But that would have to wait. He had some shopping to do. So he hinged up and threw on a black tee shirt, laced up his remaining Danner and slipped on the walking boot, cinching the Velcro down tightly. He took a moment to look around the room and see how different it appeared now that it was awash in thin shafts of daylight. The combined living and dining room was carpeted in rust-colored shag and paneled with dark wood. In the far corner was a tiny wood stove. Through a doorway to the right was a utilitarian kitchen minus the appliances. All in all, the entire place struck him as some kind of hippie crash pad or a stop on a modern day Underground Railroad. Except for the framed photo on one wall of a girl standing in front of a man and a woman, both in their early thirties by his best estimate, there was nothing at all homey about the shack.
Adding to the ambiance, the group’s gear and weapons were strewn everywhere. An arm’s reach away, paralleling his, was a metal-framed nylon cot; the sleeping bag atop it lay open and had partially spilled off onto the floor. Next to the abandoned cot was another with two forms pressed together on its meager two-foot-wide sleeping surface. Cade recognized one of Raven’s pigtails snaking from under the woven afghan blanket; at the moment it appeared she was attempting to sleep-wrestle the bedding from her mom.
A couple of yards past the ongoing struggle, near the cold stove at the rear of the room, another trio of similar-sized cots were nosed in against the wall. Judging by the red manes peeking out from under their respective blankets, Cade surmised that two of the lumps were Wilson and Sasha. And on the cot beside Wilson’s, fully clothed and sleeping atop a puffy orange sleeping bag, was the raven-haired late addition tagalong to FOB Bastion named Taryn.
All present and accounted for, thought Cade. He corralled his crutches from the floor, a move that brought Max out from under Raven’s empty cot. The Australian shepherd spun a half circle and leaned against Cade’s good leg, then cast a backward glance full of longing at him. It was obviously a preplanned and perfectly executed move that garnered the recently adopted dog a thorough scratching behind the ears.
When he’d finished doting on Max, Cade said a few quiet words in the dog’s perked ear, then shrugged on his shoulder rig and placed the compact Glock 19 in the Bianchi holster dangling under his right armpit. Next, he retrieved the full-sized Glock 17 from underneath his pillow and slipped it into the low-riding drop-leg holster, securing it within easy reach on the outside of his left thigh.
Finally, blowing a kiss towards his sleeping family and being as quiet as a man on crutches with a clunky boot on one foot could be, he rose and threaded past his sleeping wife and daughter. Stopping near the door, he fished the keys from Brook’s pants pocket and couldn’t help noticing the now-folded plain white envelope he’d given her the day before. Ignoring the death letter, he verified he had the correct keys by the leather fob with the blue Ford oval. They went into his pocket, then he rooted through his ruck and retrieved a black Sharpie. He looked around for something to write on, a scrap of paper perhaps—anything but the death letter. Finding nothing he shrugged, leaned against the wall, and scrawled a message to Brook chest-high on one of the recessed vertical panels on the inside of the front door. Then, leaving Max to watchdog over them all, he slunk out into the flat light of morning.
But before he’d closed the door behind him, a second volley of rifle fire disturbed the quiet. He poked his head back inside and was relieved to find that everyone’s breathing remained still and rhythmic, an indicator to how conditioned they had become to their new normal.
Chapter 3
The second consecutive flash of orange entered Duncan’s field of vision as he was sighting on a raggedy first turn over the barrel of his .45. A microsecond later, there was an arrow buried deeply into the female rotter’s eye socket, its shaft still quivering as the creature crashed to the ground, limp. Suddenly, realizing what had just taken place, Duncan smiled wide at his good fortune and said a silent prayer to Oops assuring him that they’d meet again—but apparently at a later date.
“Yo, pusbags,” a voice shouted from downhill and behind the SUV. “Come and get some dark meat.”
Taking a couple of long strides forward, Duncan navigated the fallen bodies and grabbed onto the rig’s sloped hood for support. He looked down the length of the Land Cruiser’s passenger side and was greeted by a familiar sight.
Crossbow shouldered and bouncing against his back, the lanky firefighter had swapped out for a machete and was spinning through the clutch of dead like some kind of whirling dervish trained in the martial arts. In a matter of seconds, Duncan witnessed the flashing blade relieve two of the flesh eaters of their heads, and then behind a graceful full swing saw Daymon lop off the top third of another’s from the brow up.
As the severed heads bounced towards SR-39, picking up speed like a pair of hair-and-flesh-wrapped bowling balls, the third creature toppled backward, impacted the ground viciously, and entered its nearly intact brain into the downhill race.
“The cavalry is here,” shouted Duncan. Aiming cross-body he dropped another pair of decaying interlopers with single point-blank headshots and added, “And it looks like he brought a knife to a gunfight.” A guttural chuckle spilled from Duncan’s mouth as he shook his head, another attempt at clearing the Jack-induced haze.
Out of nowhere, a jagged fork of lightning transited the pewter sky nearby. Immediately the following clap of thunder ripped the still air, reverberated off the foothills all around, and then died to nothing, leaving only the sound of raindrops pinging mightily on the Cruiser’s sheet metal.
Daymon said nothing as he appeared wraithlike next to Duncan, who was now visibly wavering, about to lose his tenuous grip on the vehicle. Then, with no trouble at all, Daymon hustled the smaller man into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and backpedaled uphill and around the Cruiser’s grill.
In the next instant he had the bow cocked and loaded and was tracking around to the driver’s side, where, after a quick glance at the shrouded forms of Gus and Logan, let the missile fly.
The razor-sharp barbed arrow crossed space in a fraction of a second and stopped a freshly turned walker, twice-dead, in its tracks. Noticing the newly opened window of opportunity, Daymon tossed the bow to the ground and dashed for the Toyota. He hauled the door open and hastily folded his frame behind the wheel. With a pair of rotten hands reaching in, he slammed the door and locked himself inside the rig without a second to spare.
“What the hell were you thinking?” asked Daymon as he tucked his dreads behind his ears. Receiving nothing in response, he flashed an expectant sidelong glance towards Duncan and found the Vietnam-era aviator dead to the world, chin parked hard on his chest, snoring.
A flurry of white palms slapped the passenger side glass, jerking Duncan from his alcohol-induced slumber. Going wide eyed, “What the fu—” was all he could muster before the roar of the 5.7 liter engine joined the pelting drops in drowning out the rest of the expletive.
“I’m saving our butts. That’s what the fuck,” explained Daymon as he pinned the throttle and turned hard right, deeply cutting a clockwise pair of muddy tracks into the spongy earth. Straightening out midway through, he pointed the center of the hood at the largest concentration of rotters, running over and pinning a number of them under the two-and-a-half-ton rig’s undercarriage. Then, bouncing like a ship at sea, the luxury SUV picked up speed and careened downhill towards the zombie-choked blacktop, spitting out bits and pieces of pasty arms and legs along the way. Trying to time the power drift just right, Daymon locked eyes with the hungry throng; at the last second, he yanked the wheel hard over and with the top-heavy vehicle’s pent up inertia bleeding away came a crashing of wood against metal. The vehicle shuddered from an immediate and violent halt.
Chapter 4
Walking with crutches, the half-mile trek from the double-wide to the base motor pool took Cade fifteen minutes. As he clunked along the fence line surveying the moat and the handful of Zs that had gotten tra
pped there overnight, a brisk crackle of rifle fire drew him off course. Ignoring the sea of vehicles dead ahead, he veered right and followed along the newly constructed and heavily fortified front gate he and Beeson had passed through the night before.
Taking into consideration the recent terrorist attacks on Schriever AFB and that he was now a civilian and dressed as such, he approached the razor-wire-topped fence with caution and a smile. Standing in the shadow of the guard tower, not ten feet from the ladder, one of the soldiers, a female nearing middle age, peeled away from her post and approached him, exhibiting the swagger he’d seen in combat veterans with multiple deployments in the sandbox under their belt. Her eyes locked on his as she challenged him in a booming voice, the business end of her M4 aimed at the ground near his feet. The action, exactly what he’d expected from Wilson the night before, actually came as a relief. Relaxing somewhat, he said, “I’m Colonel Beeson’s guest. Came in from Schriever last night with my family.”
Unwavering, her face a mask of seriousness, she held a hand out and said, “ID please.”
Moving slowly and deliberately, keeping his hand clear of the Glock on his thigh, he retrieved the green military ID from his left hip pocket and handed it over. “I’m no longer active duty, but this is all I’ve got. Don’t see any DMV offices opening anytime soon.”
Ignoring the attempt at levity, she took the card and backed away.
Noting the separation the sergeant had created, Cade glanced over and saw the other soldiers eyeing him intently. Good. After the speed and manner in which Camp Williams fell to the dead, it was apparent that Beeson had articulated clearly to the soldiers under his command that complacency would not to be tolerated.
Waiting patiently, Cade removed his black ball cap and relaxed on the crutches, settling most of his weight on the rubber pads pinching his underarms. And as the sergeant scrutinized his ID, he studied her uniform. It was the newer Multicam style with multiple different earth tones intermingling over a mostly tan background. The left shoulder sleeve insignia—an olive drab star on a black shield with a full headdress-wearing Native American centered inside of the star—indicated she was Second Infantry Division. Cade guessed that she had probably been stationed at Fort Kit Carson before Z-Day and had been sent here only recently in order to help Beeson’s Boys (Green Berets of the 19th Special Forces Group) fortify the outpost. He watched her dark eyes flick rapidly back and forth over the laminated plastic document, searching it front and back. During the process, he noticed her look up twice, presumably comparing him with the picture.
“I’ll be damned,” she finally said, handing the ID back, a broad smile cracking her steely veneer. “The Cade Grayson?”
Nodding, Cade donned his cap, snugging it low, nearly covering his eyes. Then, changing the subject, he glanced at the chevrons on her chest and addressed her by the name on the tag secured by hook-and-loop tape to her blouse top. “Can I ask you a question, First Sergeant Andreasen?”
“Fire away,” she answered at once. “And you can call me Laurel.” She shouldered her rifle and assumed a relaxed stance.
“What’s with all of the shooting this morning?”
Her smile faded. Then she said grimly, “The Zs have been crawling out of the pits and getting to the fence. Not a lot of them ... but enough to cause me a severe case of the pucker ... if you get my drift.”
He nodded but said nothing.
Andreasen went on, “Only takes one or two muzzle flashes to bring them up from the Interstate. So, if we can, we wait until first light ... put them down all at once.”
“Why don’t you have suppressors for your weapons?”
“A couple of SF teams headed out to recon Salt Lake a week ago and took all that we had with them. Who am I to question what the 19th does? Anyway, the colonel probably figured they needed them more than us,” she explained. Then, no sooner had the words rolled off her tongue, she remembered that he was no longer a captain in the United States Army, leaned close and added quietly, “But I shouldn’t have told you any of that.”
“Knowing how Beeson trains his boys, they’ll be back. Besides, communication’s been dodgy since the Chinese satellites attacked our birds.” The sergeant’s face went slack at this bit of news. “But I shouldn’t have told you that,” he said with a conspiratorial wink.
A Humvee passed them by, throwing up a turbid cloud of dried grass and ochre dust.
Waving away the choking haze, Cade asked, “How are the Zs getting out?”
She adjusted her helmet. Fixed her red-rimmed hazel eyes on his and said slowly, “On the backs of the others.”
“On the backs of the others?” said Cade, barely masked incredulity riding his words.
The sergeant nodded then looked towards the fence subconsciously.
“They’re learning?”
She nodded again.
Holy hell, thought Cade. His gaze was drawn to the fence. He stared at it, thought for a second and finally said, “Thanks for your time, Sergeant.”
“Thanks for all that you’ve done,” she replied. “And I’m truly sorry to hear about Desantos and Gaines. They will be missed.”
Cade nodded but said nothing. He cast another worried glance towards the fence and then fixed his gaze on the motor pool where he could just make out the top of the massive Ford in the distance, the sun bouncing off of its black paint.
***
Three minutes later he was zippering through the maze of static Humvees and MRAPs. He crabbed between a pair of Cougars, their slab sides painted desert tan, each towering two-and-a-half-feet over his head. After navigating by guess and happenstance he emerged from the steel canyon, pressed the unlock button on the alarm fob, and listened hard for the tone. Hearing the soft beep, he vectored towards it, hitting the button two more times before finally finding the truck without a name. Back in Portland, before the dead had come back to life, upending everything he had known as normal, Raven had taken it upon herself and named their Toyota Sequoia the Silver Beast; her inspiration derived from a cartoon about a girl named Maggie and her docile pet monster she called the Ferocious Beast. Seeing her smiling face in his mind’s eye, he made a mental note to challenge her to coin a similarly suitable name for the Ford.
Cade popped the door, grasped the grab handle, and climbed into the seat, hauling the pair of crutches in after. He slipped the key in the ignition and the Ford fired right up, its throaty exhaust notes banging off the armored military vehicles parked on either side. What about ‘Old Faithful,’ he thought to himself. Then, a second later, the image of Jasper’s truck belching steam and trying to die on the South Dakota Interstate popped into his head, instantly nixing that idea.
It took two tries, forwarding and reversing while cutting the wheel by a few degrees, before he was able to extricate the rig. Finally he goosed the throttle and with the truck belching grey exhaust sped from the parking lot. But instead of going straight, and much to the surprise of First Sergeant Andreasen and the others manning the gate, he turned left and rolled up tight to the hurricane fencing and motioned the first sergeant over.
After a quick exchange with the newest member of the Cade Grayson fan club, and a sour look from the soldier whose job it was to lower the mobile bridge system, he was outside the wire and on his way.
With the image of the bridge folding away in his rearview, Cade turned right out of FOB Bastion and drove on for a short while to the ‘T’ intersection he recalled from the night before where another right turn was necessary. Then, keeping a steady forty miles per hour, he maneuvered the Ford along a meandering stretch of 10 1/2 Road for almost a mile, dodging small groups of Zs and wondering the entire way, why, with so much open range, the CDOT bothered with fractions when naming their streets. As quickly as the conundrum had come to him, it diminished in importance when he came upon U-13, a north/south two-lane splitting Mack to the west and Loma to the east. He ground the Ford to a hard stop on the debris-littered blacktop just as Beeson had done the
night before. He sat there for a beat staring dead ahead, past the sign reading Loma Population 1,296, and recalled the colonel’s words. Unlucky thirteen, Greg had said, referring to the road by its newly earned name. Then, eyes misting over, shoulders slumped from carrying the added weight of the newly fallen, the usually unflappable Special Forces officer had added in a low and chilling tone, ‘We don’t go beyond thirteen ... Loma belongs to the dead.’
Hearing those words again in his former mentor’s voice, with the same inflection and cadence, stirred within Cade a healthy dose of fear which in turn produced a much needed surge of adrenaline.
Heeding the colonel’s warning, Cade cranked the wheel left and proceeded down U-13, passing by wide open tracts of browned grass and tilled dirt, their neglect obviously underway well before the dead began to walk. A mile later, with the subdivision of houses he’d spotted the night before shimmering in the distance, he saw a mass of staggering Zs blocking the two-lane shoulder to shoulder. For a brief second he entertained the notion of speeding up and sending them flying like so many bowling pins, until the specter of a shattered femur or tibia puncturing one of the Ford’s tires and ruining his day entered the equation. So at the last instant he braked hard and, using the truck’s massive bumper like a cow-catcher, parted the rear echelon and entered their midst at a little more than walking speed. Then after enduring what seemed like a non-stop barrage of slapping palms and nails screeching against the Ford’s sheet metal, he drove out the other end, tires intact but with every nerve ending in his body suddenly ablaze.
Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 2