Eternal Vigilance (The Divided America Zombie Apocalypse Book 4)

by B. D. Lutz

  The sergeant told Pat to hold and quickly switched to the fire team’s channel. “Zahra for Lewis, how copy?”

  “Go for Lewis.”

  “I’m holding two at gunpoint. They claim to live in the community. Can you confirm that Pat Schreiber and Jackson Hammer are friendlies? Over.”

  “Friendly isn’t a fitting description for Pat. But yes, both belong to the community. Whatever you do, don’t get Pat angry. She’s a scary woman! Out.”

  Switching back to channel three, Zahra hailed Pat. “I’m Sergeant Zahra. We are here to help you with your fight. Also, you can put your hands down, and please stop smiling. You both look like crazy people. It’s making me uncomfortable.” She smiled and then continued, “Pat, seems that you’ve made a lasting impression on Lewis.”

  “Sergeant, it’s good to make your acquaintance. I think you’ll agree. Men are soft.”

  Pat’s confident tone had returned. Recovering from the shock of nearly being killed, she refocused on their mission. McCune was en route, and this area needed to be clear when he arrived.

  “Sergeant, can you clear the area behind us? It’s our main gate, and it must remain secure.”

  “We’ll clear what we can as we pass. Your east perimeter is our primary target. Zahra, out.”

  With that, the BFV reversed and pivoted to the right and sped past them. A moment later, the sound of full-auto gunfire reached Pat’s ears.

  Smiling, she glanced at Jackson and said, “Let’s get to work.”

  Chapter 22 – Rude

  My body shook violently while someone screamed for me to wake up. My first thought was: Dad’s pissed that I slept in again. But it’s Saturday. I sleep in on Saturdays because I drink too much on Fridays. It’s a rule.

  Without warning, someone flipped me onto my back. My left side screamed in protest at the abrupt movement. Dad is really mad today.

  Wanting to end this madness, I hollered, “You’re rude! I’m trying to get some rest! I think I have the flu!”

  The voice that answered wasn’t my father’s. “Otto, wake your ass up. We need to get moving.”

  The unfamiliar voice, coupled with its urgent tone, snapped my eyes open. My blurry vision fell on a man leaning an inch from my face.

  “You’re not my dad!”

  “No, I’ve already told you. I’m Olaf. Russ is the man guarding the door. Get up, NOW.”

  It was all coming back to me. I was living in the apocalypse, my home was under siege, I had killed a man and been stabbed, and Olaf had a hundred pounds of venison in his truck.

  After several painful attempts, I finally stood on wobbly legs and surveyed my surroundings. The realization hit me; I had gone primeval on the man lying dead mere feet away.

  Olaf called to Russ for help. At first, I took offense. I’m not fat. Then I remembered his cane and swallowed my rebuttal. Russ scurried into position under my right shoulder, easing the burden on my exhausted legs.

  As we headed for the door, a thought entered my woozy head. “So Olaf, is this where we sing…”

  Anticipating what I’d say next, Olaf talked over me, “Let it go, Otto. Just let it go.”

  “Ha, I knew it. Frozen is your favorite movie!”

  Russ sniggered as he struggled under my weight. Having never spoken to the towheaded youngster, I determined it was time for introductions.

  “So, is Russ short for Rusty? I used to drink at a bar called the Rusty Nail. Know the place?”

  Russ shot me a bemused look. When he faced me, I noticed the wound adorning his cheek, just below his right eye. The purple bruise surrounding welted flesh looked painful and fresh.

  “Whoa, what happened to you, Rusty?”

  A look I’ve grown used to over the years crossed his features. Annoyance. “I was hit by a rock… ya know what? It doesn’t matter. Just move your stomps so we can get you home.”

  After a pause, he yelled, “Olaf, radio his people and ask them if they want him back. I’m guessing they don’t, but he can’t live with us.”

  “Hey, I’m wounded too! Worse than you, I might add. And, for your information, they do-so want me back. They’ve been radioing like crazy. Probably have hundreds of people out searching for me.”

  Rusty appeared to make ready a response, but Olaf was already on the radio, his voice cutting the towhead off. “This is Olaf for Dillan.”

  A long minute passed before Dillan responded, “Olaf, your timing is terrible. We can’t help you; we’re being attacked.”

  “I know. But I’m with Otto. He needs a doctor, pronto. So does my son.”

  When Olaf released the talk button, the radio’s speaker filled with the voices of my community. One voice surged through the clatter.

  “If you hurt him, I’ll hunt you down and rip your lungs from your chest. Have I made myself clear?”

  Olaf stared at the radio, and his shocked expression morphed into a smile. “You must be Darline. Seems Otto didn’t tell you about me. I promise you, Otto’s safe.”

  “Is he hurt?” asked Darline, voice choked with emotion.

  “Well, he’s making fun of our names. So I’m guessing he’ll live. But he’ll need some stitches.”

  Dillan seized control of the conversation. “Olaf, RAM’s military has joined the fight. If you encounter them, do your best to appear friendly. Tell them you’re acting on my direction. Better yet, can you hold your current position?”

  Olaf paused, gripped by indecision. When he finally spoke, his intent was clear. “I need to get back to my truck. My boy is hiding in it.”

  Suddenly, a familiar voice crackled through the radio’s speaker. “This is Lewis for Olaf. We have your son covered. If you can’t make it back to your truck safely, don’t break from cover. Over.”

  Olaf had made his choice. “If we retrace our path, we’ll be fine.” He paused, leaned through the destroyed doorway, assessed the area, and continued, “I only see a few stragglers. The commotion at the wall has their attention. We’re heading your way now. See you in five.”

  “Olaf, radio me when you’re approaching. We’ll adjust our fire. Lewis, out.”

  I watched Olaf stuff my radio into a pocket of his oilskin duster. He turned to face us, his features hard. He nodded, stepped over the mangled threshold, and bolted into the late summer air.

  His pace threatened to leave Rusty and me dangerously exposed. But his focus remained on getting to his son.

  “Olaf, slow down. This guy weighs a ton. I can’t keep up.”

  “Hey, Rusty, easy on your commentary about my weight. It’s the damn sodium in those nasty MREs. I’m holding water, that’s all. It’s just water weight.”

  Rusty shook his head. “It’s Russ, call me RUSS! And I’m telling you I don’t care if it’s water or blubber; you weigh a ton.”

  “That’s it. I’ll walk on my own. Let go of me,” I said, struggling to break free of his grip. “Wouldn’t want to give the weakling towhead a hernia. Besides, I’m feeling better. My second wind kicked in.”

  Russ conceded faster than expected. Actually, I didn’t expect it at all. The next thing I knew, I was stumbling forward on a collision course with an enormous buckthorn, its giant thorns promising to gouge out my eyes. The thought terrified me, so I did the only thing I could: I stitched them shut, fell to my hands and knees, and screamed for help as I slid over mud-slicked turf toward the thorny beast.

  When nothing happened, I slowly opened my eyes, bringing into focus the single largest thorn I’d ever seen. Another inch and the invasive shrub would have claimed my left eye as its latest victim.

  I stared, transfixed by the deadly foliage, when hysterical laughter came from my left. It was Russ. The little shit was leaving me to die!

  “Hey, little help here. I can walk on my own. Standing is something altogether different.”

  Russ glanced over his shoulder and yelled, “You better figure it out, quick. Company’s coming.”

  His meaning became clear when the raspy call of a
hungry UC reached my ears. Still on all fours, I snapped my head back and forth, attempting to locate the monster. I found nothing. Then realization hit me—it was directly behind me.

  Panic in control, I began crawling after Olaf and Russ. Pain from my left side and arm went white-hot, hindering my pace. If I didn’t get to my feet and run, I’d get eaten alive.

  The same instant the thought of the monster’s teeth ripping my skin entered my mind, hands pulled me to my feet.

  “Ha, couldn’t live without the old man, could ya? We’ll talk about you leaving me to die later.”

  Russ rolled his eyes, spun, and bolted towards a now distant Olaf. “I’m not helping you again. RUN.”

  It surprised me how quickly Russ turned nasty on me. It usually doesn’t happen until you get to know me. But he had a point, I should run.

  My body had other ideas. After my first few steps, my run morphed into a lope, then devolved into a limping struggle to move forward. My hamstrings warned me that bad things would happen if I pushed them any harder. But with the UC locked onto me like a heat-seeking missile, and an empty gun on my hip, my only option was to push forward.

  The shambling beast matched my pace, through backyards and brush-covered lots, for fifty yards, calling to its food in a language known only to its brethren. I decided it was time to fight.

  As I trundled along, my eyes scanned the ground for a makeshift weapon but found nothing. I reached for my radio. Again, nothing. As I cursed Olaf for commandeering my lifeline, I suddenly realized I was standing on a cement sidewalk.

  The sounds of battle filled the late summer air as I looked up to find my salvation. A massive black pickup truck, providing cover for two soldiers positioned on either end, sat less than twenty-five yards away. I quickly recognized the nearest of the soldiers as Lewis. The other soldier was using the hood as a firing platform, his face obscured by the truck’s cab.

  From Olaf's description when we talked earlier in the day, I determined the truck belonged to him. But something was wrong. Olaf and Russ were nowhere in sight.

  Approaching the truck from its right flank had me facing its tailgate and put me off Lewis’ right shoulder. His attention was focused downrange as I shuffled in his direction. I waved my arms and yelled to signal my approach, but he didn’t hear me or didn’t care. Either way, the UC was closing on me.

  My predicament was becoming clear through my foggy mind. If I startled Lewis, he’d shoot me. If I stopped, the UC would eat me. Gripped by indecision, I froze mid-step. I had to fight.

  I sucked in a deep breath, flexed my hands, and spun to face the enemy. “Alright, you son-of-a-bitch, get ready to work for your next meal.”

  The monster responded by increasing his pace. Claw-like hands reached for me as its maw hinged open in anticipation of tasting my flesh. I took in the pathetic beast’s mangled form shambling in my direction. Its ability to walk, to move at all, defied logic. Yet still it hungered for human meat. I squared my shoulders and prepared to fight for my life.

  Suddenly its head went airborne, tumbling to the ground at my feet. My confusion soon cleared as the monster’s body folded to the pavement, and Olaf appeared, holding a sword in a two-handed grip.

  He wiped the razor-sharp blade on the monster’s tattered clothing and slid it back into its scabbard, which doubled as his cane. Locking eyes with me, he said, “You didn’t think I’d leave you to die, did you?”

  “Yeah, I kinda did. It’s the part where you left me to die that made me think you were actually leaving me to die.”

  Olaf shook his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “Otto, you need to have faith, brother.”

  “Olaf, you took off. Rusty, Russ, whatever his name is, dropped me. Then he ran by me, laughing like a crazy person. You’ll excuse me if I doubt you.”

  “Ah, well. I don’t speak for Russ. He probably left you to die. But I was clearing a path for you.”

  Russ popped up from a low hedgerow a few yards away. “I was laughing at you. Not about you being eaten, Otto. You should’ve seen yourself sliding at that thorn bush. It was a sight. Also, don’t forget, you said you didn’t need my help, so I didn’t help.”

  “It’s a buckthorn.”

  Russ gave me a quizzical look.

  “The thing you called a thorn bush, it’s called a buckthorn. It could have poked my eye out.”

  Russ pushed through the hedgerow, eyes fixed on me. His posture told me to get ready to fight. I brought my fists up, boxer-style, and waited.

  I flinched when he brought his hands up, forcing a chuckle from the young man. “You’re a skittish one, Otto. Olaf radioed the soldiers; they're waving us over. Believe me; if I was going to hit you, you wouldn’t see it coming.”

  I turned and found Lewis motioning to us to join him. Olaf was already running to the truck, and Russ followed suit. Still unsteady, I tried jogging, but my body requested I walk, slowly.

  By the time I joined them, Lewis had refocused on the UC horde massed at the east gate. Seeing the attack from this angle stole my breath. Bodies littered the area around my home. Gunfire filled the air as pikes shattered skull after rotting skull. My friends were fighting for their lives.

  I took a step towards my home when a thumping sound filled my ears, and the sun was blotted from the sky.

  Chapter 23 – Frying Pan to Fire

  Doctor McCune clutched his medical bag to his chest as Timmons wheeled the Humvee through the desolate streets of a once thriving city. It was the first time he’d ventured from the safety of the hospitals grounds since Operation Nightingale secured Saint Joe’s for his research.

  “Doctor, loosen your grip on that bag. You’ll be useless if your fingers are broken.”

  McCune twisted to face Sergeant Timmons. The man’s words both startled and confused him. Timmons bobbed his head at the bag. “Doc, your knuckles are white. Any more pressure and fingers will start snapping.”

  McCune shifted his gaze to the bag and realized what Timmons meant. “I suppose you have a point, Sergeant.” He allowed the bag to fall to his lap but felt no less terrified. “How much longer until we reach the community? It’s a matter of life or death.”

  Timmons referenced his map, then glanced over his shoulder. The soldier tapped to accompany them was manning the turret gun, safely out of earshot. “What should I tell them when they arrive at Saint Joe’s?”

  McCune clamped his eyes closed and lowered his head. “What gave me away?” he asked.

  “Doc, I’ve been a soldier a long time. I know panic when I see it. You packed your bags in seconds flat. You have all of your research in those boxes sitting on the backseats. Judging from the amount of glass clinking around your bag, you’ve packed enough medication to stock a small hospital. But the thing that stands out? Saint Joe’s has, what, a dozen doctors you could have sent in your place.” Timmons paused, waiting for McCune to answer. When he didn’t, Timmons pressed on, “So, what do I tell them when they arrive. I don’t know what you’re running from, and I don’t get paid enough to care. But you’re a good man. You’ve made some mistakes, but you’re still a good man.”

  McCune, head still bowed, said, “Tell them I’m dead, killed while examining that blue savage in the containment room.”

  Timmons chuckled. “You’re a crafty bastard, Doc.”

  His levity broke when the M2 barked a burst of death at an unseen enemy. McCune’s head snapped up as Timmons lowered his boom-mic and asked the soldier for a sit-rep.

  After a long silence, Timmons raised his mic and said, “Buckle up. We’re three minutes out.”

  Eyes bulging, McCune asked, “Why was he shooting?”

  “Area’s getting thick with UCs. Get used to that sound.”

  McCune’s trembling hands kneaded the medical bag’s supple leather. Had he made the right choice? Should he have joined Flocci at the CDC? Did he jump willingly from the frying pan into the fire?

  “Doc, if your first instinct was to run. Trust it, it’ll keep
you alive.” Timmons yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, then slammed on the brakes. Mangled bodies littered their route, some struggling to stand despite devastating injuries. An enormous dump truck rumbled in the opposite direction, and it became clear that the beast had caused the destruction laid out before them.

  A long whistle preceded Timmons’ words. “Holy shit. Now I know why they told you to come heavily armed.”

  McCune fumbled through the pockets of his coat for his radio. Finding it, he pressed the talk button and hailed Pat. “This is Doctor McCune for Pat Schreiber. I have arrived. Our Humvee is approximately one hundred yards from the main gate. How do we enter the community?”

  Before Pat responded, Timmons locked onto the doctor’s eyes. “We don’t enter, you do. Tell them to pick you up. I’m not risking getting trapped here. I have a meeting to attend back at Saint Joe’s.”

  McCune nodded his understanding and radioed the update to Pat. The truck’s brake lights flared in the distance as the behemoth executed a sloppy U-turn, smashing through unkempt flowerbeds while crushing an unaware monster trudging towards the community. It roared in their direction, arriving next to the battlewagon more quickly than McCune thought possible.

  McCune faced Timmons, prepared to thank him. But the crusty soldier suddenly pressed a hand to his helmet, lowered his boom-mic, and said, “Go for Timmons.” He listened intently, then ended the transmission with a gruff, “Affirmative. Advise them I’ll return in ten. They are not to move until I arrive. Tell them the truth: Doctor McCune died in the containment room. Timmons, out.”

  Casting a telling look at McCune, Timmons thrust his chin at the door. The doctor nodded his understanding, checked the area outside his door for monsters, and exited the Humvee as Pat swung open the dump truck’s passenger door.

  McCune slipped into the shoulder strap of the messenger-style medical bag, darted to the Humvee’s rear passenger door, grabbed hold of the first of two boxes labeled “Antidote Test Data,” and heaved it at an unprepared Pat. The second box was soon airborne, followed by McCune as he scrambled up the side steps, into the cab, and over Pat.