Not a single plane remained on the two-strip facility’s gray tarmac. Pointing to how hectic the last day was before the President officially grounded all commercial and private flights, a burned-out carcass of what looked to have been a multi-million-dollar Gulf Stream business jet sat forlornly in the center of the wider of the two runways. Though they hadn’t escaped damage from the intense heat and smoke, the engine nacelles and a substantial piece of the tail remained mostly intact.
At the end of a long debris field that began amid the wreckage of the Gulfstream were the remains of a twin-prop commuter plane. Having left a good deal of its red paint on the runway and bits and pieces of wing on the infield, the Piper Seneca now rested upside down, its fuselage crushed to half its original height. Strangely, the deployed landing gear looked undamaged and the rubber tires remained inflated.
Seeing the lack of a control tower rising over the public-use field, Haynes said, “That there is the result of too many cooks and not enough chefs.”
“Must have been a shit show,” Ari said.
As Ari stopped their rapid descent at a hundred feet above ground level and tightened the turn radius, Haynes felt the building Gs push his two hundred and fifty pounds into his seat and was instantly treated to a bird’s eye view of West Wendover. It was nothing like he remembered it; the neon lights had all been extinguished. Missing was the hustle and bustle of gamblers arriving from nearby Salt Lake City or race teams going to and from the world-famous Bonneville Speedway. It looked as if the latter crowd had trailered their race cars and fled before the outbreak raised its ugly head in the combined city of fifteen hundred.
Thinking out loud, Haynes said, “You know the Enola Gay’s pilots and crew trained for their mission somewhere near here.”
“Damn,” said Ari, finishing the sweeping turn and leveling the bird out, “we are overflying hallowed ground in aviation history.”
Straight off the helo’s nose and coming up fast were two massive casinos. Viewed from above, they looked like glass and cement islands surrounded by vast seas of trash-strewn parking lot. The small number of vehicles left behind were no different than all the rest that sat abandoned across America. They all featured grimy window glass, some no doubt with rotten surprises lurking behind them. The vehicles loaded down with people’s worldly possessions—static fixtures on nearly every backroad and freeway across the land—sat low to the ground on deflated tires.
Haynes wondered if some of the vehicles belonged to gamblers who had decided to remain on premises and ride it out. Which, he decided after a moment’s contemplation, was probably no different than letting it ride. Didn’t matter. With the end of the world drawing tight as a hangman’s noose around the neck of the condemned, he was fairly certain both had been losing propositions.
Huge signs fronting the casinos, each perched on fifty-foot poles, had clearly been used for target practice. Slender shards of plastic were all that remained in their metal frames. Brass shell casings littering the street twinkled under the sun. And much like the multitude of dreams shattered within the gambling establishments, colorful drifts of jagged shards of plastic covered the ground all around the blown-out signs.
A handful of twice-dead corpses rotted away in spitting distance from the shattered main doors of a car-choked Flying J gas station. Dozens of ambulatory specimens in search of prey trudged the casino property and sidewalks and city streets.
Tumbleweeds driven across the Great Salt Lake Basin by prevailing winds had collected in alcoves and doorways. One small car had enough of them trapped against its windward flank that the side windows were mostly obscured.
Bringing the helicopter to a dead hover directly over Wendover Boulevard and equidistant to the destroyed casino signs, Ari said, “Haynes, what’s the outside air temp?”
“Hovering around fifty-three degrees.”
“Shit,” said Ari. “We’re not going to be able to land the team.”
Knowing exactly what that meant, Haynes worked the controls to the FLIR pod. “Searching for a cluster.”
The moving image that appeared on the cockpit display between the front seats was also being piped to the troop compartment monitor affixed to the bulkhead directly behind Haynes’ helmeted head.
“Zoom fifty more,” said Ari.
As Haynes repeated the request back to Ari, he manipulated the controls until everyone looking at a monitor was literally staring the front echelon of a miles-long zombie horde right in the rotting face. Affected greatly by the low temperature, the movements of the dozen or so Zs out ahead of the pack were slow and stilted.
Ari crowed, “Right where Nash said they’d be.”
Haynes said, “As per usual, the lady’s intel is rock solid. Do you want to drop in over the pacesetters?”
Shaking his head, Ari said, “I don’t want to risk having them turn around and start the horde moving back toward Salt Lake. I like them heading the direction they are.”
Head moving as if on a swivel, Haynes said, “Copy that.”
“I’m bringing us up one hundred,” Ari stated. “Find a good-sized cluster between the pacers and main body. I want five to ten minutes loiter time on station.”
“Copy that.” Sensing the helicopter begin a slow vertical climb, Haynes worked the FLIR camera until the front third of the horde was bracketed on the display. “Here.” He tapped a gloved finger mid-screen. “About a mile out there is a cluster of thirty or forty. It’s separated from the leaders by a quarter mile or so.”
Ari asked, “And the main body?”
Sounding hopeful, Haynes said, “Looks like they’re lagging far enough behind to give the short straw the time he’ll need.”
“I concur,” Ari said. He looked over his shoulder. “Captain?”
Voice colored with a Hispanic accent, Lopez replied, “Good to go,” and flashed a thumbs up.
A second male voice came over the comms. “Short straw is rigged. Readying the devices.”
“Copy that,” replied Ari. “Be advised, we are backtracking and coming in from their six. Lock and load, gentlemen … one minute to insertion.
Chapter 4
The herd Duncan had insisted they would find east of Yoder was stalled out on the road half a mile outside of town. There had to be at least fifty or sixty of them spread out across the two-lane, and that was counting just the ones that had remained upright after entering the temporary state of stasis following the sudden plunge in temperature a week prior. Another twenty or thirty undead were sprawled out on the ground all around the main body. Snow had mostly covered the fallen corpses. Here and there a gnarled hand or bent knee pierced last night’s fresh accumulation.
“There’s the herd my source spoke of,” Duncan noted. “Not quite as big as he led me to believe.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Raven said. “At least you have a source. And, damn, that’s a lot of ears we’re looking at.”
Duncan shot a sidelong glare at Raven but held his tongue. The girl was just trying to find her own voice. Besides, in his opinion, a little cursing now and again wasn’t indicative of one’s true character.
Downshifting and steering over to the approaching lane, Daymon said, “My cut’s going to be more than enough to justify the gas Heidi burned to get us out and back.”
“I’ll kick in for gas,” Duncan said. “My entire haul is going into Glenda’s account anyway.”
Nosing the Bronco onto the shoulder and partway into the roadside ditch, Daymon said, “She still watching you like a hawk?”
Duncan nodded. “And rightfully so,” he said, voice betraying a hint of defeat. “I truly need to earn her trust back … again.”
“She catch you gambling?”
Duncan regarded the man to his left, his only answer the subtlest of nods.
“If I see you anywhere near the gambling hall,” Raven said, “I’m informing on you.”
Craning toward Raven, Duncan shook his head. A pained look on his face, he said, “You
women. Always sticking together.”
The hula girl Daymon had stuck to the narrow metal dash vibrated wildly as the Bronco’s left-side tires churned through something semi-solid just underneath the snow. After the last of the herd scrolled by Duncan’s window, Daymon tromped the pedal and steered hard right.
The horizon disappeared momentarily, and the old SUV shuddered a second time when the front wheels rolled over the uneven transition between shoulder and asphalt. Then the rig fishtailed as he muscled it back around and got it to tracking down the center of the long, straight run of road.
Daymon put a finger on the hula girl’s head to still her wild gyrations. Looking to Duncan, he asked, “How many days have you strung together so far?”
Drawing a deep breath, Duncan said, “Counting today? Fifty-six without so much as a sip.”
Slowing the Bronco, gaze locked on the looming post office, Daymon said, “That’s a good streak. Congratulations.”
If Raven was impressed, she didn’t let on. Instead of congratulating Old Man, she parroted Glenda, saying rather icily, “The plug’s in the jug. And it better stay there.” Then, turning in her seat to see out the back window, she asked, “Where the hell are we going, Daymon? The herd’s back there.”
“They ain’t going nowhere,” promised Duncan. Then, regarding Daymon, he asked, “What’s on your mind, young man?”
“Those guys back in the store—” began Daymon.
“Ted and Liam,” interrupted Raven. “They all have names.”
“Whatever,” said Daymon. “Those dudes didn’t walk here all the way from Springs.”
Having shifted back around in her seat, Raven said, “You’re looking for their vehicle.”
Daymon said, “Bingo,” and steered onto the L-shaped parking lot that wrapped around the squat brick structure containing Yoder’s only post office. Planted in a strip of snow near the front doors was a rusty flagpole scaling large sheets of cracking paint. Hanging limply, the fabric tattered, torn, and faded, Old Glory looked as haggard and weather-beaten as the herd of dead things they’d just passed.
Again the Bronco lurched and gravel popped as the tires found potholes in the unimproved lot.
Pulling around back of the post office, they came upon a lone black SUV parked dead center on a sea of white.
“No footprints I can see,” noted Duncan.
Daymon cut a half circle on the lot and parked the Bronco. Shutting down the engine, he said, “It’s been here for some time. Judging by the layer of the snow it’s wearing, I’d guess it’s been sitting here for a day or two. I’m going to check it out. Back in a sec.” Without consulting the others, he stepped from the rig and closed the door at his back.
Raven watched the gangly man loop around to the rear of the Bronco. She raised her collar against the chill when he lifted the rear window to take out his gas siphoning kit.
Yard-long length of garden hose and pair of red five-gallon gas cans clutched in one hand, Sig pistol in the other, Daymon stomped through the snow, the Cadillac Escalade visible just off his right shoulder.
Raven noticed that the Escalade had taken a beating at the hands of the dead. Dents and inches-long vertical scratches marred the once-shiny paint on the flank facing the Bronco.
The layer of snow running from the front edge of the hood, up the windshield, and all the way to the back hatch caused Raven to picture a disassembled Oreo cookie in her head.
Oh God, she thought, her salivary glands firing to life. An Oreo cookie sounded sooo good right about now. Add a cup of real milk—not the powdered crap they served everywhere in Springs—and she’d just about trade her entire haul of ears for one of each if offered to her right now.
Standing beside the SUV, the sun warm on his neck, Daymon swiped the rime of snow from the passenger window. Looking inside, he learned that the glass moonroof had been left open. Snow had infiltrated the rig, small drifts forming on the front seats and dash. The black, leather-wrapped lid to the center console was also white with snow.
Finding the passenger-side doors locked, he went around and gained access through the partially open driver’s door.
Inside the Bronco, Duncan said, “It’s gonna be weird ringing in the New Year inside the walls with all this still going on out here.”
Raven thought, Try acknowledging it without both of your parents.
Voice devoid of emotion, she said, “I’m done observing holidays.”
“Why’s that?” Immediately regretting the question, he said, “Just take it one day at a time, kid. That’s what I’m doing. You gotta remember to keep on livin’.”
Seeing Daymon set his gas cans near the Cadillac’s rear bumper, she said, “I think you misunderstood me. I’ve lost so many people in my life that I’ve decided to treat every single day on this side of the grass as if it was Christmas, New Year’s, Fourth of July, and my birthday all rolled into one.”
While Duncan understood where she was coming from, for someone her age, he wasn’t quite sure her new take on the apocalypse was entirely healthy. In his book, holidays and birthdays were milestones to be recognized separately and celebrated to the fullest. It wasn’t as if the world had stopped spinning that awful day she was left alone in the house east of Woodruff, Utah. The last day she had heard her dad’s voice over the radio. In fact, she had remarked to him just the other day that those barked orders that had saved her life that day would stay with her forever.
Daymon’s return from the Escalade shook Duncan from his thoughts.
A gust buffeted the Bronco as Daymon again lifted the rear window. A knife-edged blast carrying snow with it infiltrated the cab as he stowed the gas cans and hose.
Duncan reached over and unlocked Daymon’s door. Hinging up in his seat, he said, “Temp is dropping.”
Having just received a dose of snow down the collar, Raven said nothing. She was busy helping it down her shirt and grinding her back against the seat to hasten its melting.
As Daymon slipped behind the wheel, Duncan began the inquisition.
“Was that the unlucky couples’ rig?”
Daymon flicked the hula girl, starting her bobbing. He watched her dance a tick before touching the pad of a finger to her head, increasing the pressure until she was stilled.
“Well?” Raven pressed.
Staring out across the hood, Daymon said, “It’s theirs. Their names are on the registration.”
“Makes sense,” Duncan said. “The plates are Connecticut. How much gas did they leave you?”
Daymon made a circle with his thumb and pointer finger. Holding the hand up, he said, “Big fat zero. The keys were in the ignition. Lights were left switched on. Which would explain why the battery is dead.”
Raven asked, “Why’d they stop here?”
“Driver’s front tire is flat. Long piece of bone stuck in it. The jack is deployed, and the spare is out on the ground by the jack. Leads me to think they were ambushed trying to change the tire.”
Daymon’s words rocketed Raven back in time. She was at the wheel of the Ford F-650 on SR-39 in Utah. Eyes glued to the advancing zombie herd reflected in the big side mirror, she was anxiously waiting for her dad to finish adding liquid patch to the truck’s deflating tire before the ravenous dead could get to him.
Noting the sudden rise in the girl’s breathing and the faraway look in her eyes—thousand-yard stare was what he had come to call the effect that afflicted even the hardiest of survivors—Duncan said, “You can take this next one off, Raven. Me and the kid can lop and bag. We’ll share the haul evenly.”
Snapping out of the trip down memory lane, Raven hissed, “I’ll pull my own weight. Can we go now, or do you need to go inside and check your P.O. box for mail?”
Chapter 5
Precisely one minute after pushing south from downtown Wendover, circling back over the airport, and conducting a high-speed sprint east, Ari was holding the Ghost Hawk in a rock-steady hover, a dozen feet above the chosen cluster of walking c
orpses.
Though muffled due to the exhaust being routed through dozens of feet of ceramic-coated piping inside the stealth helo’s airframe, the turbine whine was still substantial when the starboard-side door slid back in its tracks.
Rotor wash heavy with the stench of death and burned kerosene buffeted Staff Sergeant James “Skip” Skipper, longtime crew chief for Jedi One, as he leaned out over the milling mass of undead. Safety tether stretched to its limit, he armed and let fall from his gloved hand a tiny orange noise-making device. The high-tech Screamer was set for one-time use, meaning that once it hit the ground—or any solid object—it would begin emitting through its single tiny speaker a hyper-realistic recording of a dying woman’s screams.
With enough juice onboard to run continuously for nearly ten minutes, Skipper knew he had to draw back from the door so his tagger could deploy.
Navy SEAL Petty Officer First Class William “Griff” Griffin, in his mid-thirties, watched as the crew chief hauled himself back inside the helo. Then, after checking his safety harness for the tenth time since Ari’s call of “One minute out” came through his headset, the wiry, well-muscled son of a New England lobsterman flashed the crew chief a thumbs up and recited a short prayer only he could hear.
Strapped to one leg was a combat dagger. On the other, secured in a drop-thigh holster, was a Sig Sauer P226. Two spare magazines for the Sig, each carrying fifteen rounds of 9mm, rode in a Kydex carrier secured to his belt, not that the extra ammo would do much good for Griff against the overwhelming odds represented by the throng of Zs he was about to get up close and personal with.
Now standing before the open doorway, Griff clamped one hand around the cable attached to his harness. In his other hand he clutched a sack containing the items he’d need to complete the mission. To ensure the sack wasn’t lost as he was being lowered from the helo, he’d secured its drawstring to his harness with a carabiner.
Having drawn the short straw during the flight out, Griff had quietly accepted his lot, stowed his carbine under his seat, and sloppily jotted down a last will and testament.
Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home Page 3