Scorched Earth: Book 2 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (Zero Hour - Book 2)

by Justin Bell

  The body was wearing faded blue jeans and brown boots, feet leaning sideways, splayed out behind the prone body, face down on the aged wood floor. Its face wasn’t visible, but from the size and build, Broderick could tell it was a male, an adult male, lying motionless. He walked the flashlight beam up the body, letting the pale light fall upon a dried puddle of rust-colored wood near his head. Turning, he shone the light across one other wall, seeing mostly worn wood, with a narrow closet door shut tight near the front wall, a simple iron handle holding it closed.

  “We’ve got a body by the table,” Broderick whispered, then moved the light up to shine on a vacant doorway separating the medium-sized entrance with another room off the rear. He could see the stray corner of a narrow refrigerator, a bland, urine color with another doorway off the left wall of what looked to be the kitchen.

  “Kitchen up ahead,” he said quietly. The entire cabin was quiet, no footfalls, no talking, a den of uneasy silence, palpable by the lack of noise. Broderick felt like he was walking into deep water, each step weighing more than it should, a strange resistance to his forward motion. Angling right into the kitchen, his flashlight caught on a second body, this one face up, sprawled by a tin sink. Even from across the small kitchen he could see the thick purple tongue protruding from a blood caked face, eyes staring up into the darkened ceiling.

  “Second body in the kitchen,” he whispered, swiveling left toward the opened doorway there. He passed through the opened doorway and looked right, his light pooling over a metal cot in the corner, thin and rusty, springs hanging low with the weight of another corpse on top. This body had curled into the fetal position, blood coating the rough, bearded chin and at one point soaking the dirty white sheets surrounding his bald head. Plump cheeks were squeezed on the left side of his bowling ball head, his eyes mercifully closed, one squat arm draped over his massive stomach.

  Broderick walked the light along the floor, seeing three pairs of boots, some discarded beer bottles and a full trash can, but besides that, nothing of interest in the small bedroom.

  “Third body in the bedroom,” he said. “That’s all we got. Place is empty.”

  “But you said the snowmobiles were gone,” Jackson replied.

  “Right. So who’s been riding them?”

  “And when are they coming back?”

  “We need to get moving,” Broderick whispered.

  “I’ve got some car keys here,” said Clark, feeling around the top drawer of an end table perched right next to the closet door. The floor creaked and he turned as Javier and Melinda walked in.

  “Hey, Mel,” Clark said softly, “why don’t you come with me. I’m going to go out and check out the truck.”

  “Okay,” she replied, and pulled her hand from Javier’s, placing it in Clark’s instead and he led her from the cabin out into the darkening dusk.

  Javier, Jackson, Priscilla, and Broderick gathered in the small entryway, Broderick taking care to step over the body in the opened door.

  “We should check the fridge and the cabinets. See what they have for food. The truck looked old, but pretty nice from what I could tell.”

  “Clark’s all over it,” Jackson replied.

  “We should check that closet, too,” Priscilla said. “Maybe some winter clothes in there.” She moved toward the closet, Javier falling in behind her, the backsplash of Broderick’s flashlight barely illuminating the simple wood slat door. She reached for it, and heard the scuffle just as her fingers touched the cool metal handle, a shift of movement from behind the door, rustling of clothes and the low scrape of foot on wood.

  “Wait,” Broderick whispered, glancing down at the three pairs of boots. “Only three bodies, and one of them was wearing their boots. Watch it, everyone, someone might still be alive in here!”

  The door slammed open, the handle punching into Priscilla’s coiled fingers. She snapped her arm back, stumbling away as the wood whirled about, slamming against the wall, framing a man inside the closet, swarmed by hanging coats. In his hands, he held what looked to be a Remington pump-action shotgun.

  He didn’t speak, he didn’t yell, he didn’t make any noise whatsoever, he simply brought up the weapon and squeezed the trigger, blasting smoke, flash and buckshot out into the open room. Priscilla recoiled, already pushed out of the way by the swinging door, and behind her Javier shouted, turning away and stumbling forward. Jackson saw the shirt on his back twitch and pucker as scattered buckshot glanced across his shoulders, and his shout careened into a full-blown scream as he pitched forward, legs hitting the end table and toppling over, the handcrafted wooden furniture spilling over him, smashing onto the floor.

  Jackson spun, the Scorpion carbine up in his hands in an instant, faster than he thought he’d be able, and without one moment of hesitation, he centered the barrel on the man’s chest and fired. The swift, sharp report of the semi-automatic rifle was nearly deafening in the small confined area and the man in the closet grunted as he was kicked back by the first shot. Jackson fired a second time, and struck home again, another round dead in the torso, the stranger’s shirt flapping with the impact, blood clouding a crimson spray across the white beam of Broderick’s flashlight.

  Two shots was all it took. The shotgun clattered to the floor and the man’s lifeless body followed it down, landing with a dull whump and puff of aged cabin dust. Jackson’s ears hummed with the residual feedback from the successive gunshots, a tinny buzz lingering in the air, everyone just gaping at themselves in shock at the sudden turn of events.

  “I didn’t,” Jackson said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Didn’t mean to what?” Broderick asked. “Save our lives? Don’t apologize, Jack, you did what you had to do.” He stepped forward and pulled the rifle from Jackson’s hands gently and carefully.

  Down on the ground, Javier groaned morosely, trying to pick himself up, his jacket puffed with freed down.

  “Oh god,” Priscilla cried scrambling to her feet. “I was right there, that could have been me!”

  “It wasn’t,” Broderick barked. “Can you check him out?”

  She nodded and moved toward him just as the front door banged open and Clark appeared, his AR-15 lifted in ready position.

  “Stand down, Clark!” Broderick shouted. “There was a dude with a shotgun. Jackson took care of him!”

  Jackson just continued to stare at the dead man, slumped half in and half out of the closet, a thin pool of red starting to build around his prone torso. His weapon was held at a downward angle and he just looked as if he didn’t believe what he’d done, as if this was all still part of some strange fever dream. He hadn’t escaped this virus at all, he was in a hospital right now at death’s door, and this was all some twisted nightmare.

  Broderick walked to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Jackson, you did good, okay?”

  “He didn’t deserve that,” Jackson said quietly. “He and his friends. They didn’t deserve to get sick. He probably had no idea what was happening.”

  “He tried to kill Priscilla. He shot Javier, he would not have hesitated to try and shoot you, too. You did good.”

  “Doesn’t feel very good.”

  “It never does.”

  Broderick turned toward Clark who had lowered his weapon, and saw Melinda peeking out from behind his thick waist. Her eyes grew wide when she saw Javier on the ground, Priscilla huddled over him, pulling his parka free.

  “Javier?” Melinda asked. “Is he okay?”

  “He’ll be okay,” Priscilla replied without looking up. She was checking his shirt underneath the parka, identifying the scattered injuries. She looked up at the little girl and put a warm smile on her face. “Just a little buckshot. I’ve seen worse in hunting accidents, okay?”

  Melinda nodded but looked no less worried.

  “Clark, can you keep watching Melinda?” Broderick asked.

  Clark nodded.

  “Okay. Jackson, you’re with me. We’re checking pantries, refr
igerator, closets, dressers, everything, okay? I know it might feel wrong, but none of these guys are going to be using this stuff, so we might as well.”

  “Got it,” Jackson replied quietly. He finally pulled his eyes away from the fallen body on the floor and moved with Broderick toward the kitchen.

  Broderick gathered the weapons and handed them off to Clark. “We need both hands and to move quick. Get these loaded in the truck now, I want to be sure we don’t get caught without them once we hit the road.”

  Clark nodded and grabbed the weapons, moving with Melinda back outside toward the truck.

  “Priscilla,” Broderick continued, “Get him patched up, okay? Do whatever you have to. Then we’re loading up the truck and getting on the road. I’m about sick and tired of walking through the woods.”

  As he finished speaking, Broderick cocked his head gently to one side, listening. Outside of the cabin, the previously quiet night was interrupted by the low rumble of approaching engines.

  ***

  “Go go go!” shouted Broderick waving the others along. Priscilla moved slowly, Javier’s arm draped over her shoulder, his lumbering, wounded steps slowing her progress. The engines were even more audible now, a deep and guttural growl, not just one either, but several, the sounds overlapping each other, confusing just how many sources of the strange noise there were.

  “What is that noise?” barked Jackson as he stuck his head out the front door, watching Broderick ushering Priscilla and Javier along. Melinda ran close behind them. They hugged close to the pickup truck, Priscilla using the fiberglass cap over the bed as a support as she moved toward the rear of the vehicle.

  “Snowmobiles, I think,” Broderick shouted back to Jackson.

  “They’re getting closer,” he said.

  Broderick nodded. “I’m thinking you and Clark need to get out of there pronto; we need to roll, and fast.”

  An engine screamed to a fever pitch and a narrow white nose burst out over the slight ridge leading toward the driveway. What looked like a Polaris snow machine caught air and slammed down onto the driveway, scattering the small remnants of snow before barreling toward Broderick and the truck. It swung around into a sliding halt and the man riding the broad seat swept a bolt action rifle from a sheath at the side of the vehicle, levelling it at them.

  “Oh, man did you guys pick the wrong cabin to break into,” he hissed. “Don’t move. Stop where you are and maybe this ends peacefully.”

  Broderick shifted his weight, looking over at the newcomer. He was a large man, bald-headed, in a thick flannel and canvas jacket. A wild mane of dark hair spiraled out from under and around his chin, spilling down into a waterfall of beard leading toward his broad chest. The rifle looked like a Remington, probably a model 700. It could only fire as quickly as the man operating it, but Broderick thought this man could probably fire pretty fast, and they’d already loaded the weapons in the back of the truck.

  More engines roared just behind the man and three more snowmobiles crested the ridge, spreading out slightly, creating a makeshift wall of metal and man, each one of them with a large passenger, each passenger holding a hunting rifle.

  “This cabin seems a bit small for all of you,” Broderick said, holding still, pinned against the side of the truck. Glancing to his left, he saw that Priscilla, Javier and Melinda had already climbed up into the back of the truck. Small favors.

  “It’s my brother’s cabin,” the bearded man growled. “We were just stopping for a bite to eat before heading back into town.”

  “What are the rifles for?”

  “I don’t know about you folks,” the man said, “but our town, ‘bout five miles south of here, is pretty much screwed. Boston and Hartford are dust. People are dying all over the place. Winter’s on its way and we’re gonna stock up on some chow while we still can.”

  “Any luck? We’ve been travelling these woods for two days now and we haven’t seen much for wildlife.”

  The bearded man glanced at his three friends, who all exchanged irritated looks with each other. He looked back at Broderick. “Look, brother,” he said. “We’re not looking for trouble, but we found it. And we’re gonna have to deal with it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Like I said,” the man said, “this is my brother’s place. I see you all walking out of there like you own it, which means my brother’s not there, because if he was, you wouldn’t be helpin’ yourself to his food and clothes.”

  “We didn’t want any trouble,” Jackson said, stepping out of the cabin, showing his hands.

  “I don’t care what you wanted,” the man replied. “Where is he? Where’s my brother? He in there?”

  “There are a few people in there,” Broderick answered honestly. “They’re… they’re dead, all right? This thing that’s going around? It got them.”

  The man shouldered his Remington, his mouth twisting into a scowl from within the dark beard.

  “Well, that’s just too bad, soldier boy,” he snarled. “There’s only one way this ends now, man, and it’s not in your favor. Just do me a favor and don’t beg. It ain’t a good look.”

  Broderick stood stoic and firm, his eyes roaming around, looking for a way out, looking for any back door he could find to work his way out of this one. Four men with rifles on snowmobiles and he was pinned against the truck, unarmed, and in the wide open. Ever since his Blackhawk entered Boston air space, he’d been fighting the odds, and it appeared that finally, the odds had won.

  ***

  Jackson and Broderick glanced at each other, then looked back at the four men on their snowmobiles, looking for a way out. Any way out. Slowly, one by one, each man lifted their rifles, shoving the stocks into their shoulders, gripping their weapons to steady them with the other hand, moving them toward the two men standing out in the open. The vintage Ford pickup truck sat behind them, angled in the driveway, sturdily constructed sheet metal with a fiberglass cap. A cap that Broderick knew would crumple and rip the minute gunfire struck it. They were all as good as dead, and they weren’t listening to anything he had to say.

  So Clark let the shotgun do the talking.

  The front window smashed, a sudden shatter of breaking, and the minute it exploded outward, the thick, round barrel blasted a cloud of smoke and burst of yellow, throwing buckshot out across the yard.

  “Shotgun!” screamed the bearded guy and shifted his aim toward the house, immediately opening fire with the Remington.

  “Move now!” shouted Broderick and he spun, cranking open the driver’s side door and pushing his way inside, Jackson close behind. Sporadic, echoing gunshots blasted into the air, two metal pops smashing against the driver’s side of the pickup, tossing sparks.

  “Clark’s still in there!” shouted Jackson as he slid behind the wheel, Broderick squeezing into a narrow second seat behind the front. Gunfire roared, and he could see chunks of cabin wall punching apart as two of the men fired upon the window where Clark had shot from while two others directed their fire toward the truck.

  “This thing is vintage Detroit sheet metal, man, use it!” Broderick shouted. Jackson nodded and shoved the keys into the ignition, then cranked the vehicle to life, keeping his head low as two more sparks blew up from the driver’s side door. Gunning the accelerator, the vehicle lurched forward, then groaned and stuttered out.

  “What the hell?” Jackson screamed. He looked out the window and two of the men had dismounted from their snowmobiles and were running across the uneven ground toward them, getting closer.

  “Don’t tell me, you don’t drive stick?” Broderick asked. Jackson shook his head. “Move!” the soldier commanded and Jackson slid over as bullets panged off the hood of the truck, one round punching high through the windshield. Broderick slid into the driver’s seat, starting the car again, and using just the right balance of clutch and accelerator, sending the blunt nose of the truck surging forward. It smashed into the corner of the wooden cabin, snapping plan
ks and tearing a chunk of wall apart, leaving a gaping hole in the side of the building. Jackson threw open his door.

  “C’mon, Clark, move your fat butt!” he shouted.

  Clark was already charging toward them, his legs pumping, ducking his head as bullets thwacked off what remained of the cabin wall. Jackson withdrew into the rear seat, Clark worked his way into the passenger spot and Broderick slammed the gas even as he was closing the door. The two men who had approached the truck suddenly back-pedaled, breaking away as the truck screamed between them, tearing through the shallow snow and wet dirt, grabbing a slice of air before whamming down on the ground beyond the ridge, leaping down the hill. The front hood glanced off a tree as Broderick turned the truck left, skimming just between two other trees. Behind them they could hear the snow machines screaming to life as the hunters jumped on them and gunned their engines to take pursuit.

  “Uh, they’re not giving up are they?” Jackson asked.

  “I swear the end of the world brings out the best in people,” Broderick hissed, plunging the truck down the steep decline, glancing in the rearview mirror at two of the sleek snowmobiles, both cresting the ridge and hurling down after them at break neck speeds.

  Broderick sent the truck charging through a narrow clutch of saplings, looking in the mirror and seeing one Polaris strike a tree, its nose crumpling, throwing the driver clear of the seat before it went spinning out in the snow.

  “Where’s the road?” Clark asked as the truck thumped and bumped, jostling everyone inside.

  “I think this is the road,” Broderick replied. He looked in the mirror again and saw the last three snowmobiles closing in on them. The truck swerved around another small group of trees, then slewed left, narrowly missing another, and the snow machines were hot on their heels, gracefully sweeping left and right of the obstacles as well.

  “Can you get one of them on my side?” asked Clark, his voice breaking through the uneven huffs of breath that he hadn’t quite caught.