“Lots of X chromosomes down there,” Duncan muttered, seeing the pair stop opposite Lotta and turn so they just so happened to be facing him full on.
Now we’re cooking with gas, he thought to himself as the taller of the two women spoke. Duncan watched her lips like a cat would a canary. She was obviously relaying something pertaining to the night’s dinner, but the only words he understood by reading her lips were “fire” and “dog.” Maybe they’re roasting weenies, he thought. If anything was still palatable this far into the apocalypse, surely a lips-and-asshole-filled health missile with all of its preservatives would be.
However, the breakthrough came when one of the other women spoke. The first word out of her mouth was “Adrian.” Three syllables. A. Dree. Ann. And just like that, there was no denying that these people he was watching from afar were responsible for all of the atrocities they’d encountered on the way here: the vivisected man in the pasture. The reanimated skeleton left so grotesquely on display in the church. Both the booby-trapped rectory and fix-it shop. And, to add insult to injury, they were just officially confirmed as Oliver’s captors.
Then, just when Duncan thought the predicament Oliver had gotten himself into could get no worse, the big woman called Adrian turned toward Oliver with a machete similar to Daymon’s clutched in her meaty right hand.
There was no more talk. Adrian reared back with the blade, paused for a spell at the top of the swing, then bought it down at an angle a few inches north of Oliver’s protruding femur bone.
The damage was instantaneous, flesh and sinew and bone shards no match for the blade.
As Duncan watched in disbelief, three things happened simultaneously. First, Oliver’s leg from mid-thigh on down tilted away from his body as if it were a felled tree. Then he came to and let loose a scream that Duncan could see, but not hear. And finally, as the wind left Duncan’s lungs in a sorrow-filled moan, Daymon and Dregan were grabbing his elbows and helping to keep him from falling in the same manner as Oliver’s leg had.
His breath coming in gasps, Duncan used the deck rail for support and stood on his own while the others looked on with questioning stares.
“What’s that all about?” Daymon asked.
The first words from Duncan’s mouth when he fully caught his wind were, “The big woman just amputated Oliver’s leg.”
Instantly Taryn drew in a sharp breath.
Shaking his head and on the verge of tears, Daymon stalked the length of the deck and disappeared through the slider.
Duncan looked to Dregan. “We have to go now. Is the Mk19 and Ma Deuce loaded and ready to go?”
Dregan nodded. “What we are lacking in manpower, we make up for in firepower.”
Ray stepped forward. “Me and Helen have more weaponry than we could ever use at the house. I brought something else that might help balance the scales of justice. Come with me.”
Without another word, all thirteen people that had been packed on the master deck followed Ray single-file down the stairs and out the front door, where they were greeted with a much-needed dose of late afternoon sunshine.
Chapter 68
As soon as the gunfire erupted near the front of the convoy, Cade knew it wasn’t coming from Griff or Cross’s suppressed weapons. And he quickly decided that the trio of sharp reports likely hadn’t come from either of the operator’s pistols. More than likely, the weapon was firing an oddball caliber similar in size to the ammunition Cross fed his MP7 submachinegun.
“No return fire?” Axe said to Cade at the very same moment Cross’s voice sounded over the comms with news that the hostile fire was coming from inside the cab of the third vehicle from the front of the column.
“I have eyes on in the side mirror,” Cross added. “One body. Driver’s seat of the troop transport. His angle on us is bad.”
Cade craned left and picked out the third vehicle. Its front end, including the driver’s side mirrors, had been chewed up by slugs from the A-10’s cannons. Fire had consumed most of the cab and licks of smoke continued curling skyward from underneath the buckled hood. Most importantly, there were no whip antennas sprouting from the vehicle, making it more likely the shooter couldn’t report the presence of the Jedi flight.
“Where are the Rangers in relation to the Tango?” he asked, raising his voice because he was hearing one of the distant Screamers being amplified loud and clear over Cross’s boom microphone.
“They’re all on the other side of the parkway. Northwest of the divider on a diagonal from the shooter,” Cross answered. “Griff has already motioned for them to take cover and stand down.”
“Copy that. Hold your fire, too,” Cade said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I have an idea. If it works, we may just be able to take the shooter alive.” He detailed his simple plan then released his M4 from its center-point sling and laid it flat on the road. Out came the suppressed Glock 17 and he was off, moving slowly in a tactical crouch and keeping close to the vehicles where the misshapen shadows cast by the trees to the south provided him a false sense of cover.
Axe watched Cade forge ahead, picking his way through body parts and debris, black pistol held in a two-handed grip and trained on the target vehicle the entire way. Once the Delta captain was parallel with the truck’s driver-side door and had flashed him a thumbs-up, Axe whispered into the comms, “Anvil Actual is in position.”
Crouched out of sight behind the transport’s deflated rear passenger-side tires, Cross whispered, “Anvil Actual, Anvil Two. Copy,” and started moving forward, keeping his MP7 aimed at the window from which the PLA soldier had just engaged them. Gaze trained on the large vertical side mirror, he put one hand on the door to keep it from flying open into him and trained his weapon on the window where the soldier’s head had appeared before.
“Anvil Two in place,” Cross whispered, beginning a silent countdown in his head.
Upon hearing Cross’s report, Cade also started counting down from five. Once he reached “One” in his head, three things happened in quick succession. First, a pair of distinctive muffled reports from Cross’s MP7 sounded opposite the transport. A half-beat later a pained grunt and rustle of fabric filtered down from the open window barely a yard from Cade’s head. Then, as anticipated, the soldier returned fire from the cab, three closely spaced shots that Cade prayed hadn’t found friendly flesh.
Barely a second had slipped into the past before Cade was up on the rig’s running board and peering into the window, the Glock’s cylindrical suppressor sweeping the cab for the enemy soldier. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as his gaze settled on the black pistol clutched in the PLA soldier’s gloved hand. Finger drawing up trigger pull, Cade angled the business end of the Glock down a few degrees and squeezed off a single shot. Another pained grunt followed at once by a shrill scream filled the air even before the muffled report had a chance to dissipate.
Seeing the young soldier double forward, both gloved hands going for the bloody entry wound in the soft flesh on the inside of his right thigh, Cade reached his arm through the window and pressed the still warm suppressor to the soldier’s neck.
Still balancing on the running board, free hand gripping the B-pillar, Cade screamed at the PLA soldier, telling him in English to raise his hands and keep them up.
The soldier didn’t react. Face screwed up in pain, he kept both hands pressed to his wounded leg and began rocking back and forth.
A sliver of light illuminated the headliner above the wounded man’s head as Griffin climbed inside and snatched the soldier’s pistol off the floorboards. “Clear,” he called, seeing no other weapons.
Seeing Griff take possession of the soldier’s weapon, Cade hauled open the door and yanked the screaming man out of the cab. After laying the Chinese soldier flat on the road, he quickly frisked him for weapons. Finding nothing, Cade radioed an all clear to the Ranger lieutenant. Next, he ordered Griff to join him for the interrogation and told Cross to continue searching the vehicles for the data storage
devices.
After seeing Cross disappear behind a shot-up troop carrier, Cade motioned Axe over. “We can’t let him bleed out.”
With his Glock trained on the writhing soldier, Cade watched on as Axe fixed a tourniquet on the profusely bleeding appendage.
“I’m afraid you nicked the bloke’s femoral artery,” Axe said matter-of-factly. “He’s got two minutes left on earth … at the most.”
Cade cursed, then looked over his shoulder at the open door. “Griff,” he bellowed. “Hustle!”
From the head of the convoy a staccato burst of gunfire rang out.
“Rangers engaging the dead,” Axe said matter-of-factly.
Seconds after shimmying across the troop carrier’s bloodied bench seat Griff arrived. Without saying a word, he set his rifle aside, took a knee next to the dying man, and began talking softly to him in what to Cade sounded like Chinese, Mandarin most likely. When Griff paused to take a breath, the soldier’s eyes narrowed and he began thrashing about and yelling at the top of his voice. None of what the PLA soldier had said was understandable to Cade, and judging by the tone and delivery, it was likely nothing useful.
Confirming Cade’s suspicion, Griff shook his head, then looked to the sky. “He told me he knows nothing about the NSA. Then he said he wants us all to go fuck our mothers.”
“The dying always have a way with words,” Axe said. “Tell him thanks for the offer, but my mum is dead and gone.”
Griff didn’t respond to that.
During the uncomfortable few seconds of silence that ensued, the lieutenant leading the Ranger chalk from Jedi One-Two came on over the comms. “One of the Screamers west of us failed,” he said, stress evident in his voice. “And the Zs are starting to move our way. You’ve got two, maybe three minutes tops before One-Two is either going to have to engage the Zs or launch and orbit until we call for exfil.”
“Jedi One-Two and One-Three, Anvil Actual,” said Cade. “You are cleared to exfil Chalks Alpha and Bravo. Lieutenant, Dixon … round up your men. We’re done here.”
“Copy that,” replied the Ranger lieutenant.
Wavering on what to do next, Cade saw the PLA soldier’s eyes flutter.
“Griff, hold him down.”
Griff kneeled by the soldier’s head and anchored the man’s upper arms to the road with both hands.
Cade said, “Axe, keep him from kicking me.”
The soldier’s eyes went wide and a half-smile creased his sweaty face.
Axe placed one knee on the man’s shins and clamped the toes of his blood-soaked combat boots together with one hand.
Cade ripped the soldier’s fatigue pants, exposing the puckered flesh wound. Hand gripping the man’s thigh above where the bullet entered, Cade regarded Griff with a pained look. “Repeat the question.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Griff spoke to the man rapid-fire in Chinese.
The soldier said nothing, his half-smile widening.
Without warning, Cade plunged his thumb into the gaping wound. As the man wailed and bucked under the much larger Americans, he rooted around in the wound and found what he was looking for.
With a nerve definitely struck—literally more so than figuratively—the soldier began to chatter louder and faster than before.
Releasing the pressure, Cade looked a question at Griff.
“He says we’re supposed to fuck our fathers, now,” Griff replied, bowing his head.
Sweating profusely, the beads cascading down his face and wetting the gray asphalt around his head, the soldier looked to Griff and uttered a phrase, which he began repeating softly, over and over.
Griff lifted his head and met Cade’s gaze. “He wants me to kill him.”
Cade heard the turbine whine and rotor chop increase exponentially to the left and right of his position. Then, in his peripheral vision, both left and right, he saw black blurs as the dual rotor choppers lifted off near simultaneously, leaving nothing but broken vehicles, twisted bodies, and a few thousand yards of open ground between his Delta team and the hundreds of Zs bookending them to the west and east.
“Try him one more time,” Cade said, increasing the pressure on the nerves running close to the soldier’s shattered femur.
Still holding the soldier’s legs to the road, Axe looked away, muttering something under his breath.
Nearby, Cross was pacing the road, keeping tabs on the slow-moving Zs.
Again, Griff asked about motorcycles, external drives, and where the PLA Special Forces soldiers who’d paid the NSA a visit had gone.
Again the PLA soldier begged to be killed.
And Cade obliged him. Thinking of Brook, who was currently embroiled in a life and death struggle directly resulting from the virus this man’s people had released on the United States population, he set the pistol on the road and slid his black Gerber from the scabbard.
“You reap what you sow,” Cade said, drawing the dagger’s razor-sharp blade hard across the man’s pasty, upthrust neck.
Instantly the blood spritzed and sluiced onto the road where it mingled with the pooled sweat. Then the coppery reek hit Cade’s nose and he felt the man going limp, finally beginning to succumb to the massive blood loss from the two fatal wounds.
And as the light faded from the PLA soldier’s brown, almond-shaped eyes, Cade felt a burning hatred for everything he represented.
Axe rolled off the dead man’s feet, rose, and stared off to the west at the approaching horde.
There was a loud tearing sound as Jedi One-One materialized over the horizon, its port minigun belching a reddish-orange rope of tracer fire groundward into the Zs.
After releasing his grip on the dead man’s shoulders, Griff rose and looked off to the east. “We’ve got Zs pressing in from this side, now.”
Cade said nothing. He wiped the blood from his knife on the soldier’s uniform blouse and snicked it home in its scabbard. Still mute, he retrieved the Glock from the road and holstered it.
“Here,” Cross said, handing the brooding captain the M4 he’d spotted and scooped up off the road a few yards back.
Taking the carbine from Cross, Cade nodded and clicked it onto the center-point sling.
Finally, as a shiver resulting from the ebbing adrenaline wracked his body, Cade called up Schriever to report his second failure of the day. After receiving what amounted to little more than a brush off from Nash who had picked up his call, he hailed Jedi One-One and requested an immediate exfil.
“One minute out,” Ari called over the open net. “Make sure you keep the LZ clear for me.”
Cade watched the departing Chinooks clear the trees on both ends of the convoy. A tick later One-Three banked sharply to the southwest and powered through a big turn that put her on a course to link up with One-Two, already surging northwest and beginning to blend in with the darkening horizon.
Not used to missions going sideways as completely as this one had, Cade decided to take his frustrations out on the approaching Zs. With the pair of Chinooks nearly out of earshot, and the harmonic thrum hitting his chest making it clear without looking skyward that Jedi One-One was inbound, he called “Weapons free” to the team and aimed his M4 in the direction of the lumbering horde.
“Anvil Actual, Jedi One-One. Check your fire. I repeat, check your fire,” Ari called over the comms. “You’re going to need those rounds. Nash just indicated they have the PLA team under surveillance.”
Cade lowered his carbine. “Jedi One-One, Anvil Actual. Come again?”
Ari repeated himself verbatim then said, “Fifteen seconds out.”
“Copy that,” Cade said. “You have a clear LZ.”
Schriever TOC
“Bring the image out five stops,” Nash called to the airman controlling the sensor suite on the Keyhole satellite four hundred miles over Alexandria, Virginia. “Right southwest corner, grid A1, bracket and zoom five.”
Working silently, the airman’s fingers flew over the keyboard.
; After a half-second delay—if that—the image of a freeway overpass on the large flat-panel screen situated front and center of the TOC shrank drastically. There was a brief lull, during which the airman working the computer nearby hammered away at the keyboard and manipulated a white trackball. Suddenly the overpass was replaced by an area of interest somewhere southeast of D.C., where the Chesapeake encroached on Maryland from the south. Dead center on the image were a number of objects that were impossible to mistake for anything but what they were.
Colonel Shrill removed his cover and absentmindedly scratched his bald dome.
In response to the new image being beamed down from her KH-12, Nash whistled and said, “How in the hell did they sneak all the way up there without us knowing?”
“Because I’d imagine we don’t have enough personnel to monitor our SOSUS array twenty-four-seven let alone SURTASS at all.”
“Limited deep water sound surveillance and zero towed array surveillance?” Nash asked.
Shrill nodded as the President crowded in from his left to whisper something to him.
Nash fired off a quick order to Airman Ripley. “Record GPS coordinates and see about getting laser comms established in the area.”
“Get Cheyenne on the red phone,” Shrill said to an airman nearby. “Tell whomever answers that the President wants to speak to Chairman Two Guns asap.”
Suitland Parkway
Approaching out of the west, Ari brought Jedi One-One down low to the deck and buzzed barely a dozen feet over the Zs’ bobbing heads. At once faces turned skyward and the mass proceeded to stumble and stagger, a large percentage of them toppling over like so many dominos. A hundred yards out the helo began to slow and flare. With barely fifty yards to spare, the bird rotated ninety degrees to port.
Cade saw Skipper’s helmet and upper body rising up from behind the deployed minigun. About the same time Ari halted the rotation, the port-side door facing the team began to slide open.
District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 40