Judgment Day (Book 2): Redemption

by JE Gurley

  “They got you good enough,” Roy sneered.

  “They had a helicopter and forced me off the road, but I still killed one of them.”

  “What do you mean zombies are the least of our worries?” Dennis asked.

  “Me and some friends rescued a bunch of munies from San Diego a few months ago. They had them drugged to the max and were bleeding them like some scene from the movie Coma. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

  “Why?” Amanda asked. “One of those men kept hinting at what they would do, but he didn’t go into any detail.”

  “We’re immune. They use our blood to create a temporary vaccine – Blue Juice. To them, we’re nothing more than mobile blood banks.”

  Amanda was in disbelief. “Our own government?”

  “Land of the free, home of the brave. Quite a letdown, isn’t it?”

  “How can we escape?”

  “How many come when they feed you?”

  “Two. One is always armed.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Amanda replied, “but they’ve fed us three times.”

  Vince looked at Roy. “If I take out the armed one, do you think you can handle the other?”

  Roy smiled, revealing a missing tooth. He smacked a fist into the open palm of his other hand. “I’d love the chance for some payback. They’re some kind of religious nuts that believe zombies are the new Children of God, or some such crap. We’re lost souls because we can’t turn into zombies. Christ! How sick can you get?”

  “When are they due?”

  “Not for hours,” he said.

  Vince eased down into a chair. “Then we wait.”

  The room was a conference room. It had no windows, just a long wooden table and a dozen chairs. An erasable white board covered one wall. Someone had chalked a rough cross on it with rays of light around it. He spotted nothing that might serve as a weapon.

  “How did they get you?” Amanda asked, sitting down beside him.

  “I was a few miles north of Mammoth headed south when a Black Hawk helicopter almost landed on the roof of the car I was driving. The wash forced me into a ditch and I flipped. I managed to shoot one of the soldiers before I crawled out of the wreckage, but the others overpowered me and dragged me out.” Vince scowled as he remembered the uneven fight. “One of the soldiers recognized me from San Diego. I think the Major has special plans for me.”

  “The Major? I heard the Gray Man, as you call him, talking to the others about him. I got the impression that he dislikes the Major a great deal.”

  “There’s a great deal to dislike about him,” Vince agreed, “his personality being one. I would love to kill that bastard before I go.” He looked into Sandra’s frightened eyes, “But getting away from here is our first goal. I got the impression that he has something big planned for day after tomorrow. I don’t want to be here then.”

  Dennis, the man dressed like an accountant came to stand beside Vince. He tried hard to hide his skepticism, but it leaks from his frightened eyes. “Do we stand a chance?”

  “A better chance here now than later in San Diego.”

  Dennis stared at Vince for a moment, then nodded and went back to sit down. Vince didn’t know if he had convinced him, but at least he wasn’t objecting. Like the others, he had witnessed the Gray Man’s callousness when he had used one of them to draw off the zombies.

  Vince placed their chances as somewhere between slim and impossible. If by some miracle they managed to overpower the Apostle guards, they still had to escape before someone raised the alarm. He could not ignore the fact that the Major had a fully armed Black Hawk helicopter at his disposal, and Vince doubted he would hesitate to use it if faced with the possibility of their escape.

  Plans were one thing, but Vince could count on the fingers of one hand a plan that had gone as expected. He could roll with the punches. At least the Air Force had taught him that. He glanced appraisingly at the others. Mike and Roy looked frightened. They struck him as the kind of men who talked big but blustered easily. Could he count on them in a fight? Dennis might surprise him. He was intelligent enough to know what was in store for them and frightened enough to follow Vince’s directions. He gave Amanda a longer, more appreciative look. She had obviously been through a lot, but seemed to be holding up well. She reminded him of Airman Liz Mears, who had escaped with him from Red Rock when it fell to zombies. Liz had also been black and some of the inner strength and iron will that Liz had possessed shone in Sandra’s eyes. He and Liz had split up, she in search of her daughter and him in search of some surviving military authority at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson. He hoped she had survived. He hoped they all would.

  15

  From the Black Hawk helicopter, the zombies looked like army ants scurrying through the deserted streets of Delta instead of the jungles of South America, ants that, if not stopped would soon swarm Salt Lake City. Colonel Schumer looked to his right at the two Apache helicopters keeping pace with them. Somewhere behind them, the A10 Thunderbolts would just be taking off. In less than an hour, he would know if his plan worked.

  Getting the zombies into Delta had been easy. They need water and the largest body of fresh water was the Gunnison Reservoir. He needed to keep them concentrated within the city. Any zombies straying into the countryside encountered machine gun fire from the choppers. His men had barely placed the fuel tanks and moved the irrigation booms to strategic points around the city before the first zombies swept into the city. He saw on a small scale what the larger cities must have looked like during the zombie plague. No people remained in Delta, but it was gruesome sight nevertheless. He had trucked in herds of dairy cattle and released them to keep the zombies occupied. Dozens of dots converged on each cow, submerging it in a sea of zombies. Minutes later, only bones remained. He thought of the thousands of people of Salt Lake City and grew angry.

  He thought it ironic that thousands of Japanese-Americans had once been herded into the Topaz Relocation Camp outside Delta after Pearl Harbor much as he herded the zombies. Where they had not been allowed into town, the zombies now owned it, but not for long.

  “Gentlemen, it’s time,” he said into his headset mic.

  His sergeant looked at him for confirmation. Schumer nodded his head. The sergeant pressed the button that remotely cranked the pumps, flooding the irrigation lines with gasoline. Schumer fought the tendency to hold his breath, but he knew that if this didn’t work, he would be condemning the men, women and children of Salt Lake City to a ghastly death. He wouldn’t have enough fuel for his vehicles to mount another attack or evacuate the city’s population. He waited ten minutes for the gasoline to flood the city. He couldn’t afford to wait longer for fear the zombies would sense danger and leave.

  “Begin firing,” he ordered. The two AH-64 Apaches broke formation and swooped down on the city, flying just above the power lines. They opened up with their 30 mm guns loaded with tracers. Schumer watched the lines of fire arc down into the streets. Fire erupted in great billowing fountains reaching a hundred feet into the air. He marveled at the chopper pilots’ dance with death as they threaded their path through pillars of fire, raking the zombies with withering machine gun fire.

  “Call them back.” Now it was time for the A10s to offer their contribution.

  The Apache’s broke off and resumed their positions beside the Black Hawk. The city was ablaze. The A10s swept past at four hundred miles per hour, their twin GE turbofan engines screaming like banshees. Schumer made a fist and pumped it to urge them on.

  “Go Warthogs,” he yelled, calling the A10 Thunderbolts by their nicknames.

  On their first pass, the Warthogs opened up with their 30 mm Gatling guns. At 4,200 rounds per minute, almost seven times the rate of fire of the Apaches, the A10s cut a deadly path through the massed zombies as they raced ahead of the flames. On their second pass, the jets gained altitude and dropped incendiaries. Beneath them, the city erupted in flames
. The intense heat created its own local weather front as tornado-like winds swirled the flames hundreds of feet into the air. Like a living creature, the fire fell upon houses and cars, devouring them, melting irrigation booms, and heating asphalt streets to the bubbling point. It raced from the outskirts of the city toward the center of town, herding zombies before it. Few escaped.

  The heat and smoke forced the choppers back. He followed the fire’s progress through his binoculars. Almost the entire city was in flames. A few zombies escaped but most succumbed to the intense heat and lack of oxygen created by the flames. He breathed a sigh of relief. Salt Lake City was safe for now. He still had to deal with the greater number of zombies on their way, but he hoped they would take the sight and odor of their dead brethren to heart and change direction, head into the mountains to the east.

  He glanced down one last time and saw a man riding a motorcycle speeding through the burning streets. Ahead of him were several zombies also seeking to escape.

  “My God! There’s someone down there,” he cried. “We’ve got to help him.”

  * * * *

  Lloyd Osterman awoke to the sound of machine gun fire and the roar of helicopters overhead. He ran into the street to signal one down for him. Then, the strong odor of gasoline struck him. The irrigation booms in the streets and the cattle now made sense. They were going to burn the city and zombies with it. The city was to become a killing zone and he was right in the middle. He knew he would never make it out in time by foot. He needed transportation. He could try one of the cars in the driveways; hoping one of them had a charged battery. Before he could decide which car to select first, an Apache helicopter flashed over the roof firing its machine guns. The street exploded in flames. Burning gasoline flowed down the curb into drains. Soon the entire city would be in flames. He was quickly running out of time and options. He ran back into the house to escape the heat.

  Hiding submerged in the pool wouldn’t work this time. He knew how large conflagrations worked. The inferno would suck the oxygen out of the air, leaving him sucking searing hot gases. He ripped a blanket from the bed, rushed out back and dipped it in the pool. It would help protect him for the heat, but he doubted it would keep them at bay for very long. Windows popped as houses burst into flame. Smoke was drifting out the back door as he wrapped the blanket around him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a handlebar protruding from a plastic tarp. With more hope than expectation, he ripped away the tarp. Beneath it sat a yellow and black Suzuki 250 dirt bike. He quickly checked the fuel tank by rocking the bike. He was rewarded by the sound of gasoline. If it cranked, if there was enough fuel, and if he moved fast... There were too many ifs to count, but he had no alternative. To his relief, it cranked on the second try. Flames were licking the back door frame as he sped the bike across the lawn and into the alley. The throttle was on the right handlebar. His arm sent jolts of pain through his shoulder and into his entire body as he squeezed the throttle. He slung the M16 across his chest where he could get to it and took off.

  The roar of A10 Warthogs shook the ground. Bullets ripped through houses and cars, igniting even more fires. Bullets struck within five feet but missed him. A few minutes later he saw them return, higher this time. He gunned the bike for all the speed he could get out of it. He glanced back up to see hundreds of incendiary bomblets falling all around him.

  It was like riding through hell. The roar of the flames drowned out the sound of the Suzuki’s 249 cc engine, but could not muffle the thunderous explosions as the tiny bombs struck. Hundreds of small fires blossomed, spouting flames like blood. The fire became a great beast devouring the city, eating wood, crumbling brick and mortar, and melting metal. Telephone poles smoldered, their power lines dancing with flames that dripped down as a rain of melted rubber. Trees burst into flame like kindling. He sucked in ragged breaths of air so hot he felt it searing his lungs. His path was unwavering, decided by a row of flames on each side. Behind him, a yellow and orange monster rose from the center of the city, towering over its sibling fires like Mother Inferno. Fire rushed at him, liquid and hypnotizing in its deadly beauty, like a flood or an avalanche. It would sweep him before it before consuming him as it was consuming the city. He silently condemned the zombies to an everlasting burning hell and held on as the heat beat at him like the fiery fists of Vulcan at his forge.

  Blisters rose on his hands and face. His blanket steamed until it dried out and then began smoldering. He saw zombies ahead of him through the heat haze. Some were burning, but they ignored the pain when they saw him. Their compulsion to kill overcame their sense of self-preservation, or maybe it was just their way at striking back at an enemy they could not comprehend – fire. He tried to aim the M16 with his left hand but could not hold the bike upright with his weak right arm. He would have to try to force his way through. If they knocked over the bike, it would be a toss-up to see what killed him first, the fire or the zombies.

  Suddenly, a helicopter appeared overhead, as shimmering and as silent as a mirage, skimming the flames as if surfing a ten-foot curler. Its machine guns opened up on the zombies in his path, cutting them to pieces. Then he was beneath the great black body of the chopper, feeling the wash of its passage as waves of heat embraced him.

  Then he was through, outside the city, beyond the reach of the flames. Seconds later, the bike began to sputter as it ran out of gas. He tried to laugh but his lungs ached. He tried to cry but he had no tears remaining. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. There was no more city, just a towering wall of fire. He tried to get off the bike and fell on his back. He lay there, drinking in the relatively cool desert air while the Black Hawk landed twenty yards away. He waved a hand at his rescuers; then blackness struck.

  16

  Mace bridled inwardly at Jeb’s announcement that Harris was getting back his weapons. Harris was dangerous enough without a weapon. Giving him his weapon was like sharpening a zombie’s teeth. Mace lacked Jeb’s confidence that right would always win and that people were intrinsically good. In his experience, neither was true. In normal situations, people did not always do what was right or good, and frightened people seldom did. The news that the Blue Juice upon which so many of them depended was not 100 percent effective came as a savage blow to their confidence. Now, those immune would be keeping a close eye on those not immune. Mace wondered how long before someone suggested that those not immune be segregated from the others.

  How had Harris learned about the Blue Juice? Did he have a source within Erin’s group? Harris seemed to be working feverishly to divide the members of the small commune. To what Purpose? Harris was at the top of the list of suspects in Janis Heath’s death. Sikes was quick tempered and dangerous, but he was not very bright. If he had killed Heath, it would have been messy and public. He approved Jeb’s confinement of Sikes. Too many people bore grudges. He would make a tempting target. No, Harris was more likely, but if Harris was guilty, what was his goal?

  Mace caught Jeb by the arm as he was leaving the meeting and pulled him aside. “It’s about time you got tough.”

  Jeb winced at mace’s tight grip. “So Renda informed me.”

  Mace released Jeb’s arm and scratched his chin. “Yeah, she has never been one to keep quiet. I walk softly around her sometimes.”

  “And carry a big stick?”

  “She’s the one with the big stick, and it has long, sharp blades at both ends.”

  Mace’s reference to Renda’s Chinese Gung dao brought a smile to Jeb’s lips. “What did you think about the meeting?”

  “I smell trouble ahead.”

  “And Sikes?”

  Mace shook his head. “He’s too scared to be guilty.”

  “What about Harris?”

  “You should have let him leave and good riddance to him.”

  Jeb raised an eyebrow and stared at Mace. “Even if he killed Janis Heath?”

  “Especially if he killed her. He’s up to something. Her death is a s
mall price to pay to get him out of here.”

  “And I gave him back his weapons,” Jeb finished Mace’s unspoken thought.

  “I was going to mention that.”

  Jeb leaned against the wall and sighed. “I had no choice. If the Blue Juice isn’t working, we could be up to our necks in zombies at any time. We might need all the guns we’ve got.”

  “Tough choice, all right. I don’t know who I fear most – zombies or Harris. At least a zombie looks dangerous.”

  “Young Billy Idol looks troubled. He’s afraid of Harris for some reason. The look that passed between the, was not friendly. Maybe we could get to him, find out what’s going on.”

  “That’s something Renda’s good at. According to her, he’s opened up to her some. I’ll talk to her.”

  With the last people out of the meeting room, Jeb shut down the air conditioner and closed the door behind them. Power was at a premium and was not to be wasted. Walking down the hallway, he hung his head in thought. Mace assumed he was thinking about the murder investigation. It floored him when Jeb turned to him and asked, “You don’t think Karen could have done this, do you?”

  “Don’t even think that,” Mace cautioned. Jeb’s leaping to conclusions dismayed him. Harris’ dig at her condition had struck home. “She’s troubled, but she’s no murderer. This was planned. Besides, Janis heath was stronger than she was. I don’t consider the announcement about the Blue Juice and her murder as coincidences.”

  “Harris?”

  Mace shook his head. “I don’t know what part he played, but his nose is into everything. He knew about the Blue Juice. He managed to make that fact known at the most opportune time to create chaos.”

  “Chaos,” Jeb repeated. “We have enough of that as it is.”

  “I think we might have the opposite of good cop/bad cop going on here. Harris is everywhere, speaking with everyone – very conspicuous, while his friend Mendoza is practically invisible.”