The man we approached was stocky and grungy. He hadn't shaved in days, and his dirty hair was matted. He looked to be in his early to mid-forties, about five feet ten and two hundred pounds. His t-shirt and jeans were dingy and rumpled. When he moved it was with obvious difficulty, and his left leg looked to be stiff and unwieldy.
We stopped ten feet away. "Thanks for returning our truck. Where’s the crew that was in it?"
"You mean the pretty gal with nice big knockers, that wetback Mexican, and the short, stout fella?" He smirked and made a nasty sound. "If you want them back alive, you'll fill this trailer with food and ammo. In two days, they'll come back in the truck. Otherwise, the dudes get beat and stomped and the woman gets screwed ‘til she can't take no more. Then we'll throw ’em all out to the zombies."
Junior stepped forward until I extended my arm to hold him back.
Scumbag grinned sardonically and laughed. "If I know Rance, he's probably drooling right now just thinking about gettin' in her panties."
Junior cursed, surged forward again and pulled his sidearm. I grabbed his right arm and pulled him back. I outweighed him by forty pounds, but his determined momentum pulled me forward a step. "Hold on, Junior, don't do anything rash. Holster your gun." Junior cursed and pulled his arm away but complied.
The scumbag smiled around cruddy teeth. "If I ain't back by dark, your fellas are gonna be kicked and stomped hard, and the real fun starts with the gal. So you need to control that hotheaded punk, and get to loading."
"How about if we decide to make you tell us where our friends are?"
"Look at me up close, pussy." He raised the front of the t-shirt up high on his chest to show broad, ugly red scars. "I was tortured for six months in Iran by experts." He turned around and raised the back of the shirt. The gross scar tissues were in big ugly patches that extended from his shoulders to his pants where the skin had been peeled off in strips. "They didn't make me talk, but if you think you've got the gonads to do more than they did, go ahead and try. But in about twelve hours your friends start dying."
I turned to Junior. "He's got the winning hand, so we'll give him what he wants."
I stepped closer to, scumbag. "How do you want to do this?"
"The trailer stays right here. You can load stuff in pickups or on a flatbed trailer and haul it out here and load it for me. Now let's get moving ’cause I'm going in to see what you've got that I want. Go! Time’s a wasting. And I want ammo, lots of ammo."
I harshly pushed the scurrilous trash back three feet and moved to stand toe to toe. "You're not going near our building, scumbag. You'll get half of what we have, no more." I drew my Glock and stuck it to his forehead. "You can take my offer, or I'll kill you right here and take my chances on finding my friends."
He glared at me and stared into the depth of the hatred in my eyes. Slowly he turned away as he backed down.
Junior muttered and smacked his left fist into his right palm as we walked back to our building. I was silent, thinking. Inside, our people gathered, and we relayed the ultimatum to them. As a whole, they didn't like it anymore than Junior and I had. I discussed the plan I'd thought of as I walked, and then I spoke to our law officer, Martin Radcliff Sr. He nodded and threw a grim half smile. He had the equipment to carry out my plan. We'd have two or three hours to implement it as the trailer was loaded. Shane directed crews to start hauling canned food and ammo out to the scum driving our equipment. I took Shane aside. "I'm certain from what scumbag hinted at that all three hostages are already being abused. The men may be dead, or they could be by the time we find them. Kira might even be getting raped as we speak. Make sure your crew understands how serious this is and what we might find if and when we get there. We're dealing with animals, so we're going in with no holds barred, and we're not taking any prisoners. If they want a war, we'll give it to them. Bring lots of ammo."
The trailer was fully loaded when I confronted Scumbag before he got in the truck cab. "If any harm comes to our people, we'll search for you until we find you. Think about that before you harm any of them."
He gave me the same nasty smirk as he settled into the driver's seat. "That's tall talk for a guy that's got no idea of where I'm going or how big a force is there waiting for me. See ya."
Seven of us stood helplessly as the scumbag thief cut a wide circle through the alfalfa and back onto the gravel road. When he was far enough off to not see my stern expression, I turned to Shane. "Let's do it. Is everybody ready?"
Shane somberly nodded. "Yeah, everybody we wanted volunteered. That no good bastard driving away is mine to deal with."
Junior wore motocross gear as he straddled a black 450cc Kawasaki dirt bike. He started the engine as we approached and let it warm. It had been modified with customized mufflers to suppress the exhaust noise, so it wouldn't draw the attention of zombies. Two pickups waited, fueled and ready to roll with five people in each. Shane got in the driver’s seat of the first truck, and I rode shotgun in the second truck with Maria Gonzales driving. Right off I noticed she wore her black leather racing gloves. I hadn't seen them in awhile. Junior waved and took off in a cloud of dust and gravel with the front wheel pulled high off the ground. I swear I heard a high-pitched rebel call come through the confining black helmet.
A tracking transmitter had been stealthily inserted into one of the last boxes loaded in the trailer, and Junior wore one in his clothes. Martin Radcliff held the receiver on his lap in the first truck. Junior would keep the truck and trailer in sight, and make sure our pickups didn't get close enough to be seen. He had the most dangerous role because of the high risk of zombie attacks. But Martin Sr. wasn't overly concerned about his son being attacked and caught by zombies because the seventeen-year-old had won every motocross competition he'd entered since he was ten. If he couldn't out maneuver the stumbling undead no one could. While I was good on a bike, Junior was fantastic.
My main concern for him was the fast zombies we kept seeing in increasing numbers. Those moved a lot quicker than the others, albeit in jerky uncoordinated moves. Some fraction of the monsters must be mutating or evolving in someway. When Carl Schafer was infected by a fast mover, he became one of them within a minute. Their numbers might be growing exponentially by the month. But then I reasoned, the increase might not be that dramatic because few uninfected humans remained.
An added danger was that the kidnappers could have people watching to see if we'd follow Scumbag. Then Junior could be captured or killed. As I got in the truck, I gave Ed Jarnigan a thumbs up sign.
He replied, "God speed," and gave me a knowing and reassuring wink above a broad smile.
Junior and each of our rescue trucks carried radios with a two mile range. A maximum range of two miles; if a big hill came between two radios the operators might be lucky to communicate a mile apart. Martin Sr. stayed in occasional radio contact with Junior for four hours. We ran fifty MPH and had traveled well into Missouri when Junior called.
Loudly he blurted over the radio. "I got too close and had to lay the Kaw down in a ditch. Zombies are charging—"
The sound of gunshots shocked us into action. Both of our trailing trucks increased speed to one hundred MPH and precariously dodged debris on the roadway.
“— from an abandoned house beside the road. Hurry, I'm in deep shit."
We heard more gunshots before he released the send button, and the radio went dead. My guts tightened at the thought that we might have lost Junior.
Forty-five seconds later, the drivers braked hard to slow and stop. The undead still standing had advanced to within six feet of Junior as he changed magazines in his .45 caliber Glock 41. At least seven zombies littered the ground between his bike and a dilapidated shack thirty feet from the road. Junior fired again as he scurried backward toward us. Eight heavily armed men and women exited the two trucks. Before our ground crew could act, two sharpshooters laid waste to the remaining three zombies from the moon roof openings. I counted ten of the undead on the grou
nd besides the last three. The youngster did great considering the semiautomatic had a thirteen round magazine capacity. Junior waved, kick started the bike, put his gloves on, adjusted the helmet, and took off like a missile to catch our target. We were glad to quickly get in the trucks and follow Junior with the windows down to get rid of the stench of the undead we'd been too close to.
We continued south on Highway 63 for another hour. I wondered if Scumbag had been delayed by the undead we'd encountered or if he had merely stirred them up as he blasted through a minute ahead of Junior. So many rotting corpses littered the ground it was impossible to know which might have been fresh kills.
Junior called again. An encounter with a large group of zombies north of Columbia, Missouri, slowed him down as he detoured to evade them, and he'd lost precious minutes. He hadn't caught up to Scumbag before he reached the I-70 intersection. The scumbag in our truck could have turned east or west. We'd gotten too far back from the target for Martin Sr. to pull in a signal from the tracking device. I couldn't let my thoughts dwell on what would happen to our kidnapped friends if we'd lost the scumbag leading us to them.
Shane and I quickly agreed his truck would head east on I-70, and my crew would drive west. We'd drive as fast as possible for ten minutes, and then we'd reverse direction if we didn't catch up to our stolen equipment. Junior would continue south on 63. All three groups would lose radio contact and be on its own and left to its own methods. I held faith in the decisions Shane and Junior would make, but I was concerned about leaving Junior on his own again without backup for the time we'd be separated.
Before we reached the I-70 interchange, we met the same horde of zombies Junior had eluded. Upon hearing and seeing our trucks, they lumbered out to the highway en masse. Our trucks stopped side by side a hundred yards from the undead biters. All ten of us exited, took firing positions, and spent a minute on target practice. With all of the zombies down, both trucks zigzagged around and over the putrid hulks as we continued to the interchange. Running over the half-rotted undead had a downside. When we returned, the trucks would have to be driven through our custom designed deluge truck wash unit to remove any trace of undead flesh and organs.
Our truck leaned hard to the left as Maria hit the curved exit onto I-70 West as fast as she dared. As she left the approach lane, she cranked the speed up past one hundred MPH and held it there. No one cautioned her as she chased after the link to her husband's wellbeing and ultimately to his life. Several times she had to slow to sixty to dodge cars and other debris abandoned on the roadway. Finally, after the agreed-to ten minutes, Maria made a squalling turn, crossed the median and headed back to Columbia at high speed to get us back on 63 South. The fact she'd been a consistent winner in women's stock car racing several years in the past was the reason I chose her to drive.
Shane's truck wasn't in sight as we sped through town ignoring a few groups of zombies that shuffled out to eat us. We didn't see Junior's motorcycle along the way and figured he'd blasted past the dotardly monsters before they could react to him.
Before reaching the outskirts of town, we encountered eleven of the rotted undead spread across the road blocking our way. They stumbled toward us moaning and shrieking and flexing their fingers in hopes of getting a few bites at our flesh. Several rotting corpses lay scattered behind them. I wondered how long they'd lain there and if Junior had shot them or Scumbag had been delayed by them. Our truck stopped and a sniper stood up through the truck's moon roof panel and made quick work of exploding their diseased brains until they collapsed in the street with the other garbage of their kind. We continued south gaining speed again through the smelly carnage. In hindsight, I often had to stop and remind myself those had once been humans.
Maria again drove like hell, and I occasionally called for Junior on the radio. Twenty-five miles south of Columbia I received a reply, but it wasn't from Junior.
"Ed here. I've got Junior in sight. I heard your exchange about splitting up and raced ahead to cover him."
Ed's crew left the compound thirty minutes after our main group with the intention of trapping anyone following us when he caught up to us.
Ed continued, "We're clear. No one followed you or we would have seen them. We got close to you once, heard you on the radio then backed off. We stayed in radio range listening to your chatter but kept silent."
I'd watched throughout the drive as Maria monitored the rear-view-mirror closely. We were again on track. A few minutes later we entered Jefferson City.
Maria said, "A lone pickup is gaining on us. It's black like Shane's truck."
Martin called then to let us know they were friendlies. Shane passed us and Ed's truck and took the lead so Martin Sr. could monitor the tracking signals. We took Highway 50/63 East out of town, and then we turned south on 63 again.
My crew appeared sluggish from the tight and extended confinement in the truck cab. God knows I was. After eight hours of sitting my butt was tired. No one had nervously cracked jokes or spoke for the past hour. I knew they were all worried. I thought of our missing crew members and hoped they hadn't been harmed. No one had vocalized their fears in detail, but I knew them well enough to know their thoughts traveled the same tracks as mine. That was the reason every last person in our building had volunteered for this mission.
An hour later we turned west onto US 44. A few minutes later, the radio squawked and Junior said, "Dad, south onto Highway T."
Martin replied, "Gotcha."
We turned onto the twisting, hilly, two-lane blacktop road and drove for forty minutes.
Junior spoke excitedly, "Ha, Dad, I've got a big buck off to my left. He's so big he's kicking up dust when he prances."
Several seconds later, Martin Sr. replied, "Gotcha, stay in your blind and don't shoot until it's closer."
I saw by confused looks that four of us were lost after listening to the exchange. I asked, "What the hell was that about?"
John Alton's eyes twinkled and he laughed before he spoke, "Junior's pretty damn clever. He just told us the deer he's after, our truck, turned left onto a gravel or dirt road and kicked up dust. Then Martin replied for him to stay in his blind. I assume that meant to take cover. The rest was probably just playing along."
I was serious when I told the people in my crew, "Get ready, we're close."
Our three trucks pulled to the side of the road and all fifteen of us stepped out to stretch during an impromptu meeting. Several were positive the kidnappers would have a sentry stationed close to the turnoff and a means of warning the main group of an imminent attack. Everyone nodded. Martin said the receiver showed the first transmitter had turned left about three-fourths of a mile ahead. Junior looked to be about three-eighths of a mile from us on the right side of the road.
I didn't want our people walking into a trap; we didn't know what size group we were up against; they could be five or fifty strong. After a short discussion, we speculated the group would likely be small because no one had been assigned to follow us. But we didn't know that for sure. We parked the trucks off the highway behind a ridge and locked them. Sixteen of us, including Junior, would spring the assault on the kidnappers. We split into two teams with Shane's crew on the left side of the road and my bunch on the right side.
Fifteen minutes later, Junior joined my team and took his customized AK47 from Jeff Tanka. We cautiously continued. We maintained radio silence for the remote chance the kidnappers might have electrical power and were running a radio scanner. We assumed we were close to them, and we didn't want to lose the surprise advantage we had. My crew spread out to the right and left of me, and we progressed slowly looking for sentries. I heard three quick clicks from a transmit button that were loud and clear in my earpiece. I raised my hand and whistled sharply for everyone to stop. Shane had used the agreed signal to indicate his crew had found the enemy. We waited for five tense minutes. All of us peered into the brush and ahead at the mature old growth trees looking for kidnappers on our side of the blac
ktop road. I smiled as two radio clicks were followed by three more. Shane's crew had found two sentries, and both were terminated.
Ours is a harsh new world and we live by vigilante protocols. Enemies who attempt to harm or murder us are dealt with severely because we don't have the luxury of confining and feeding them for years of extended punishment.
We continued for a short distance through a line of trees between the road and a field on our right. We soon reached the gravel road our truck and trailer had traversed less than an hour ago. A light breeze blew, and the air felt sharp and crisp. My crew crossed the highway quickly in single file. We huddled amongst the trees expectantly.
Shane stood in the middle of our group. "There are nine more men besides the guy who drove our truck. They're holed up in a two-story solid-stone building about a quarter of a mile down this gravel road. It's approximately thirty or thirty-five feet square, and there are windows on all four sides. It's their main facility. To the left of it are three old wooden sheds and a large metal pole-barn. The barn is where they store all their supplies."
I knew Shane's interrogation methods from having spent five years in Delta Force with him. Before dying the enemy had likely been 'strongly encouraged' to cooperate.
"This could be bad," I said. "We don't have anything with us to breach stone walls. When we get there lay and wait. Remember our people are captive in there. If we attack while the kidnappers are inside that stone building, they'll likely threaten to kill our friends if we don't surrender. Once we learn what the situation is, we'll regroup if necessary.
"Stay in the two groups we have. My crew crosses to the right side of the gravel road and Shane's crew works the left. It's still light enough for them to be unloading the trailer into their pole-barn. Maybe we can catch the whole group outside. Watch for our people because they might be forced to help unload."
Outnumbered series Box Set | Vols. 1-6 Page 4