Trying his best to ignore the macabre symphony being put on by the trio of trapped dead things, he played the light left to right along the workbench at the back wall. Shelves on the wall above the work surface held what looked like cans of body putty and paint primer. Several specialized paint nozzles hung on hooks above the shelving. Which made him think that where there were nozzles, there was likely a tank of compressed air.
He walked the beam along the leading edge of the workbench but couldn’t see past the boxes and parts littering the Riviera’s sloped hood. To cut the angle so he could determine what was underneath the workbench, he was going to have to pick his way through the middle of the junk-filled shop and dispatch the Zs along the way.
The former was easier said than done for a guy his size wearing a plate carrier and MOLLE rig stuffed with spare magazines.
The latter would just take a bit of patience and planning to safely execute.
Chapter 19
Cade made his way to the right-side bay, stopped next to the Impala, and illuminated the female roamer already taking stilted steps in his direction. Adopting a shooter’s stance, he met the monster’s soulless gaze and tracked it all the way to the nearest column where its path was blocked by some king of machinery used to shape metal. An English wheel?
The piece of equipment was head-high to the Z and heavy enough to halt its forward march. Undeterred, the thing continued to shuffle its feet on the dusty floor and reach for him. The knee brace clanked against the tool and the tool banged into the near pillar as the Z hissed and craned its neck, trying to get to the meat.
Taking advantage of the waifish Z’s ambulatory misfortune, Cade made his way to the first pillar, where he paused and lit up its sneering face with the blue-white circle thrown from his tactical light. Enjoying a six-inch reach over the grabby monster, he threaded the Glock past the machine’s vertical arm. Fighting the tug of the Z’s kneading fingers, he pressed the suppressor firmly against its milky left eye and caressed the trigger.
There was a wet squelch and the creature’s right eye bugged out under pressure. While the 9mm round was touring the inside of its cranium, the metallic rattle-clatter of the slide ejecting spent brass was touring the garage. Most of the report and all of the muzzle flash was absorbed by brain tissue.
Cade pushed aside the metal-shaping machine and stepped over the twice-dead corpse. Coming around the backside of the first column, he sidestepped a wheeled welding rig and then stopped and illuminated the second Z. As he steadied the Glock over the hand holding the flashlight, his eyes flicked from the hissing monster to the tanks pinning it to the floor. Quick to conclude one or both contained enough flammable gas to ruin his day, he holstered the pistol.
Clamping the light between his teeth, he drew the Gerber and took a knee beside the Z. Holding its head firm to the ground with one hand, he positioned the Gerber’s razor-sharp tip at the base of the writhing monster’s skull. A little pressure applied to the pommel started the blade on its journey through the tiny gap separating medulla and vertebra. A quick twist of the wrist severed the spinal cord and scrambled the brain, stilling the rancid-smelling beast instantly. It was the same highly effective and silent one-two punch he had employed on the living dead many more times than he cared to count. And in hindsight, he should have done the same to silence the female Z.
With the zombie to his right still assaulting the Impala’s hood, Cade cleaned the sullied blade on the fallen Z’s shirt. As he snugged the Gerber into its scabbard, a drawn-out groan joined the trapped Z’s ongoing solo performance. Looking up to where the sound of what he guessed was metal shifting under stress had emanated, he received a face full of white powder. It was real fine and smelled faintly of chemicals. Cement dust? Plaster?
While he couldn’t quite place the odor and had no idea what the white stuff still drifting to the floor was, its presence told him the place was in no way as structurally sound as it had appeared from the outside. His admonishment to Raven echoed in his head. Don’t go jinxing me now, Bird. And though he knew her words had zero impact on what happened in the real world, Mister Murphy was always present, cracking his knuckles, eager to throw a monkey wrench into his plans.
Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best.
Aiming the flashlight at the back half of the garage, he rose and stepped over the leaking corpse. Wary of the sports car looming over his right shoulder, he ducked under a piece of automotive trim curling off its driver’s side door and waded through the paint cans littering the floor.
Cade was still envisioning the red car sliding off the lift and doing to him what the welding tanks had done to the Z when the second support column was caught up in the bouncing beam of his tac-light. It was clear to him straight away the column was compromised structurally. Some of the cement blocks on the right side and a good deal around back had come loose. Broken blocks and strips of mortar from the side and rear of the column had settled in one large pile that filled up the space from the Impala’s left front fender to the partially crushed workbench. And though the debris field was blocking his path to the workbench and whatever was being stored underneath it, if he could find the angle, the flashlight’s beam would get in there and tell him all he needed to know.
With the zombie continuing to rake on the Chevy on his right, and the listing car overhead impossible to forget, Cade ducked under the forward edge of the lift supporting it and clambered up the unstable mound.
Stretched out atop the pile with the sharp edges of masonry stabbing into his thighs, stomach, and elbows, he took the flashlight from his mouth, craned his neck, and aimed it at the infinite darkness in front of the Buick. Beginning at the floor by the car’s front fender, he walked the beam forward slowly all the way to the upright tool box. Only thing he saw was more cobwebs, dust bunnies, and tiny conical piles of the same white stuff that had dusted his face and chest rig. On the return pass he made sure the beam infiltrated the deep shelving underneath the workbench. About the point on the Buick’s bumper where a license plate would be, pushed in deep on the lowest shelf, was what appeared to be an air compressor. It was oblong with wheels on one end and a stubby handle on the other. Wrapped around the U-shaped handle was an orange power cord. Next to the wheeled item was a plastic milk crate brimming with hoses and various attachments. As Cade resumed the sweep, the light revealed a red cylindrical item pushed all the way to the rear of the same shelf that held the crate and compressor. Compared to the tank affixed to the compressor, the red tank was smaller by half. And though it looked to be slimmer and taller, Cade figured, viewed side-by-side, it could easily be confused with one of the propane tanks that fired Tran’s outdoor grill. A black hose snaking off the side of the tank was fitted with a nickel-plated nozzle that reflected the beam back at him. Attached to the tank was a gauge roughly the circumference of a baseball. Noting where the smaller tank sat in relation to the items on the wall directly above the workbench, he returned the beam to the sliver of ground below the Buick’s bumper. While Cade would have rather crawled under the bench to get to the items stowed there, it was clear to him he was going to have to navigate the foot-wide gap between the Buick’s front end and workbench. And to make matters worse, the gap narrowed exponentially where the car’s hood and front bumper came to a point.
Seeing no other viable option, he again clamped the light between his teeth, then removed the bulky MOLLE rig and dumped it atop the workbench. Grateful he didn’t share Daymon’s fear of dark, cramped spaces, he turned sideways and slipped by the pillar, then continued on, scraping his butt against the land yacht’s right-side headlight housing as he positioned himself to try something that would cause a man Tran’s size to think twice. With the beam from the flashlight skipping wildly across the shelves to his fore, and the irregular edges of car parts and stiffened flaps of split-open cardboard boxes caressing his back, he began a slow shimmy to his left. Protruding a few inches over the grille, the hood followed the bumper’s contour. And though the
gap between the hood and workbench widened after he pushed past the headlight stack, it narrowed almost immediately and was damn near crushing his pelvis.
From the distant recon, he knew the out of sight tank was nestled under the workbench near here with the compressor and attachments crowding in on it. Viewed from a weird angle and nearly twenty feet distant, gauging its exact location in relation to the car was a guessing game at best. Seeing as how the wall was, give or take a few inches, a yard back from the front edge of the workbench, he was certain the tank he needed to get his hands on lay somewhere between eighteen and twenty-four inches from the front edge. Hoping for the former, he tried a couple of stunted kicks to the out of sight airspace, wracking his shin on something sharp in the process.
Cade’s attempt at a side bend didn’t fare better. And he guessed it looked just as awkward, because his upper body didn’t get past forty-five degrees before the workbench came into play, grinding into the plate carrier strapped over his Crye Precision shirt. With a sizable group of dead heading east on 39, and who knew how many congregating outside the garage, the last thing he needed was to become trapped in here and have to call his daughter for an extraction. So instead of forcing the issue, literally and figuratively, he hinged up and thought things through.
Short of cleaning out the mess behind the Riviera and rolling it backward—a laborious and time-consuming task for one person—there was only one way he could think of to access the lower shelves. Liberating a piece of chrome door trim from a box on the hood behind him, and fully aware of the ball busting he’d endure if any of the Pale Riders were here to see what he was about to do, he drew in a deep breath and put his arms down by his sides. Keeping the air trapped in his lungs and his stomach muscles tensed, he attempted a ballet move he’d seen Raven perform but whose name he didn’t remember. Feeling his cheeks go hot from the lack of oxygen, he pronated both feet until his heels were touching and his toes pointed in opposite directions. Finally, in one fluid motion—as if he’d been taking notes at Raven’s dance recital—he bent his knees and dipped his hips, all the while keeping his back ramrod straight. Slow and steady, he let gravity drag him down until his chin was nearly resting on the dusty workbench. Holding the pose, he maneuvered the piece of trim underneath the workbench and swept it blindly left to right on a level plane.
At first all he felt was the feathery kiss on the backs of his hands of what he imagined was an intricate network of cobwebs being destroyed. Then he heard a hollow clang as his makeshift probe struck metal. Gripping the piece of auto trim two-handed, he exerted pressure on the object, trying to get it to move, and failing, because the length of sixties-era metal gave first, bending at a right angle before snapping off completely.
Left holding a worthless six-inch piece of broken trim, Cade rose and exhaled sharply.
Seeing nothing on the bench to his fore to employ in place of the auto trim, he dragged the Glock from the drop thigh holster and put the light beam on it. Gauging its length from grip to suppressor at a little over a foot, he decided it might do the trick. But first, to extend his reach, he shuffled his feet forward—heel, toe, heel, toe—gaining ground on the out of sight tank in tiny increments.
Again he drew in a breath and repeated the yet to be named ballet move.
Feeling the burn work its way through his shoulders and down both arms, he strained hard against the bench top and probed the dark under the workbench with the Glock. He worked the pistol left to right until he heard a hollow thunk and felt the suppressor skip over top of something solid.
The milk crate?
He repeated the move, Glock sweeping right to left on the same flat plane, and felt the contact again. Firming his wrists and applying a hard forward press got the item moving on a diagonal path toward his knees. There was a scraping noise and the item continued its forward march until the suppressor lost purchase and he rapped his knuckles on something hard.
All in all he guessed the item moved about six inches.
Close, but no cigar.
Feeling his heartbeat in his temple, he took another swipe at the out of sight object. There was another thunk, followed by a grating noise, then the Glock was unexpectedly light in his hands and the item he’d struck with it was on its way to the floor. The bang the item made when it hit was followed at once by a clatter as something else landed on the floor near his feet.
While Cade’s first instinct was to eyeball the fruits of his labor, he was literally in no position to do so. Instead, he rose and again purged the air trapped in his lungs.
A quick turkey peek told him he’d knocked the crate from the shelf. It was on its side, the items it once contained now on the floor by his boots.
As Cade drew another deep breath and dropped back into the ballet pose, the trapped Z to his right ramped up its attack on American sheet metal.
Remembering the crate had been sitting to the right of the tank, he tightened his grip on the Glock and moved his hands slowly right to left until the suppressor once again struck something solid.
This time there was a soft clang instead of a thunk.
Bingo.
Attacking the item in the same manner as he had the crate brought mostly the same result. Only the item didn’t end up on the floor by his feet; instead it fell over and rolled forward, coming to rest against his right knee.
Still holding his breath, Cade placed the Glock gently on the workbench. Then, hoping he wasn’t going to throw away all of his hard work, render the contorting and oxygen deprivation moot by fumbling the tank and send it rolling on a one-way trip off the shelf and under the Buick, he felt around gingerly until his fingers found what had to be a handle of sorts. Saying a silent prayer, he threaded his fingers into the handle and rose, bringing the item along with him. The tank he placed upright on the workbench. Pointing his light at it, he saw the attached hose was fitted with a trigger-actuated air gun. Holding his breath solely as a precaution against failure, he picked up the handle and gave the trigger a gentle squeeze. The burst of air that shot from the nozzle was rivaled only by the whoosh of air leaving his lungs. Relief washed over him as the stale smelling air started a tsunami of particles roiling through the flashlight beam.
Grateful that the tank contained air, he shoved the crate aside with a nudge from his boot and looked sidelong at the items on the floor. Due to the viewing angle and that he could only train his right eye on the jumble of hoses and couplings and air tools, he wasn’t certain the item specific to his needs was even there. So he placed the flashlight on the workbench and again performed the ballet move— hopefully for the final time. In fact, if he never had to contort his body like this again, he would die a happy man.
Coming up with a fistful of hoses, he dumped the items on the workbench. Spreading them out with both hands, he spotted the gas-station-style tire inflation gun he needed. And it came complete with the same rudimentary pop-out pressure gauge as the ones he was familiar with. The cherry on the sundae was the three-foot length of hose and quick-connect coupling attached to it.
The inflation gun went in the pocket with the radio. He didn’t have the energy to do anything with the hose, so he let it dangle down by the side of his leg.
Abs and lower back a bit sore from holding the most uncomfortable position in the world, he made a mental note to ask Raven if she remembered what the nightmare pose was called.
Something French, no doubt.
Consulting the Suunto’s glowing green display, he learned he’d been inside the garage three full minutes and away from the truck less than five. Wanting to spend no more time than necessary near the compromised column and ton or so of British steel resting against it, he clamped the flashlight between his teeth, threw the MOLLE rig on, holstered the Glock, and slid the tank off the workbench. Holding the hard-won prize one-handed in front of him, he shimmied back the way he’d come.
Pausing at the column to switch the tank to his left hand, the beam inadvertently swung right and put the trapped Z
in the spotlight. As the thing stopped attacking the hood and craned in Cade’s direction, he spotted on the thing’s neck a near-perfect rectangle where skin, flesh, and a substantial piece of trachea had been excised.
Adrian’s doing.
As Cade slipped past the column, he saw that the Z’s constant movement had just about finished the job the Impala’s front bumper had started. The skin around its waist was rubbed raw. Where the muscles meant to keep internal organs in place were failing, greasy ropes of intestine had snaked out. Another day or so spent writhing and scratching paint off the hood and this guy would be freed of his lower extremities.
“Can’t help you, buddy,” Cade said, his words a little garbled thanks to the flashlight in his mouth. In a rare moment, he let his guard down and began to feel sorry for whoever the middle-aged man once was. For the people he once loved, and likely lost to the same thing that had him here rotting away in a garage instead of looking for something to assuage the crisis that inevitably struck people his age. Maybe a red Corvette. A chromed-out motorcycle. Or a woman fifteen years his junior.
None of it was going to happen.
Though Cade contemplated taking the time to release the poor guy from his worldly bonds, the unstoppable forward march of time trumped pausing to grant the mercy kill. After one last glance and a mumbled, “I’m sorry,” he ducked under the bent trim piece, hustled past the menacing Triumph, and crabbed around the welding gear.
Four minutes after entering the garage, Cade was kneeling before the rollup and shoving the air tank into daylight. Ignoring the sounds of another dead thing slamming into the nearby office door, he broke squelch two times on the Motorola and stuffed it back into his pocket.
Promise to Raven fulfilled, he laid flat on his back on the cement floor and wriggled headfirst into daylight. And as he lay there squinting against the watery sun, the radio hissed static and Raven delivered a one-word order that was wholly unexpected.
Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 13): Gone Page 14