With the Zs silenced and the noisy bird out of the picture, Duncan picked up on an out of place noise coming from the far end of the roadblock. A soft rushing sound. Like a faucet left on in a service station bathroom prone to echo.
Confident the white noise didn’t represent an immediate threat, he cut a length of fabric from the female zombie’s shirt and cleaned his blade with it.
Holding the M4 at a low-ready, he parted the ferns bordering 39’s eastbound lane and made his way to the beaten path he knew was there. Looking down, he saw a familiar pattern pressed into the soft soil. He followed the imprints west for a couple dozen yards, passing cleanly cut stumps and crushed vegetation along the way.
Well before Duncan reached the end of the trail where the tracks he was following made a hard right turn, he realized the noise he’d been hearing was swift moving water. Pushing aside a clutch of bushes bearing tiny red berries, he saw all the way to the bottom of a thirty- or forty-foot drop. What had recently been a dry creek bed littered with dozens of zombie corpses was now a thirty-foot-wide torrent of turbid water choked with deadfalls and even more zombie corpses. Pale, bloated appendages beat the rocky banks. Whether the rhythmic movements could be attributed to a still-functioning corpse, or just the by-product of the hydraulic energy, Duncan couldn’t tell.
He lifted his gaze and studied the bridge crossing the defile. It was blocked on the east end by the chest-high jumble of fallen timbers that ran away a hundred feet or more off his right shoulder. The guardrails bordering 39 leading up to the bridge had taken a beating when Daymon felled the first trees. They were bent and bowed, the once-white paint scratched and bleeding streaks of ochre-red rust.
Where Duncan expected to see dozens of undead pressing against the horizontal timber, he saw what he guessed to be more than a hundred. And they all stood between him and the battered white Land Cruiser left behind after the last trip to Huntsville.
Out of the pan and into the fire.
Duncan scrutinized the swollen creek. No way Glenda climbed down the slick rock face falling away from the edge near his feet. If she had and survived, fording the water would have been a deadlier proposition.
He unslung his rifle and propped it against a stump.
“What would Glenda do?” He sat cross-legged on a pile of sawdust, back against the sap-weeping trunk of a fallen tree, and pulled out the flask.
Drawing a blank on the previous query, he said, “What are you going to do now, Old Man?” He didn’t answer himself. Instead he spun off the cap and tilted the flask to vertical. Two strong pulls, he gathered, dropped his supply down to just a couple of ounces. “Screw it.” He leaned back and froze, arm cocked, narrow mouth of the flask resting on his lower lip.
Barely overriding the noise from below were sounds that caused him to freeze. They were mechanical in nature. A low burble Duncan classified as produced by a chainsaw at idle. A beat later the tinny braap of a two-stroke engine rolled across the void from the west. In the ensuing seconds, as Duncan rose slowly from his spot beside the roadblock, a crescendo of moans, rasps, and guttural grunts rose from the undead mass choking the bridge.
Careful to keep his head from rising above the block to his right, he shouldered the M4, swung the 3x magnifier in line by feel, and swung the rifle’s muzzle toward the far end of the bridge. At first all he saw was a blur of gray flesh and ratty clothes as the entire throng of dead things about-faced. Adjusting aim upward by a few degrees brought the source of the engine noise into focus. Two people wearing helmets and camouflage uniforms sat atop a pair of idling motorcycles. In the next beat they shouldered stunted rifles and star-shaped licks of flame lanced from both barrels.
The suppressed reports reached Duncan’s ears about the same time the rear echelon of rotters crowding the bridge were beginning to fall to precisely aimed fire.
A couple of stray bullets crackled overhead, causing him to duck behind the trees and go back to sitting. The gunfire lasted for a few seconds then petered out to a random shot or two every couple of seconds. Duncan was in the process of draining the flask when the gunfire ceased and the bikes sped away, their exhaust at first mimicking the buzzing of hornets swarming from a disturbed nest, then softening to a purr, then becoming one with the shallow creek’s rhythmic rush.
“Now what, Old Man?” He tilted his head back and raised the flask to the sky. He stared through the boughs overhead, deep in thought. Finally he answered his own question with more conviction than he thought was left in him. “What you’re going to do is dip the bucket into the well of patience and wait for the deaders to leave.” He stuck out his tongue and upended the flask, catching the last few drops of amber liquor on his tongue. Savoring the burn, he twisted the cap on. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do, Old Man. Wait while the gift horse that just showed up out of the blue draws all the rotters away from your ride. You’re going to cool your heels for as long as it takes. Not like you have a job to get to. Or anyone waiting on you to come home.” With the little niggling voice in his head reminding him he was out of forgettin’ juice, he closed his eyes and pictured the riders. After a few seconds he reopened his eyes, convinced fully that the two were the living counterparts to the undead Chinese PLA Special Forces soldiers he and Cade had stumbled across on their last trip into Huntsville. Same knock-off Multi-Cam camouflage uniforms. Same full-face helmets. Same MOLLE-style chest rigs stuffed with curved magazines. He was also convinced they each carried one of those laminated tri-fold cards plastered with Chinese characters and their corresponding pictograms. A crudely drawn man with hands thrust skyward: Surrender now! A rudimentarily rendered forearm complete with missing fingers and circular, red-rimmed bite wound: Are you infected? A man placing a gun on the ground: Surrender your weapons! A smiling unarmed soldier with both arms outthrust: We are here to help you.
My ass, was what he thought regarding that last one. You mean help yourselves to our country. Never going to happen, fellas. He shook his head at the thought. Nope. Those two on the bikes were not bearers of any kind of benevolence. Of that he was certain.
He stowed the flask and switched his thinking to Glenda. Figured he would pass the time playing out all the positive scenarios of her getting past the dead things alive. Maybe she was lucky enough to cross over and get off the bridge before the dead things had amassed to their current numbers. Maybe she found a way down and across the water and up the other side and was at this very moment breaking brush beside 39 to avoid all of the dead and living that could pose a threat to her.
He’d come up with just those two before his mind wandered and he caught himself obsessing over where he was going to find that next drink.
Regarding the recently acquired Rolex Submariner, he noted the time, then decided to venture forward in twenty minutes to survey the bridge and road for stragglers.
Chapter 6
Leaving the killing grounds and static vehicles behind, Cade pushed the F-650 hard on the straightaways, then braked to walking-speed well before 39 dove into one of the many blind turns between the compound and the junction with 16.
Nearing the upper quarry road, as he slowed the truck once again to negotiate a tight right-to-left hairpin turn, the satellite phone came to life. Nodding to the vibrating, bleating item sitting in the console to his right, Cade said, “You want to answer that?”
Without hesitation Raven scooped up the phone and thumbed a button. All business, she said, “Raven Grayson.”
Leaning into the turn and craning right in anticipation of the next straightaway, Cade couldn’t help but smile. Because as the Ford came out of the turn, he spotted movement on the road near the upper quarry entrance. As he let off the gas and tapped the brakes, he heard Raven say, “Judge who?”
Cade said, “Pomeroy?” and swung the Ford wide right. Braking more and whipping the wheel hard left, he thrust his hand out, fingers doing the gimme, gimme waggle. Finally bringing the Ford to a complete stop perpendicular to the solid yellow bisecting
both lanes, he jammed the phone to his ear and barked, “What is it, Judge?”
With Raven staring him in the face, Cade pursed his lips and listened to the man on the other end drone on for a long while. Finished listening, he said, “Understood. Will do,” then thumbed the phone off and handed it to Raven.
“What did he want?”
“First things first.” Cade fished his Steiner binoculars from the center console, handed them to Raven, then directed her to look out her window.
She pushed the stocking cap up on her head and put the binoculars to her eyes. Stared down the length of 39 for a solid minute. “Deer?”
Though she wasn’t looking in his direction, Cade still shook his head. “Nope. Those are elk,” he answered.
“Looks like they’re coming up from the lower mine operation.”
“With the horde recently passing through, these guys are probably stragglers that lost sight of their herd, took a wrong turn, and ended up on one of the many fire or logging roads that crisscross the valley.”
Raven lowered the Steiners and shot her dad a look.
Reading it as her you forgot to be inclusive look, he said, “Guys and gals?”
She set the binoculars on her lap and crossed her arms over her chest. “Gals? What is this, the 1940s?”
Cade shook his head. Most of this was the school’s doing, not Brook’s, and certainly not his. It was one thing to be polite and cordial. Which he was all for. But it was another to take it to the absurd. Walking on eggshells all the time was not his thing. In his day people got their feelings hurt, then built a bridge and got over it.
Sighing, he said, “Bulls and cows … does that work?”
After a slow nod, Raven flicked her gaze back down the road.
Cade picked up the Steiners and glassed the road ahead. Saw an enormous specimen, rack with too many points to tabulate accurately on the fly, standing sentinel as smaller bulls and a number of cows and calves crossed the road right to left. Though the alpha appeared to be stoic and in charge of the herd, his nose twitched and ears swiveled to and fro. On high alert, Cade thought. And rightfully so. Taking a cue from the alpha, he looked out his window and checked the nearby curve. Clear.
“They’re heading for the upper mine road,” Raven said.
Cade said nothing. He killed the engine then stuck a finger vertical to his lips. In the next beat he was shouldering his door open and stepping to the road.
Raven went to her knees on the seat and tracked her dad as he climbed up onto the rear tire and vaulted into the load bed. She watched as he popped open a long black case and went to his knees. Head bowed, he worked furiously at accomplishing some sort of task.
Raven plucked the binoculars from the seat, then turned around and glassed the road ahead. The elk were still crossing, their movements slow and methodical. The biggest one still occupied the center of the road as if he owned it. The way he was standing, statue-still and all regal-looking, reminded her of a commercial touting investing or banking or both in conjunction with one another. Adult stuff she still didn’t comprehend. Probably would never have to think about again. Unless she saw another one of these in the wild.
Cade climbed from the truck’s bed on the passenger side. He approached Raven without warning, startling her in the process. As she lowered the binoculars, he jabbed a thumb groundward, universal semaphore for roll the window down.
And she did.
Brow furrowed, she said, “What are you doing with that?”
He raised the high-tech MSR sniper rifle to her eye level. Held it aloft horizontal to the road. He rolled open the bolt. Pointing to a small metal nub near the trigger guard, he said, “Safety is on.”
She repeated her question.
“You’re going to bag your first elk with this. That’s what.”
Her eyes went wide for a beat. “Me?”
He nodded. “Show me your hands.”
Raven reached for the sky.
“Don’t touch,” he said. Keeping the muzzle down range, aimed at the elk, he handed the modular rifle through the window, butt first, the big mirror between him and the rifle’s stubby suppressor. “Take it from me. Make sure you practice proper muzzle and trigger discipline.”
“I know,” she said. “Never point the muzzle at something you don’t want to destroy.”
“Good. And?”
“Keep my finger off the trigger until I’m ready to destroy it.”
“Mom taught you that verbiage?”
She shook her head. “Duncan did.”
Cade nodded. Finger to the lips, he looped around front of the Ford and clambered into the cab. He closed his door softly and turned toward Raven. Seeing she already had the rifle resting on the windowsill, and pleased she’d taken the initiative to remove her cap and employed it as a rest under the forestock, he leaned over the console and braced her back with his right shoulder and upper arm. “Chamber is empty,” he warned. “And I only left you one round in the magazine.”
She rolled the bolt back, paused for a beat, then rolled it forward. Round chambered, she pressed her right cheek to the stock and peered through the Leupold scope.
“Just one bullet?”
“If the first one doesn’t do the trick, you won’t get a second chance.”
“Which one?” she asked, calmly, even as her hand began to tremor slightly.
“The one presenting you a perfect oblique silhouette. Put your crosshairs right behind his front leg. That’s where the heart is.” He paused a beat. “And remember, this one kicks more than the M4. A lot more.”
The bank commercial was in Raven’s head now as she snugged the buttpad to her shoulder. The majestic beast standing there was a clone of the one in her mind’s eye. Though she didn’t know its definition, the word hartford suddenly came to her. Voice wavering, she said, “Why are they all moving so slowly? Shouldn’t they be running across the road? In case a car comes, or something?”
“One … they’re tired from running. Figure they’ve been Oscar Mike constantly since the dead returned in these larger numbers. To answer your second question: They’re getting used to the lack of vehicles.”
“Why don’t they smell us?”
“Because the wind is at our face,” he said. “Means they’re smelling stuff from down near Woodruff and Bear River.”
“All the way down there?”
Still talking in a soft whisper, Cade said, “Quit stalling.”
Raven went quiet and hunched over the rifle.
“Once you have the shot you want, draw in a breath, take up a bit of the trigger pull, then exhale slowly and—”
“And press the trigger as I exhale slowly,” she interrupted. “Just like Mom taught me.”
“Your mom was a helluva woman. Don’t ever forget that.”
Cade continued bracing Raven’s back. He felt her begin to tremble a bit. Buck fever was what his dad called the mounting anticipation one felt before that first kill.
Cade started just a bit as the rifle discharged.
The suppressed report wasn’t as quiet as television and movies made them out to be. It was an abbreviated cracking noise that bounced around the cab before being swallowed up in the roadside clutter and diminishing altogether—a total of maybe two seconds having elapsed. Still, thanks to the suppressor, their ears were spared from the usual ringing indicative of having inflicted any kind of long-term hearing damage.
As if struck dead by a bolt of lightning, the beast dropped straight to the road.
“I got him,” she blurted.
Through the Steiners, Cade watched the elk keel over to the left and kick one time at the air. In the next beat, as the bull elk went limp, the tail end of the herd bolted across the state route and melted into the roadside foliage. “Yes you did,” said Cade, the pride he was feeling conveyed by the tone. “A perfect kill shot … at that.” Which was true. He wasn’t pulling her leg.
“Did he suffer?” she asked.
Shaking his h
ead, Cade said, “Not one bit. You pulled your shot right, though. Hit him in the neck. Still did the trick. And all I see is a trickle of blood from the entry wound. Which tells me his heart ceased beating shortly after he was hit.”
Raven threw open the bolt and snicked the safety on.
Cade said, “That’s not the end of it, though.”
Raven looked a question at him.
“Now we have to gut and quarter him.” Cade relieved Raven of the rifle and began to break it down.
“Can’t we just take him back and have Duncan and Tran do it?”
Shouldering open his door, Cade said, “Your kill. Your responsibility. I’ll help you, though. Besides, that old boy looks to be about a thousand pounds. Bigger than I ever bagged. Guts or no guts, there’s no way just the two of us would be able to get him into the truck bed whole.”
“How do you quarter it?” She gestured at the Gerber. “You going to do it with that?”
Cade smiled and shook his head. “I’ll show you how. But we’re not going to use my dagger. We could if we needed to. I have a set of knives. Let me put this away and we’ll get to work.” He stepped from the truck with the rifle in hand. With the suppressor threaded off and the stock folded over, it looked more like a close-quarters-battle-rifle than the long-range tack driver that it was.
Raven watched her dad in the side mirror as he circled around back of the Ford. When she returned her gaze to the spot in the road occupied by her kill, her eyes widened and she drew in a sharp breath. Disbelief mounting at what she was seeing, she exhaled and calmly called out to her dad.
Chapter 7
To Duncan, the self-imposed twenty-minute cooling-off period seemed more like half a day. Or like a visit to a DMV manned by sloths on Valium. For the duration, his conscious mind had been engaged in a tug-of-war with Glenda Gladson at one end of the rope and Jack Daniels on the other.
Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 13): Gone Page 5