Dead America The Second Week (Book 12): Dead America, Heartland Pt. 5

by Slaton, Derek

  Dawson nodded. “I’ll be in touch.” He headed for the door, pausing at the bedroom to poke his head in. “Moss, we got a job, let’s go!” His companion exited immediately and the two men disappeared, leaving Copeland to stare out at the streets in the moonlight. Every once in awhile he’d catch a glimpse of movement, but it was impossible to tell how bad it really was out there. He shook his head. The moonlit city was deadly but beautiful.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Copeland did a lap around the living room, making sure that everyone was as comfortable as they could be and had everything they needed. The upper floors had been completely empty, but he hadn’t heard from Dawson and Moss in an hour. After he finished giving Martina a reassuring shoulder squeeze, he headed into the bedroom.

  “Sorry there, I know that stings,” Mack said gently as he stitched up a pretty nasty forearm cut on the man lying on the bed. “Won’t be too bad from here on out.”

  Copeland looked over his shoulder. “How we looking in here?”

  “These two have had a rough go of it,” Mack replied as he tied off the thread from his stitches, “but they’re tough.” He winked at the woman holding the man’s hand, and she smiled in return.

  “You going to be able to make it to the lobby?” the Sergeant asked.

  The man raised his chin defiantly, and despite him getting on in years, there was determination in his eyes. “Damn right we are, soldier boy.”

  “All right now,” Copeland said with a chuckle, holding up his palms. “That’s the last time I doubt you.”

  Mack clipped his thread and sat back from the bed. “There you are, good as new.” He smiled as the man pulled his sleeve down, and the two soldiers headed out of the bedroom and into the kitchen for some privacy.

  “His bravado aside, can they move?” the Sergeant asked quietly.

  “They might need some help on the stairs,” Mack admitted, “but they’ll make it.”

  Copeland checked his watch, and then nodded. “All right, make sure they’re ready, because it’s an hour and forty-five until pickup.”

  “Find anything upstairs?” Mack asked.

  The Sergeant shook his head. “Nothing good.” The pallor of his face told Mack not to press the issue, as Copeland avoided his gaze.

  “Hey Sarge, come in,” Dawson’s voice broke the silence, coming through the radio.

  The Sergeant lifted it to his lips. “There you are, Dawson,” he greeted. “Taking your sweet time, aren’t you?”

  “Had a lot of floors to check out,” the Corporal replied, not sounding annoyed in the slightest.

  “Any survivors?” Copeland asked.

  “About fifteen or so on three of the floors,” Dawson reported. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  The Sergeant sighed. “Why does it feel like you’re about to ruin my morning?” he asked.

  “You and Mack had better get down to the second floor,” the Corporal said firmly. “We have a situation.”

  Copeland took a deep breath. “On our way.” They turned to leave the kitchen, but Martina stood in the doorway.

  “You’re not leaving us, are you?” she asked, eyes wide.

  “Don’t worry,” Copeland said, offering a smile, “we’re just making sure the path to the lobby is clear. We have a ride coming at dawn to get you all out of here. Just sit sight, and we’ll be back.”

  She nodded, shuffling out of the way so they could make it to the door. She held the knob for a few minutes and stared at them in the hallway, and then closed it behind them with a strange sort of finality.

  The soldiers headed down to the second floor at a brisk pace, where Dawson and Moss were waiting for them in the stairwell.

  “How bad is it?” Copeland asked.

  Dawson licked his lips and cocked his head. “Depends on what you compare it to.” He opened the door from the stairs, revealing a catwalk hallway over the lobby. As they headed out onto the platform, they looked down to see fifteen or so zombies milling about the main area, barely paying any attention to the soldiers above.

  “That doesn’t look so bad,” Mack said with a shrug.

  Copeland smacked his shoulder and pointed. “Guess you didn’t see the front door.”

  Mack’s eyes flicked to the double doors, which had been completely destroyed. Instead of a nice safe barrier, there was a gaping hole where any number of zombies could wander through. And they weren’t just broken, they were completely bent on their hinges, beyond repair.

  “It’s going to be really difficult to get people out this way,” Dawson said.

  Mack rubbed his forehead. “What about another exit?”

  “Still going to have the same problem with zombies roaming free,” the Corporal replied. “It’s hard enough dealing with these things without having to worry about a civilian getting eaten.”

  Copeland stared down at the lobby, focusing on a large round marble table in the center that was about seven feet wide. “There’s our answer.” He pointed to it, and the soldiers turned to survey what he was looking at.

  “Great, let’s mow down these fuckers and get it moved,” Moss raised his rifle.

  The Sergeant shook his head. “No guns,” he said. “We have no idea what’s outside, and the last thing we want is a war in the lobby. We blade ‘em and patch that door up.”

  Dawson slung his rifle over his shoulder and drew his knife. “You heard the man,” he declared, “let’s go cut a motherfucker.”

  The soldiers headed back to the stairwell, but Copeland stayed on the catwalk.

  “Hey Sarge, you coming?” Mack asked.

  His superior turned and grinned at him. “You get them headed your way, I’ll drop in and say hello.”

  Mack smirked and gave him a little salute before disappearing into the stairwell. They quietly headed down to the first floor landing, did a silent countdown, and then flung open the door.

  As soon as it was open, Dawson dove out first, stabbing a corpse in the face to the right, and then gave a yell, attracting the attention of the rest of the lobby zombies.

  They moaned and shambled towards them, but from many directions, so it gave the soldiers lots of time to fan out, stab, and reset before reeling back to stay another. After they each dropped a few, the horde was starting to become denser, but just eight or so remaining.

  Copeland hopped over the barrier and hung from his hands, dropping the remaining few feet to the lobby floor. As he hit the carpet he drew his knife, and strolled over to jam it into the back of a corpse’s head. He quickly pulled it out and repeated the motion. The zombies hitting the carpet didn’t make barely any noise, so the others were still fixated on the other three and moved towards them.

  Copeland easily took out half a dozen this way, and the other three dodged and taunted the rest, downing the last few zombies without an issue.

  “Come on, we’ve gotta get that table,” Copeland said as the last corpse fell.

  They all rushed over to the large marble piece, a fantastic display for this high-end apartment complex, but even better as a barricade against the living dead. They strained to lift the heavy stone, even with the four of them, barely getting the legs off of the ground enough to move it without scraping against the ground.

  They shuffled slowly across the room, towards the busted doors, but as they got a few feet away, a zombie wandered inside.

  “Watch it, Sarge,” Mack warned.

  Copeland set down his corner, and then spun, sliding his blade into the creature’s eye socket. He caught the body on its way down and gave it a shove so it was out of the way of their path. He picked up his corner again, and they finally got the behemoth table close to the hole.

  The Sergeant skirted around to the back. “Tilt it up and push,” he instructed, and the quartet all braced themselves under the short edge and heaved up. They were able to get it up and up until it slammed against the door hole like a tomb. The thick tabletop and stone legs braced it perfectly, creating a zombie-resistant barrier.


  “I do believe this will work just fine,” Dawson said, swiping his palms together. “Good job.”

  “You boys start bringing people down,” Copeland said. “I’m going to keep watch on this door and give the good Captain a call. I’m sure he’s anxious for an update.”

  Dawson nodded and headed for the stairwell. “We’ll be down shortly.”

  The Sergeant waved and then picked up an overturned stool, setting it right and plonking himself down on it. He pulled out his radio and lifted it to his lips, turning the dial to the proper channel. “Captain Kersey, this is Sergeant Copeland,” he said. “Do you copy?”

  A few moments passed before there was a crackle and the Captain replied, “Have a status update for me, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir,” Copeland said. “Mission was a success. Twenty-one survivors, lobby is secure. Will be ready to move within the hour.”

  “Excellent news!” Kersey said, sounding happy for good reports. “We’re getting the trains in motion now, and I will keep you up to date on the progress.”

  “Well be ready, sir,” Copeland said.

  “Good job, Sergeant,” the Captain commended. “Kersey out.”

  Copeland clipped his radio back to his belt and let out a deep breath, allowing himself a small smile at the solid work he and his men had done.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Johnson lined up a shot on a zombie that struggled to stand on the backs of the corpses in front of it. He fired a precise shot just as the ghoul found its footing, blowing the back of its head clean out and sending it flying back to the ground with the others.

  He scanned the battlefield but didn’t see anything else moving. “I swear that blowing these heads apart never gets old,” he declared. There was no answer, and he turned to look at Baker, who was sound asleep using a mostly depleted ammunition bag as a makeshift pillow.

  Johnson chuckled and walked over, giving his friend a gentle kick to the shin.

  “Huh… what?” Baker murmured, eyes flying open. He sat up and looked around, clearly disoriented. “Yeah. I’m awake!”

  “Man, how in the hell are you able to sleep with all this gunfire going on?” Johnson asked, waving his arm around his head.

  Baker shrugged. “I’ve spent years listening to you yammer on,” he replied as he stretched his shoulders. “As a result, I can tune out anything.”

  “All right, I’ll give you that one,” Johnson replied.

  “Did we win the fight?” his friend asked, looking around some more.

  Johnson motioned to the interstate. “Take a look for yourself.”

  Baker grunted as he got to his feet, and took in the sight as the sun just began to peek over the horizon. The scene was gruesome, thousands of bodies laying in the road, mangled and mostly without heads. The carpet of corpses stretched back a few hundred yards, at least three deep. The bulk was on the north side, with only a few hundred or so having made it across the concrete barrier to the south side.

  “That is some wholesale slaughter,” Baker said, and let out a low whistle.

  Johnson nodded. “You ain’t joking.”

  “Maybe it’s just my pre-coffee brain talking, but dan, did we really wipe out most of a small town last night?” his friend asked, and rubbed his eyes.

  Johnson pursed his lips for a moment, taking it all in. “Yeah. I know. We’d usually reserve that shit for when we’d go on a bender.”

  Baker grinned, and then took a deep breath, clapping his hands together. “So, what’s our next stop?”

  “Just up the road a few miles,” his companion replied. “Another bridge job outside of some shitberg suburb.”

  “Oh goodie,” Baker said, rolling his eyes, “another full day of slaughtering thousands of those things.”

  Johnson shook his head. “Nah, this one shouldn’t be too bad. We’re just being a backstop for stragglers. Those reinforcement troops are the ones who are going to be going in.”

  “That’s a nice change of pace,” Baker admitted, scratching the back of his head. “Usually the Captain would have us right back into the thick of things.”

  Before his companion could say anything, horns honked in the distance. They both turned as headlights lit up the road.

  “Apparently he has some new troops he wants to put through the ringer,” Johnson said.

  Baker raised a victorious fist in the air. “Fine by me, they can have at it.”

  “Y’all hang tight!” Johnson called, waving to his teams standing on the barricades. “This should be our ammo.”

  The men all nodded or waved at him, and he led Baker to the edge of theirs to climb down. They moved cautiously through the zombie graveyard, and hopped over the concrete barrier to the south side of the interstate to meet the vehicles.

  There was a caravan of five trucks and SUVs that moved up the shoulder of the highway to avoid the bulk of the corpses. They came to a stop and some men jumped down, approaching the two soldiers.

  “Is one of you Johnson?” the lead man asked.

  The Private held up his hand. “Yeah, I’m Johnson, and this is Baker. Who are you?”

  “Corporal Herrera,” the man replied, holding out his hand to shake. “Captain Kersey sent me up here with a care package for you boys.” He looked over the battlefield after shaking hands, eyes impressed at the thousands of rotting corpses in the street. “Looks like y’all had a hell of a night.”

  “Wasn’t too bad,” Johnson replied with a grin. “Just a never ending stream of target practice.”

  Baker shrugged. “Only a few of them even got within ten yards of the trucks.”

  “Sounds like y’all had it better than we did,” Herrera said, crossing his arms.

  Johnson raised an eyebrow. “You one of the street cleaners?”

  The Corporal shook his head. “We were on the bridge.”

  There was a moment of silence and the Privates gave him a short nod. They’d heard about the issues with Gilbert, and didn’t want to dredge anything up.

  “Well, we appreciate you coming out here to drop off some ammo for us,” Johnson finally said. “We kinda burned through a lot last night.”

  Herrera motioned over his shoulder. “Well, don’t get too excited, because one of these truckloads is for us.”

  “Wait, you guys are the ones going to the Super Center?” Johnson asked, blinking in surprise.

  The Corporal nodded. “Yep,” he said flatly.

  Baker put a hand to his forehead. “Man, you guys just can’t catch a break, can you?”

  “Victim of our own success,” Herrera said.

  Baker barked a laugh. “It’s fun, ain’t it?”

  “That’s one way to put it,” the Corporal replied dryly.

  “Well come on,” Johnson said, motioning with his thumb, “we’ll show you to your trucks so we can hit the road.”

  “Afraid we’re gonna need about twenty minutes before we can do that,” Herrera said, holding up a hand.

  Johnson’s brow furrowed. “What for?”

  “That last truck has a metal cutting torch in it,” the Corporal explained. “We need to cut an escape hatch in the back of those trucks. Pretty sure where we’re going, there isn’t going to be time to unload properly.”

  The Private nodded. “All right. Let’s make it happen, then.” He turned and whistled to the men over in the southbound lanes. “Let’s get these things out of the way!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Herrera drove the first two trucks under the bridge before the interchange just outside of town. Johnson and his team stopped the next four under it, parking at an angle to cover the most ground.

  The caravan of trucks and SUVs with ammo followed behind them, two breaking off and taking the exit to the bridge. As they got to the top of it, there were a few zombies milling about but nothing too dense.

  One of the vehicles stopped at the near side of the bridge, and the other drove slowly across it. They pulled up to each zombie, rolling down the window to fire
a quick shot into the corpse’s head before moving to the next one. With no groups, it was quick and easy to dispatch them like this.

  On the far side, the SUV stopped and several troops jumped out to take up positions, looking out over the interstate. There was, miraculously, no movement as far as the eye could see.

  Herrera’s trucks stopped, and Johnson and Baker got out of theirs, heading over together.

  “You know where you boys are headed?” Johnson asked.

  The Corporal nodded. “A few exits up, then south a few blocks.”

  “If you say so.” Johnson chuckled. “They didn’t tell us shit.”

  Herrera barked a laugh. “Guess we’re calling someone else if we need a rescue.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Johnson continued, leaning on the truck casually, “could you do me a favor?”

  The Corporal shrugged. “If I can.”

  “When you hit the next exit, will you give me a shout and let me know how your commute went?” Johnson asked, motioning with his hand to their route. “Always like to stay up to date on the latest zombie traffic.”

  Herrera nodded. “Sure thing,” he said. “Hang out in the truck cab and I’ll hit you up on channel twelve on the CB.”

  “Appreciate it.” Johnson grinned. “Now you boys be safe!”

  The Corporal shook his head and barked another laugh as he clambered back up into his seat. “Yeah, no promises there.” He waved and then popped the truck into gear, leading his two-truck team towards their destination.

  They rumbled down the interstate, and there wasn’t a lot of zombie traffic, just a few roaming about and not much aside from a handful of cars wrecked on the side of the road. Herrera drove at a modest thirty miles per hour, worried that hitting a bump would send his men in the back flying up to the ceiling.

  He reached the exit and slowed down, making the turn. As he got to the top, he pulled the CB from its holster.

  “Hey Johnson, you read me?” he asked.

  The Private came back almost immediately. “Yeah, come on back there, good buddy!” he declared.