeting and the top of the door’s brushed-aluminum frame.
Riker looked the length of the walk bordering the storefronts. Seeing he was all alone, he entered the alcove, pressed up against the door, and stood on his tiptoes.
Stretched to full extension, he was able to reach the sliver of window and peer inside the store.
Instead of seeing ghostly outlines of shelves full of product and displays beckoning from the gloom, he saw a pair of eyes staring back at him. For a moment he thought he was seeing his own eyes being reflected back at him. A half-beat later he realized the color was all wrong. While his eyes were dark brown, the eyes in the narrowed gaze staring back were a brownish-green he thought was called hazel.
On the back half of that heartbeat, the eyes disappeared and Riker felt something pressing hard against his crotch.
A disembodied voice said, “Freeze!” It was definitely male. Deep and raspy. Maybe a smoker. It carried a hint of a Brooklyn accent. A little like one of those mobsters in the black-and-white gangster movies Tara couldn’t get enough of.
Riker said, “About all a guy can do when his family jewels are about to be blown off.” He let the AR dangle from its sling, placed both empty hands in front of the mail slot, then went on, saying: “I’m just going to reach into my pocket, take out my radio, and call someone I think you’re going to want to hear from.”
Through the door, Riker heard the ubiquitous crunch-crunch sound of a shotgun slide being racked and felt a notable increase in the pressure being put on his manhood. He was sweating now. Funny how a mechanical sound no human alive liked to hear could instantly shock the primal part of the brain awake.
Eyes watering, Riker prayed that the person holding the shotgun had the sense to have his trigger finger outside of the trigger guard.
The male voice said, “Go ahead. But you do anything stupid, you’ll be forever singing soprano.”
Chapter 36
Lia spoke with Riker over the two-way radio, retrieved the requested items from the center console, then exited the Shelby.
Standing on the sidewalk beside the pickup, armed with only Olympic-caliber stamina and a sub-five-second forty-yard-dash time, Lia locked her gaze on Vern’s. For some reason, Lee was still facing the boarded-over door, radio clutched in one hand, both hands held high above his head.
Why so vague over the radio? she thought as she picked her way through the ankle-high shrubs in the dirt strip bordering the lot. With nothing standing between her and the sidewalk fronting the businesses, she stole one last look at Benny in the Shelby. Seeing a thumbs-up, she stepped onto the lot and made a mad dash for Vern’s.
Arriving on the sidewalk in front of Vern’s a couple of seconds after leaving the safety of the Shelby, Lia ducked into the shadowy alcove and put a hand on Riker’s shoulder. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Remaining statue-still, Riker said, “Look down.”
She moved closer and peered around Riker. Gasping, she said, “Is that a gun?”
A subtle nod, then Riker said, “I hope you know the man with his finger on the trigger.”
Crouching before the door, Lia said, “Is that you, Vern? It’s me, Amelia. The spider plant lady.”
Instantly the shotgun barrel retreated back into the mail slot. As it did so, the hinged door slapped down over the mail slot.
As Riker felt the pressure being put on his package by the muzzle suddenly removed, every muscle in his body relaxed. If he had been holding back a bowel movement, no doubt he would have shit his pants on the spot.
Turning to face Lia, he said, “Did you bring the stuff I asked for?”
She reached into a vest pocket and came out with the purple Crown Royal sack. It was heavy in her hand, the gold drawstring coiled around the bulging sack. As she dropped it into Riker’s awaiting hand, there was a dull clank and the items inside shifted to fit the contours of his massive palm.
“And the list?”
She produced a square of folded paper from another pocket.
Riker took the list and shoved it through the mail slot. Next, he went to work loosening the sack’s drawstring.
While Riker fought the tangle of strin
g, Lia lifted the mail flap. “This guy is my friend.”
The voice said, “Your friend was casing my store.”
“We were hoping you were still open,” she lied. “To be honest, I’m amazed you’re still here. Shouldn’t you be at home with your wife?”
“My love has been gone for a year now,” answered the disembodied voice. “That’s why I’m always working. Figure the moment I retire, I’ll die a second time. But this time for real, not just on the inside.”
Lia said, “You’re all alone in there?”
“That’s correct.”
Voice softening, she stated, “It’s not safe for you here.”
“I know,” he said. “Did you see what they did to the pet store? Took everything but the shelves. And Ms. Nguyen’s salon. It’s a complete loss. I don’t want that to happen to my place. I want to still have a business when the country opens back up. Still have a purpose.”
“I hate to break it to you, Vern. But—”
Riker put a hand on Lia’s shoulder. Squeezed gently and mouthed, “Let me talk to him.”
Addressing Vern through the door, she raised her voice and said, “This is Leland Riker. He goes by Lee.” Looking to Riker, she added, “Lee Riker, meet my friend, Vern.”
Riker said, “Pleased to meet you, Vern. I’d shake your hand, but this mitt is not going make it through the slot of yours.”
Lia whispered, “Ask him where his son is. He worked here, too.”
“Amelia says your son works here with you. Is he in there now?”
Even through the door, Riker and Lia heard Vern exhale. After a beat, he said, “We were watching the place in shifts. Alternating between here and my home.” He paused. “That place was going to be his one day. Hell, so was this store. All of it… his. And he had to go and get bit.”
Riker finally succeeded in opening the sack. Pouring some of its contents into his palm, he said, “I bet that’s his Jeep.”
“I told him not to drive it, what with the soft top and all,” lamented Vern. “But he’s hardheaded, just like his father.”
Riker crouched down. “I’m sorry for your loss, Vern.” A brief pause. “That list I gave you … I have a proposition. Sounds like you’re in it for the long haul. Determined to wait this thing out. Reopen when the authorities get things sorted. Am I right?” As he spoke, he could feel Lia’s eyes on him.
“I remember the riots in Los Angeles,” Vern said. “The Korean shop owners defending their stores against all comers. Can’t blame them. It’s the same with me. Hell, I’ll be seventy day after Christmas. Boxing day. This store is all I have now. I’m going to need something to keep me busy when everything gets back to normal.”
Clearly, normalcy bias has a firm grip on the man, thought Riker. Either that or the man knew something that Riker didn’t.
Riker held his open hand in front of the slot. In his palm was a gold Krugerrand and two rectangular pieces of gold that, at first glance, looked a lot like cell phone SIM cards.
Vern said, “What’s this?”
“This is an ounce and a half of pure gold. Gold was last trading north of two thousand dollars. The New York Stock Exchange was tanking so badly, people were fleeing to gold. I can imagine it doubling or tripling by the time the National Guard gets the dead rounded up. It’ll probably double again when they develop a vaccine against the virus. Then when the vaccine is perfected and President Tillman starts opening everything back up, the sky’s the limit. Doubt if we’ll ever go back to fiat currency. The gold standard will return and this gold in my hand will be worth ten, maybe twelve grand. More than enough to keep your place humming along until everything gets back to normal.”
Sounding hopeful, Vern said, “By the time a vaccine is perfected? They really have one in the works?”
Riker felt Lia’s hand on his shoulder. She was squeezing hard to get his attention. As he cocked an ear toward her, she whispered, “Do not lie to him.”
Hoping white lies didn’t count in her book, Riker said, “I didn’t hear it from a reputable source, but you’d have to imagine one is in the works. We’re America. We have the CDC and AMRIID.”
“I looked at your list,” Vern said. “I have most of this. The dog food you’ll have to find elsewhere. The chainsaw will have to be a Stihl model. It’s all I carry. All I trust. As for the solar sidewalk lights. Why on God’s green earth would you need three dozen of those?”
“It’s for a home project,” Riker said. “I’m not greedy, Vern. I’ll take however many you have.”
“So why would you give me what could end up being ten thousand dollars worth of gold for goods worth a third of that?”
“Supply and demand,” Riker said. “We’re not looters. I pay my way in life. Always have. Bottom line, Vern, is that you have what we need.”
There was a long pause. Then Vern said, “My gut tells me you’re on the level. Plus, Amelia seems comfortable around you. Nothing’s forced.”
Lia’s grip on Riker’s shoulder loosened.
Vern went on, “If you do something for me, Leland Riker, we have a deal. And I’m only going to take the Krugerrand off your hands. I always wanted one of those—”
Bowing his head, Riker said, “What is it?”
Vern said, “I need you to check on my son.”
Lia said, “I thought Shane got bit.”
“Yes, he did,” Vern said. “It’s what killed him. The infection was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It burned him up at the end.”
“Where is his body?”
Vern stuck a finger out the slot. Pointing to Riker’s left, he said, “In the pet store. I put him on a four-wheeled dolly, rolled him down there, and pushed his body through the door.” After another long pause, in a funereal voice, he said, “It was a cop-out, what I did. Now I can’t help but think that he probably came back as one of them.”
Confident the shadowy form milling about in the gutted pet store’s deep, dark recesses was Vern’s undead son, Riker said, “I know it’s a hard thing to do at a time like this, but I’m going to need you to try to describe your son for me. Tell me what he was wearing when he finally … ” He let the obvious go unsaid.
There was the sound of the door lock being thrown then the door sucked inward. Vern was standing there, hazel eyes flicking between Riker and Lia. He was wearing cotton khakis and a blue polo. A hat with the store’s logo was pulled down low on his head. On his feet were well-worn black leather jungle boots. In a low, wavering voice, he said, “Shane’s about six-one. He has… uh, he had sandy-brown hair. It was graying a little on the sides. Mustache had gone a bit gray, too. At the end he had on cargo shorts and flip flops. He wore those damn rubber things year-round. Oh”—he met Riker’s gaze—“he got real cold at the end so I dressed him in his favorite sweater. It was a Christmas one.” Vern chuckled. “A real natty thing with the Grinch and his sad little rein-doggy on front of it. He liked to wear it around the store because it made me laugh. He was always trying to do something to take our minds off all that was happening. There was the constant reporting on the terrorist attacks in New York and Logan airport. Then the FEMA facilities started going up downtown and at the airport. The governor’s lockdown was the last straw. When they—”
Riker interrupted. “I’ll do it. I’ll check on Shane. What do you want me to do if, God forbid, he is one of them?”
“A vaccine only works up front,” Vern said. He seemed to have regained some of the clarity he had displayed upon opening the door. The spark was back in his eyes. Shaking his head, he added, “It’s too late for my boy. You do what you have to do, Leland. Destroying the brain is the only sure-fire way to put one of them things down.” He pinched tears from his eyes. “I was weak. I’ve put down my fair share of those things before Shane … I just couldn’t bring myself to do it to my own flesh and blood.”
Riker said, “I get it, Vern. I really do.” A sudden flood of emotion hit him. A tremor rocked his body. Then the headache was back, bringing wi
th it a bout of dizziness.
Vern said, “Thank you. And you be careful. While you’re gone, we’ll start rounding up the stuff on your list.”
In response, Riker placed all three pieces of gold in Vern’s palm. “Take it all,” he insisted.
Before Vern could object, the radio in Riker’s pocket came alive. It was Shorty. Voice sounding strained, he said, “Look alive. You’ve got about two dozen biters coming your way.”
Chapter 37
Poking his head from the shadowy alcove, Riker fished the radio from his pocket and quickly stabbed a finger on the Talk button. Gaze locked on the distant boulevard, he whispered, “I hear you, Shorty. I don’t see them from here.” He rolled the volume down and opened the channel.
Shorty came back right away. “They’re just down the street from the pet store. Half a block south and moving your way.”
Riker said, “I just made a deal for supplies. Can you buy us some time? Maybe use the drone to distract them. Even better, see if Steve-O can use the drone to turn them around and lead them away.”
Shorty came back right away. “Steve-O already tried that. He’d get their attention with the drone. Half of them would turn around and lock eyes on it, but every time he started them moving back the way they came, low-hanging tree limbs would get in the way of the drone. He tried three times. Each time he gained altitude to clear the branches, the damn things lost interest and resumed their previous heading.” There was a brief pause. “Then there’s the battery issue. Steve-O says the level is dropping faster in this one than the first. He thinks he’s about to lose the drone, so he’s bringing it home.”
Exasperation showing in his tone, Riker said, “Thing’s probably made in China.” He let go of the Talk button and spit a couple of choice curse words. Then, over the radio, he asked, “So, Shorty, how long do we have?”
Riker's Apocalypse (Book 3): The Precipice Page 23
