Nothing. He saw only Wilson and Lev a handful of feet away and shooting strange looks at him. Thankful he hadn’t become a human pincushion, he flipped the clouds the bird and assailed the door with another barrage of knocks.
Taryn called up the stairs, “Anybody home?”
Daymon pressed his ear to the door and listened hard. Hearing nothing, he came away, looked at the others and shook his head. “I think it’s clear. Plus, there’s no X on the door like there was at the rehab place and most of the farmhouses up Center Street.”
Lev grabbed Daymon’s arm. “Could be more of the silenced rotters inside. Best be careful.”
Daymon drew Kindness from her sheath, put one hand on the door pull, and pressed his thumb on the latch release. Feeling some give, he turned his head and body sideways and said, “It’s unlocked. I’m going to throw it open and backpedal like hell.”
Lev moved a few steps to his right. After shooing Wilson off the landing, he clicked off the safety and shouldered his rifle. Training it on the vertical seam between the double-doors, he raised a brow and said, “Ready.”
The door was indeed unlocked and the paper affixed to it fluttered and tore away when Daymon heaved the left side open. Then, keeping his promise, he leaped backwards, spinning a one-eighty in the process. By the time he was turned around and had cleared the midpoint of the stairs—all of a half-second later—two things dawned on him. First, he was acutely aware that cold dead hands were not grabbing at his body. Second, he felt a breeze down below and saw that to a person the others were staring at his crotch, wide-eyed and grinning.
As his boots hit the lawn beside the stairs and Lev still hadn’t opened fire with the suppressed carbine, Daymon looked down and saw the cherry on his embarrassment sundae—an unbuttoned fly and his manhood hanging out for all to see.
“Damn,” Jamie said, eyes tearing up with mirth. “It’s true what they say.” All eyes instantly turned to her; Daymon’s, understandably, slowly narrowed to dark slits.
“Do tell,” Oliver said, barely able to contain himself.
“If the barn door’s left open … the hog will get out,” Lev said, his gaze locked on the darkened foyer to his fore.
Blushing, Daymon turned to face the church and put his business away—this time remembering to button his camouflage ACU bottoms. Finished, he scaled the stairs, wariness showing in each step taking him closer to the yawning door.
“With Kindness in hand, and you flying away from the door like it was electrified … I must admit,” Jamie said, wiping away a tear. “I was starting to worry that you’d have nothing left to take home to Heidi.”
“Very funny,” Daymon said, craning around the door jamb, Kindness clutched in one fist and blindly working the right-side door with his free hand. “So funny I forgot to laugh. But you know what?”
Humoring him, Jamie said, “Lay it on me.”
“I didn’t get mad.”
“Your Ritalin is kicking in, huh?” Wilson ribbed.
Shooting Wilson a sour look, Daymon crossed the threshold. Just as he set foot inside the foyer where the ceiling was low and empty coat closets flanked him left and right, a myriad of vivid colors splashed the floor and pews and lit up the gloomy aisle stretching away from him.
After drawing in a deep breath and exhaling sharply, he felt his knees giving out on him.
Chapter 27
The missile lock-on warning continued to bleat as Cade braced against the evasive actions taken by the aircrew. In his earpiece he heard Ari breathing hard. “Heat seeker identified,” the SOAR aviator said, a millisecond before the craft vibrated from another volley of flares being dispensed. He also recognized Haynes’ voice as the left seater calmly informed the TOC controller of their situation and current position.
After hearing Captain Jensen reassure the aircrew that search and rescue birds were on the flight line, fully fueled and spooling up, Cade tightened his flight harness to one notch past tourniquet and ran through his mind what he’d do if they did indeed meet terra firma in a sudden and jarring manner. No, he thought as the mottled blue-gray horizon slipped from view and the flat ochre ground filled up every starboard window fore to aft, sudden and jarring was too benign a term. Instantaneous and explosive was more like it, and if that should come to pass, he decided the straps biting into his shoulders and hips were most likely going to relieve him of an appendage or two upon impact, not save his life as intended.
As the characteristic whoosh of the last round of flares ejecting from the wildly jinking helo faded, abruptly the burnished pewter sky was filling up the port-side windows.
In the middle of the high-G serpentine roll Cade noticed a look of worry park itself on Cross’s face. And during that same snapshot in time it also registered to him that Lopez’s arms and legs were floating weightless and the Hispanic operator’s normally tanned face had gone ashen.
“We have a medical emergency back here,” Cade barked into the boom mic, only to find that his audio had apparently been muted. To his left, Skipper was readying the minigun and talking into his boom mic, lips moving a mile a minute, whatever he was saying also going unheard by Cade. A tick after the speeding craft regained level flight, the door concealing the minigun parted vertically down the center, the two jagged edged halves sucking inward and folding neatly inside the fuselage, one to Skipper’s right, the other seating flat against the forward crew-door pillar off of Cade’s left shoulder.
Cold wind invaded the cabin. It seemed to have an effect on Lopez. His lips, previously pursed and purple, had regained some color and were moving.
Bellowing to be heard over the escalating turbine whine, Cade said, “Lopez, hang in—,” only to have his words suddenly drowned out by the deafening buzz-saw-like ripping sound of the minigun belching hot lead. Hundreds of rounds—if not a thousand—poured down onto whatever or whomever Doctor Silence was targeting. In his ear Cade suddenly heard Haynes calling out the range and direction of travel of some kind of vehicle he was tracking visually.
Back in the loop, thought Cade as the minigun roared again. A shorter burst. One second versus three.
Skipper said flatly, “Two tangos down. Still panning. Give me some distance.”
In response to the request the helo climbed swiftly and began a tight orbit over the high desert landscape it had nearly become one with.
Now aware of Lopez’s plight, Cross unbuckled and took a knee in front of the Delta captain. He ripped off his gloves and checked the stricken man’s neck for a carotid pulse. Simultaneously, he flashed Cade a reassuring thumbs-up with one hand and patted Lopez’s cheek with the other, getting an immediate result.
“What’s going on?” Cade asked at the top of his voice.
Suddenly lucid, Lopez jabbed a finger at his right lower abdomen.
Pressing his thumb firmly on the location Lopez had pointed to earned Cross a face full of hot, runny bile. Lopez continued to spew yellowish liquid even as Cross recoiled and dragged his forearm across his face.
“Earned my Puker Patch,” Lopez wheezed. “And my gut’s on fire for it.”
“Do you still have an appendix?” asked Cross.
Offering Cross a camo bandana with a sheepish, embarrassed look on his face, Lopez said, “As far as I know.”
“You’d know if you already lost it,” Cross said. “My little sis had hers burst on her when we were kids. Same deal. She was in serious pain. Had the tender abdomen. Then the puking”—he took the bandana and dabbed at his face and neck—“the non-stop puking. Only she never painted me with it.”
“My bad,” Lopez said.
Cade had been watching Cross tend to Lopez. In his left side vision he saw Skipper rotate the minigun’s barrel vertical to the sky and haul it back a few inches and lock it in place inside the cabin. The smell of gun smoke hit his nose. Then he sensed the weapons bay door begin to move and craned and watched the two parts come together and snug flat. All told, the weapon’s initial deployment took six seconds or
so. Retracting it back into place burned about eight. Not too bad a turnaround to keep a low radar signature. But it didn’t amount to shit—as they had all just learned the hard way—if you flew anywhere near a determined foe brandishing a MANPAD antiaircraft weapon outfitted with heat seekers. Murphy was back and Cade didn’t like it one bit.
“Taking her down,” Ari said flatly. “We’re almost smack dab between two decent-sized towns. Stay frosty, boys … there’s bound to be dead roaming the area.”
“Copy that,” Cade said.
Cross retook his seat and fastened his lap belt. He met Cade’s eyes and motioned at Lopez. “He needs a doctor, ASAP.”
“Appendix?” Cade said.
Cross nodded.
Cade shook his head and cursed under his breath. Just as he began wondering who was going to fill Lopez’s spot, he felt the usual underfoot clunk and vibration of the belly doors opening. A tick later came the reassuring whirr of the landing gear motoring into the down position.
“Ohhh my,” Ari deadpanned. “Looks like Skipper made us a street pizza.”
Having a good idea what Ari was alluding to, Cade focused on the rising finger of oily smoke outside the port windows and waited for the reassuring bump of the bird’s wheels kissing earth.
Chapter 28
Even from the front of the foyer, peering across the color-dappled sanctuary to the altar beyond, Daymon knew he was looking at a horror he hoped to never see again. All at once a host of emotionally charged memories were dredged up from deep recesses in his brain and came flooding back, jumping synapses at nearly light speed. Jaw hinging open in a silent scream, he crashed to his knees, eyes locked dead ahead, as if praying to the very sight that had seemingly stricken him down. Excited voices filled the low-ceilinged entry at his back and hands were grabbing his arms in an attempt to steady him.
Daymon noticed all of these things on the periphery of consciousness, but ignored the stimuli, for the sight at the end of the aisle had instantaneously transported him back to Jackson, Wyoming and, though he was physically still in Woodruff, Utah, in his head he was again walking the blacktop on the Highway to Hell—Ian Bishop’s mile-long spectacle meant to remind town folk what would happen to them if they tried to defect from the so-called capital of Robert Christian’s New America. “Examples” is what Bishop had called the dozens of people he had caught trying to escape Jackson. And examples is what they had become, all of them suffering a slow death to a combination of injury, shock, and exposure before finally becoming fodder for the opportunist raptors.
“Heidi is OK,” someone said into his ear. “You called out for her as you collapsed. She’s not in danger. She’s right here.”
A gloved hand brushed back Daymon’s dreads and the long range CB radio was pressed to his ear. Though his soon-to-be wife’s high-pitched voice emanated from the speaker, he still seemed oblivious to his surroundings.
Seeing Daymon’s obvious hesitation, Lev pushed forward and kneeled in front of him, making a point of blocking the sight that had presumably triggered his friend’s episode. He stared into the man’s eyes and saw a sort of primal fear in them.
Taryn leaned forward. “Is he going to be OK?” she asked, concern evident in her tone.
Lev shook his head side-to-side and shrugged, semaphore for I haven’t a clue. Then, momentarily breaking eye contact with Daymon, he motioned Oliver and Jamie forward. After watching them squeeze through the crowded foyer, he met Oliver’s eyes and tapped a knuckle on the man’s slung carbine. “Run to the trucks and get a first aid kit. And make it quick.”
Without complaint nor hesitation, Oliver unslung his rifle and disappeared into the gloom.
Lev turned his attention to Jamie. Meeting her eyes, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Finish that thing.”
She nodded and started a slow pirouette to her right.
Lev reached out and gripped her forearm gently. “Stay frosty,” he said in a low voice. “There may be more traps.”
Jamie nodded and started down the center aisle, trying her best to ignore the little voice inside her head urging her to take a second look at the crucified skeletal remains. Two steps down the aisle, the voice won out. So she paused between the second to last pews and looked it head to toe. It proved to be a thing from her childhood nightmares, only she wasn’t at Disneyland and these bones weren’t bleached white and lying on a make-believe pirate-infested Caribbean Island. Nope. This zombie skeleton was twitching now, the few remaining muscles snaking up its neck moving the grinning skull up and down as if it was agreeing with something or, partially doubled-up the way it was, perhaps laughing at the punchline of a joke only it was privy to. Betting on the former, Jamie flicked her eyes to its chest cavity where, save for knobby vertebrae and a nest of what she thought were corded core muscles, nothing resembling an internal organ remained. Continuing the visual inspection, she dropped her gaze to the flaccid white penis dangling from a ribbon of skin someone had gone to the trouble of tying to what she guessed had been his pubic bone. Moving on to his lower extremities, she saw shiny scraps of dried flesh and sinew still clinging to blood-reddened femur, fibula, and tibia bones. Calling forth every last ounce of willpower she possessed, the hardened survivor tore her eyes from its perfectly preserved feet and the metal rod pinning them to the post and began sweeping the floor for tripwires or anything else that looked out of place. Fully aware of the jaundiced, lifeless eyes still tracking her, she completed her slow procession to the raised dais where the crudely fashioned cross had been erected—proud of herself for not having stolen a third look along the way.
The floor below the dais was shiny where more than one person’s spilt blood had dried to black. The stench up close proved to be nearly unbearable.
Breathing through her nose, her usually husky voice nasal and high-pitched, Jamie said, “The aisle is clear of traps.”
At the sound of Jamie’s voice, the abomination shuddered excitedly, its bony knees and exposed ribs creating a grating sound as they rubbed together.
Lev threw a visible shudder. He squeezed Daymon’s shoulder and whispered, “Hang in there.” Then, looking around, he hissed, “Where the eff is Oliver?”
Chapter 29
Once Jedi One-One was wheels down on the snow-dotted plat of high desert, Cade hastily shed his safety harness and stood, M4 carbine in hand.
“I’ll cover your egress,” Skipper said, grabbing a carbine of his own. He slapped the operator on the shoulder and hauled the port-side cabin door open.
Still kneeling before Lopez, Cross looked up and met Cade’s gaze. “You go,” he said forcefully. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Cade nodded in agreement and unplugged the flight helmet from the comms jack. Then, for the sake of expediency, he deployed the smoked visor to keep his eyes safe from flying debris and exited the helo without swapping helmets. M4 at a low ready, he ran towards the smoking wreckage, head ducked under the imaginary reach of the near invisible rotor blades.
The wreckage was both organic and mechanical in nature and was scattered over a bullet-tilled patch of desert roughly two dozen yards in diameter. The smoke Cade had spotted from inside the Ghost Hawk was coming from a nearby copse of trees where a number of small fires in the damp underbrush struggled to stay lit.
Ari was right. Skipper had indeed turned something into “street pizza.” The previously human organic matter was mostly pulped flesh and bone splashed in two long frothy red trails bisecting the epicenter of the churned-up topsoil. The two largest pieces, both limbless torsos, still wore Kevlar vests, the ceramic bullet-resistant plates fractured in dozens of small pieces after having taken direct hits from the speeding 7.62x51mm projectiles.
A severed head, eyes open and staring, lay near one of the torsos. It still wore a knockoff tactical-style helmet, nylon chin straps still snugged tightly underneath the intact jawbone. A several-days-old growth of dark facial hair meant at least one of the dead had been a man. Though he scanned the area, th
e second head was nowhere to be seen.
Of the mechanical wreckage, the biggest pieces were nearly identical: two large billets of polished metal sprouting milled fins, colorful wires, and black rubber hosing. The items in question were still bolted to frames made of snaking black metal tubes all bent at crazy angles. Motorcycle, Cade thought at once. Then he counted four spoked rims that had been scattered to all points of the compass. One was still attached to a pair of long-travel forks, the plastic dustcovers and exposed metal rattle canned in a dark camouflage scheme. Another front wheel—also hastily painted—was a good distance to his left and partially obscured by a clutch of inert tumbleweeds. The two rear rims were a ways uphill from Cade and had come to rest a few feet apart beside shin-high piles of dirty, days-old snow. All four rims were still wrapped in knobby off-road tires. Like the two bodies and the motorcycle chassis, all four tires had been shredded by Skipper’s superior marksmanship.
Motorcycles, he thought. Plural.
Ignoring the metallic stink of freshly spilt blood and the bloated ropes of greasy-looking intestine spilling from the rent-open abdomen, he took a knee next to the nearest torso and manhandled it around until what he guessed to be the chest was facing skyward. After loosening the vest’s Velcro straps, a quick inspection underneath the jagged plates produced a thin diary, an envelope full of some official-looking documents, and a host of laminated topographical maps of the Western United States. Tucked away inside an intact chest pouch was a slim Chinese-manufactured satellite phone. In another was a handful of flash-cards featuring rudimentary pictograms and their corresponding warnings all written in Chinese and pertaining to situations relevant only in a modern day Z-infested theater of war.
On the first card was a nicely rendered drawing of a man, arms up and rifle at his feet. Though the hieroglyphic-like Chinese characters meant nothing to Cade, the image instantly brought to mind one word: surrender.
District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 17