Days Of Perdition: Voodoo Plague Book 6

by Dirk Patton

  They just sat there for a few minutes, most likely surveying the area for any danger. They certainly weren’t using night vision, at least to look to their front. There was just too much light which would have washed out the electronics. Finally the front doors popped open and two men stepped out onto the pavement.

  Both were dressed in jeans and khaki shirts, military-ish boots on their feet. Holstered pistols were on their belts and each carried a rifle like they knew how to handle one. While the driver held back, scanning the surroundings, the passenger walked forward to check our truck. He approached cautiously, rifle up and ready, swinging wide around the open driver side door to see inside then squatting to peer underneath.

  Satisfied there was no immediate danger he lowered the rifle and walked the rest of the way around the truck, pausing to survey the open fuel door with the funnel sticking out of it. He raised his head and looked around but the Hyundai was slightly behind the Suburban and concealed by the darkness behind its lights.

  The guys knew to be careful and how to handle weapons, but they weren’t being very smart with their approach. The contrast between the blindingly bright light thrown by the light bar and the darkness to the sides and rear of their vehicle meant they could only see in one direction. The human eye just can’t adjust to drastic differences in lighting that quickly.

  Moving back to his partner, the passenger spoke briefly before stepping back around to his side. The driver leaned in the open door and pulled out a radio microphone, keyed the transmit button and started speaking. When he let off the button I could hear a voice answering him but not well enough to understand what was being said.

  Who the hell were these guys? They certainly appeared to be organized and well supplied. For some reason they dressed the same, as if they were wearing some sort of uniform. But what were they doing? Had the survivors in Oklahoma City formed some sort of militia? That, or these were bad guys who both happened to like khaki shirts and faux jump boots.

  I wanted them to be good guys. Wanted to ask for help getting to Katie’s location, but since the day of the attacks I had yet to see any civilians working together for any reason other than to prey on their fellow survivors. The thought of just shooting both of them and taking their vehicle passed through my head. As attractive as that beast of a vehicle was, I couldn’t just attack what might be a couple of the best guys left in the world.

  The driver finished his radio conversation and moved forward to stand next to our abandoned truck. He looked around, hands on his hips. I was able to get a good look at him in the light from his vehicle. He was in his 40s, still in good shape with strong features under a tan Stetson hat. My eyes moved over him and noted the duty belt with holstered pistol. Then they traveled up and caught a glint off something on his chest.

  Raising my rifle I peered through the scope, clearly seeing a gold star pinned to his chest. Cops? OK, definitely dressed and acting like them, but the guys in Nashville had been dressed like real cops too. But I wasn’t getting the same vibe off these guys as I did in Tennessee. Making my decision I waved Rachel and Martinez forward and filled them in.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Rachel asked, concern creasing her face.

  “No, but if they’re legit it will make things a whole lot easier.” I said. “Besides. You two are going to stay here in the alley, and if it starts to go sideways I’m trusting you’ll take them out for me. They’re wearing body armor under their shirts. Your rifles should punch through at this range but don’t count on a body shot.”

  Martinez nodded and Rachel reached out and squeezed my arm. Telling Dog to stay I stood up and stepped out of the alley. My rifle was slung, hanging down at my left side and I held my open hands out at waist level.

  I had only moved a couple of steps into the light when the driver spotted me. He grabbed his rifle and moved it to the low ready position, shouting for his partner. I had paused when he moved his rifle, but when he didn’t point it at me I resumed slowly walking towards him. His partner ran up to stand a few yards away from him, rifle also at low ready. Well, at least they didn’t start shooting as soon as they saw me.

  “That’s close enough.” The driver called when I was ten yards away.

  I stopped and looked at them, trying to decide if I was blocking the line of fire to either from the alley. I was pretty sure I was directly in line with the passenger so I moved a couple of steps to my left. The driver watched me move laterally, eyes squinting as he looked back in the direction I’d come from.

  “How many rifles you have on us?” He asked.

  I smiled. “Enough,” I answered. “We didn’t start shooting when you rolled up, and you didn’t start shooting when I showed myself, so maybe we can all just relax a little.”

  He thought about that for a moment before nodding. “OK. We’re Oklahoma State Police. You Air Force from Tinker?”

  “Army,” I said, introducing myself. “Sorry for the precautions. We haven’t had the best of luck with survivors.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he said. “Shit heels are taking the opportunity of a lifetime to cause problems. Got a lot of half-wit assholes running around thinking they’re all King Shit of the Apocalypse.”

  I relaxed another half a notch, grinning. He certainly had a way with words. I stepped forward to get out of the direct light and each of us took a moment to survey the other before he held his hand out.

  “Jesse Timmons,” he said. “Sergeant with the OSP. That there’s Bobby Small, my partner.” I shook his hand and nodded a greeting at Bobby.

  “What the hell are you doing out here and not behind the wire at Tinker?” He asked, watching me but also scanning the street behind to my rear. That was OK, good in fact. I was doing the same thing, not wanting any surprises because we were busy talking.

  I almost lied. Wasn’t sure I wanted to share what was really going on. But this guy dealt with liars, cheaters and thieves for a living. He most likely had a finely tuned bullshit detector and I’d rather have his help than have him dismiss me because he didn’t like my answer. So I told him an abbreviated story of what was going on.

  “I know that casino,” he said when I told him the location I was trying to reach. “The missus and I used to go up there once a month to lose one of her paychecks. It’s a huge fuckin’ place.”

  I was encouraged that he not only knew the area but also knew the specific building.

  “Don’t suppose you want to take a road trip and make this official?” I asked, not really expecting an affirmative answer. He stood there, hands on hips, chewing on his lip and thinking.

  “Well,” he said, drawing the word out into two syllables. “I’d say this is a military problem since she was taken on an Air Force Base. Then he flees to a casino, which is Indian land and that makes it an FBI problem. But seeing as I don’t much care for people who mistreat women, I think I can make a case for the State Police to get involved.”

  I was surprised, and it must have showed on my face.

  “You don’t have to look so goddamn shocked,” he said with a smile. “Why don’t you call your friends up and let’s get rolling. Don’t like to stay in one spot too long. If the infected don’t find you there’s always some fucker with a rifle just waiting to take a shot at you.”

  I’ve seen it happen time and time again, both in combat and in just normal, everyday civilian life. I can’t explain it, not sure it’s anything more than a coincidence, but as I’ve gotten older and lived through more shit I’ve learned not to tempt fate. Don’t think or talk about something bad that might happen. Kind of like driving down the road and thinking it’s been a long time since you’ve had car problems, then out of nowhere you get a flat tire.

  A flat tire would have been preferable to the rifle shot that punched through Bobby’s chest a moment after Timmons finished speaking. Yes, they were wearing body armor, but the vests police wear are designed to stop handgun rounds, not high velocity rifle slugs.

  As I dove for the
darkness underneath the Suburban I heard a follow on shot and recognized the sound as coming from a large caliber rifle. Probably a .300 or .308. Either was capable of taking down targets at a thousand yards. Punching through police issue body armor probably hardly slowed the bullet.

  27

  Sergeant Timmons hit the ground with a grunt and rolled, coming to a stop next to me under the big SUV.

  “You hit?” I asked, twisting to scan the street level to make sure there weren’t any infected approaching.

  “I’m OK,” he said, which most likely meant he had taken a bullet, but for the moment was still able to move and fight.

  The shots had come from just down the street and above ground level. Damn it! That was the location where I’d thought there was movement earlier. Pissed off and cursing, I wormed my way out from underneath the Suburban on the far side from the shooter. Getting my knees under me I crawled to the rear corner and poked my head around.

  A muzzle flash from the roofline spotted our attacker, but I had to duck when a bullet punched through the metal bodywork a few inches from my head. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I hate snipers! Well, to be accurate, I hate enemy snipers. A good man with a rifle can pin down a vastly superior force, and nothing will demoralize combat troops more than the fear of a bullet screaming in from seemingly out of nowhere.

  I rolled back under the vehicle and slowly crawled to the rear, keeping the heavy steel wheel between the sniper’s position and me. Slowly, I eased my rifle around the big, all-terrain tire and peered through the night vision scope. I was counting on the shooter not having night vision and the area I was in being dark enough that he wouldn’t spot me.

  It took me a couple of minutes to spot him, and I was mildly surprised to see it was a her. I’ve heard of a few countries, most notably Israel, fielding female snipers, but it was a rarity. Don’t ask me why. In my experience a woman can be just as good with a gun as a man. It’s about raw ability to start, then practice, practice, practice. Maybe it’s one of those things that more men have that basic physical attribute than women. Maybe not. At the moment, I didn’t give a shit. So far the bitch on the roof was proving herself to be quite adept.

  She held a large bolt-action rifle with a high-powered scope, but as I watched her through the night vision it quickly became apparent that she wasn’t military trained. There was plenty of concealment available for her to use, even a couple of spots that would have allowed her a covered firing position, but she was propped up on the third story parapet without any apparent concern over return fire.

  “See him?” Timmons asked with a frightening wheeze in his voice.

  “Her,” I said, thumbing my fire selector to semi-auto.

  I was zeroed on her face. She was young, probably no more than seventeen, but that didn’t matter once she started shooting at me. As I began to take up the slack in the trigger I heard shouting from the alley where Rachel, Martinez and Dog were hiding. Several shots were fired, and though I should have taken the sniper out when I had the opportunity, I turned to look in that direction. I couldn’t see anything, but the sounds of a fight reached my ears, Dog’s snarls letting me know he was in the thick of it.

  The mouth of the alley was on the same side of the street as the girl sniper, and when the commotion started she leaned out over the edge in an attempt to see what was going on. I turned back to my scope, sighted on her head and squeezed the trigger. I watched in the night vision when the round punched through her skull and all animation left her body, which slumped across the parapet.

  The heavy rifle slipped through her lifeless fingers and fell to the sidewalk below, the wood stock shattering on impact. She had been leaning way out when I shot her and in slow motion her body began to succumb to the pull of gravity and slide over the edge. Picking up speed it slithered free of the roof and tumbled as it fell, striking the sidewalk next to the rifle with a sickening thud.

  I scanned the roofline but didn’t see any other threats, so I rolled out from under the Suburban and sprinted to the alley where the sounds of the fight were growing louder. Rounding the corner with my rifle up I paused when I didn’t see what I expected to see.

  Two dogs lay dead on the ground, apparently having been shot, and Dog was fighting with a third. Rachel and Martinez both were aiming their rifles at the fight but the dogs were moving too fast for either of them to risk a shot that might hit him. Rachel was screaming at him to stop but he ignored her and pressed his advantage, finally taking the strange dog to the ground by the throat. A moment later it was over and Dog moved away from his kill and walked to Rachel, limping slightly as he moved.

  Feral dogs. I was surprised we hadn’t run into any before now. Dogs aren’t any different from humans. Strip away the comfortable home and the ease of grocery store bought food and it doesn’t take long for the wild side to come out. Not every human or every dog, but it’s still there, just under the surface, waiting for the right moment.

  I turned back to the street and made a quick scan. A hundred yards to the south the males I’d seen earlier were approaching, having been attracted by all the shooting. I didn’t see anything else at the moment. Pointing out the infected to Martinez I told Rachel to come with me and ran to where Timmons was sitting with his back against the front wheel of the Suburban, Dog limping along between us.

  Timmons didn’t look good when we got to him. He was pale and his shirt was soaked in blood from a high chest wound. Looking up as we approached he tried to smile but it was more of a grimace, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Rachel dashed past me and dropped to her knees next to him, ripping his shirt open and barking at me to help her remove his body armor.

  We were as gentle as we could be, propping him back up once the vest was worked over his head. I clicked on my flashlight so Rachel could see the wound, turning my head when I heard Martinez open fire. She was putting the infected males down and didn’t need my help so I turned my attention back to Timmons. He had reached out and taken Rachel’s hand in his.

  “Going to die,” he wheezed out, looking into Rachel’s eyes.

  I could see the tear form and trickle down her face as she nodded. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do without a hospital.”

  “That’s alright then, pretty lady. Wasn’t liking life too much without my missus anyways.” He tried to laugh but it turned into a strangled cough. Bright red blood poured out of his mouth and he died, hand slipping out of Rachel’s to flop onto the pavement.

  “There was just too much damage,” Rachel said, no longer trying to hold back the tears. “Big bullet and it most likely started tumbling from going through his vest. There’s no exit wound so it probably bounced around inside him.”

  I wanted to hold Rachel and comfort her, but I didn’t think we had time. It was hard to imagine the girl with the rifle had been by herself. Anything’s possible, but that doesn’t mean it’s very damn likely. But if there were others with her, why hadn’t they attacked by now? Was she a lookout? Put there to keep an eye out for whatever her group was interested in?

  That made sense. And lookouts usually have radios. Had she called for reinforcements? But then why they hell had she started shooting? Just young and inexperienced and eager to do something? That was all that was making sense, and that meant it was time to get the hell out of there. Fast.

  Whistling to get Martinez’ attention I waved her over to the idling Suburban. She ran and jumped into the back seat with Dog, Rachel and I getting in front.

  “What the hell?” Martinez said, reaching forward and banging on the heavy wire mesh that separated the back seat from the driver.

  “Cop car,” I said, finding the switch to shut off the bank of lights on the front. Shifting into gear I spun us around and headed north, the powerful V8 roaring as I fed in gas.

  “If either one of you so much as thinks about making a crack about a Mexican in the back seat of a police car, I’ll…” Martinez didn’t get to finish her thought as bulle
ts began slamming into the vehicle.

  28

  Navy Lieutenant Randy Parker looked down over the lowered rear ramp of the C2-A Greyhound that had launched from the aircraft carrier USS Harry S. Truman over eight hours ago. The twin turbo-prop aircraft was flying at slightly over 32,000 feet and they were less than five minutes from the jump point of their HAHO – High Altitude High Opening – insertion into Alaska. Parker looked behind him at the rest of his SEALS, twelve of them stacked up in line. Everyone had switched over to their portable oxygen supply and were ready to go.

  “Arrest and extract the President of the United States,” was what Admiral Packard had ordered Parker and his men to do.

  After a lot of soul searching, and the most detailed background briefing for an operation that he’d ever received in his Naval career, Parker had accepted the order. Not without reservations and certainly not without doubt. But the “normal” world that would have made this act unthinkable a few months ago had been ripped away. There was no normal left. Only the fight to hold on to what you had, and the thought of the President handing the remains of the country to the Russians on a silver platter was what had swayed his decision.

  “Fifteen seconds.” The jumpmaster’s voice over his radio. “Godspeed, Lieutenant.”

  Parker looked up at the small “Christmas Tree” over the open rear door. A stack of lights resembling a traffic signal with red and green.

  As he watched, the red light on top of the stack faded out and the green began glowing. Then the world turned on its side as the aircraft suddenly banked hard and began rapidly losing altitude.

  Parker was thrown against the men behind him and wound up pinned to a bulkhead by the violent maneuvers of the aircraft. He started to shout out on his radio but a blinding white light consumed the Greyhound and all souls aboard.