Deadrise 2: Deadwar

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Deadrise 2: Deadwar Page 5

by Steven R. Gardner


  Jenkins took a seat in one of the chairs against the wall, and he motioned for Patty to do the same.

  “What is the injured soldiers name?” Patty asked.

  “Potter. Private Brad Potter. He’s only twenty six years old.”

  “Does he have family?”

  “None. He arrived here at the Lake alone.” They were both silent for several long moments. “All the better I guess. That way there won’t be a screaming widow or orphaned children when he dies.”

  Jenkins callous acceptance of Pvt. Potter’s assured death angered her. “Don’t you mean if he dies?” Patty asked hotly.

  “Whatever…” Jenkins leaned back and closed his eyes. Patty could feel the pain in him. Despite his macho blustering, he still cared. A man under his command was down, possibly dying. Patty suddenly felt ashamed at her anger.

  “I’m sorry, General.” she spoke softly, gently taking one of his hands in her own. He opened his eyes, hazel, flecked with red, and met her own.

  “Please, call me Blake.” The hard, cynical edge had disappeared from his voice, replaced with warmth that she had never heard from him before. She felt something pass between them just then, and in an instant she was sexually aroused. She was shocked at such uncontrolled behavior. But should she be? She had been divorced for five years, and in that time she had taken one lover. They had shared one encounter, and it had been awkward and uncomfortable.

  “Blake…I…” She began, her stomach a knot a fluttering emotions. She felt open and vulnerable, yet she knew they had started down a path that both of them wanted to continue. But at that moment the door to the observation room opened and out came Lt. Larsen and Captain Turner. Jenkins rose to his feet, giving her hand on final squeeze before letting it go.

  “What’s his condition?” Jenkins voice had hardened. Any sign of the weakness he had shown her was gone.

  “They just finished up surgery. Doc Reilly says he’s lost a lot of blood and not out of the woods yet, but he should survive.” Lt. Larsen spoke with obvious relief.

  “Should survive?”

  “That’s a lot better than won’t survive.” Patty said, rising to her feet beside him.

  “General? With your permission I’d like to go spread the good news.”

  “Dismissed, Lieutenant.” Jenkins said with a nod. Lt. Larsen exited the lobby, headed for the main door. “Captain Turner?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “I want you to wait here and get a full report from Doc Reilly. Then report back to me. Understood?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Jenkins looked to Patty. “Ms. Marshall, if you will excuse me. I have a raid to plan.”

  “Of course, General.” She held his eyes for a long moment, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. Just before their gaze broke, the Generals demeanor softened, and a hint of a smile touched his own face. Then he turned and strode out of the lobby.

  Patty watched him go, her mind wrestling with this new complication. Jenkins was an asshole. He was arrogant, cynical and believed most problems in life could be solved by pointing a gun at someone. He was exactly the sort of crude, chauvinistic, testosterone fueled bastard that she had married, and subsequently come to despise in her former life. But now that the world had changed, fallen into barbarity, it was as if some natural survival instinct had kicked in, overriding her logical compulsion to find him unattractive. She was embarrassed by the raw, instinctual nature of her attraction to him, but it wasn’t without reason as well. He was a strong, healthy, intelligent, alpha male. He had the resources of the entire communities Militia at his disposal. He was without a doubt the most powerful man in the Rainbow Lake community. Who better to provide her safety and security if not him?

  In addition, he was a member of the Council, the only member who could not be removed from power by a vote of no confidence. When the Council had first been formed, Patty knew from the onset that the General would not see eye to eye with her on a great many things. He was a military man. Pre-plague, Patty believed that the United States Government and by extension its armed forces were responsible for much of the hatred and bloodshed that had existed around the world. If they became intimate with one another, would that interfere with her ability to do what was right for the community as a whole? Or perhaps she could guide, even manipulate him into doing things her way?

  But those were thoughts for a later day. Right now she had to get busy. While the General was planning the military logistics of the Evanston run, Patty had her own work to do. She had been working with David, Matt and Susan, going over the community resources in the computer database vs. the actual physical inventory and projected drains from current use. Those numbers would then be used to compile and prioritize the “shopping list” for the Evanston Run. Matt and Susan had stayed at the Main House to continue working while she had come to the Hospital to check on the wounded soldier. Now it was time to get back. She was a Councilwoman of the community. The people here had put their trust and faith in her to lead them, to provide for their safety. She did not have time to stand around and ponder her own loneliness…

  CHAPTER 10

  Sunday, July 15, 2001

  I-80, near the Utah-Wyoming border

  8:36 AM

  The convoy moved at a steady 35 MPH with the big rig at the core, like the alpha member of a pack of predators, surrounded by the smaller vehicles. On point was the fully armed US army Humvee manned by Captain Turner and Alpha One, to the right flank was a black civilian Humvee, modified with a gun port in the roof, manned by Lt. Larsen and Alpha Two, while on the left flank a mid-sized moving truck was occupied by Smitty Tucker’s crew. Bringing up the rear was another large moving truck, With Sgt. Henry and Bravo Three. Above it all, several hundred feet in the air, the helicopter buzzed about, probing ahead, scouting any potential threats.

  Smitty Tucker loved the open road. Ever since he was a child, it had called to him, and by his sixteenth birthday he had dropped out of school and started moving drugs for the Kings, a biker gang with its roots spread across Utah, Colorado, Nevada and Wyoming. By eighteen, he had cobbled together his first chopper, an old Harley Davidson, and was officially inducted into the Kings. From then on, his life had been a steady stream of women, drugs, alcohol, crime and the open road.

  Smitty’s wild lifestyle had chiseled him into a hard, lean man, whipcord strong and dangerous as a cornered alley cat. He wore his dishwater blond hair long and pulled back into a ponytail, and his rugged, weathered face was covered by a long beard and mustache. He wore a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt, black leather pants and black riding boots. His bloodshot eyes were flecked with chips of ice blue and gleamed sharp as hawks, surveying the road ahead for any sign of trouble as he steered the truck up the canyon.

  Smitty had been itching to go raiding since he had first arrived at Rainbow Lake. There were several small towns in the near vicinity, each one guaranteed to yield a bounty of treasure in prescription drugs, OTC medicine, alcohol, gasoline, cigarettes, clothes and canned food. All had been hot commodities in Park City and they were certain to be hot here in Rainbow Lake. The Council had implemented strict rationing of the communities alcohol, tobacco, canned food, candies and several other items due to limited supplies, but Smitty had a feeling that even when the supplies were full, they would still keep strict control of the distribution. And drugs? Unless you had a written prescription from Doc Reilly or Doc Norris, you couldn’t get so much as two aspirin. The situation was ripe for a black market. Smitty had made it clear to all of his crew that drugs, alcohol, over-the-counter medicine and candies were at the top of their salvage list. They would be expected to turn over 100% of such contraband items to the community coffers to be dispensed as the Council saw fit, but there would be skimming. There was always skimming.

  The members of the Militia may be loyal to Jenkins, but they were human beings, with human vices; Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, candy, sex, entertainment. Already several of the Militia members were di
screetly asking the bikers for drugs; marijuana, pain pills, sleeping pills, muscle relaxers, and alcohol. Smitty had spotted Matt and Susan smoking a joint last night after the Council meeting broke up. The demand was already there (people always wanted to get high and stuff their face with chocolate) it only needed a supply to feed it. So when they were out on the Evanston run today they would make a concerted effort to acquire as many of these items as possible to continue to feed that demand.

  “We need to get some cutting and welding equipment on this raid.” Chico said from the passenger seat. Chico was a mid-sized Hispanic, with short black hair, and a cheesy bandito mustache. He was dressed in black leather, neck-to-toe, and wore black mirror sunglasses. As he spoke he pulled marijuana joint from a pack of cigarettes.

  “Why’s that?” Smitty asked, genuinely intrigued.

  “So we can armor up the truck. You know, like in the Road Warrior?” Chico put the joint to his lips and sparked a lighter, puffing it to life.

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “It was Commander King’s idea.” Chico passed the joint to Smitty, who took a long toke. “He says he’s going make some kick-ass APC’s out of dump trucks.”

  “Dump trucks?” Smitty coughed out smoke with a chuckle.

  “Do we get some of that?” A call came from the trailer that could be accessed through the cab via a sliding door built into the rear bulkhead between the driver and passenger seats. That door was currently open.

  “Come and get it.” Smitty took another puff before holding it out to the open door. A few seconds later Wild Billy poked his upper body through and grabbed the joint.

  “Thanks.” Wild Billy exclaimed with an adrenaline charged smile and disappeared back into the trailer. Wild Billy, like all of Smitty’s crew, had been with him since before the world had gone to shit, the last of the Kings. He was tall and gangly, always cracking a joke and laughing, and had a thing for teenaged girls. His eyes were large and round, his mouth was thin and wide, his teeth yellow and stained. He was a bundle of energy, never standing still and always looking for the next rush of excitement. His weapons of choice were a matching pair of nickel-plated 9mm’s and an AK-47. He took three quick hits off the joint and passed it to Augie.

  Augie was tall and athletic, with a buzzed head, large brown eyes, and a wide, gap-toothed grin. In his mid-twenties, Augie was the youngest member of Smitty’s crew, spending his teen years as one of the King’s apprentice criminals, learning the ins and outs of the drug trade before earning his drivers license. A habitual thief, he had earned a three-year stint to the state prison for burglary, getting released just one week before the dead began to rise. Augie took two large hits off the joint, his eyes growing even larger each time. Holding in a hit and stifling a cough, Augie passed the joint to Angel.

  Angel stood 5’5”, and had a squat, barrel torso. His hair was long and black, and his face was covered in an array of tattoos, a phrase written in an alphabet of his own design. Pre-plague, he had been one of the Kings biggest movers of cocaine, and could play the guitar like nobody else. Like all of Smitty’s crew he dressed himself in black leather. Angel took a puff and passed the joint to Bear.

  Bear was a man of his name. A Hispanic, he stood 6’6” and weighed three hundred pounds. His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his face was scarred from a lifetime of street fights. Bears huge fingers dwarfed the joint, which was now barely a stub, and when he puffed the joint it seemed to disappear into his full, wet lips. Whenever one looked deep into Bears brown eyes, they saw a man without a shred of morality or compassion in him. His only loyalty was to his brothers in the Kings.

  “Too bad we couldn’t bring our bikes along on this run.” Wild Billy said with regret.

  “We in for a war, brother. The last place you want to find yourself in an army of deadfucks is on your bike.” Angel said.

  “I just can’t stand being cooped up in this fucking box!” Wild Billy exclaimed, throwing his arms wide to indicate the interior of the trailer.

  “Amen to that, brother.” Augie said, and the two knocked knuckles.

  “You two just keep your fucking heads when we get there.” Bear said gruffly. “We’re there for salvage, not so you two can have a good time killing zombies.”

  “All in a days work brother.” Wild Billy said with a smile…

  “There are thousands of them.” Matt said as he peered out the open side door of the helicopter as it hovered five hundred feet above the ground on the outskirts of Evanston. Down below, from the freeway ramp, stretching down the main drag of town and all of the connecting side streets were thousands of zombies. Spread out in small, intermingling clumps, they staggered about to and fro, most of them confused by the noise of the helicopter blades. A few had managed to look up and spot the chopper, and they held their stiff arms skyward, the anguished moans of the damned escaping their cold, dead lips. Hundreds more lay dead and unmoving, killed in previous raids by other looters.

  “The Park City Militia and Freebooters raided here often.” Jenkins said from the pilot’s seat. “That would attract them in large numbers from all over the area. And it’s only been a couple of weeks since Park City was destroyed. It will take a lot longer than that for them to dissipate. Pvt. Jordan, radio the convoy, alert them of the situation.” The convoy was still about five miles outside of Evanston.

  “Yes, General.” Pvt. Jordan replied crisply from the co-pilots electronics console. He was a thin man, with pale skin and thinning hair so white that it bordered on albino. His eyes were such a shade of turquoise that they almost appeared to be white as well. “Convoy, this is Scout, do you copy?” Pvt. Jordan spoke into his radio.

  “Copy Scout. What’s the situation?” Captain Turner’s voice crackled back a moment later.

  “Heavy zombie presence. Repeat, heavy zombie presence. They number several thousand strong. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Copy Scout. Heavy zombie presence, they number into the thousands..”

  “Copy.” Came Smitty Tucker’s voice a moment later.

  “Copy, Captain.” Said Sgt. George Henry.

  “Copy.” Said Major Farrell.

  “Copy.” Echoed Commander King.

  Jenkins eased the stick forward, taking the helicopter out over the town proper. There was a large grocery store and a truck stop and service station at this end of town near the freeway ramps. Several cars were strewn across the lots like discarded toys, amidst hundreds of zombies. In planning the mission Smitty had told him that the grocery store was picked bare and the gas stations pumps were drained dry, but there was a small gasoline refinery just outside town with several tanker trailers parked in the lot. If they could secure another tractor cab, Jenkins was hoping to get a tanker full of gasoline, two if they were real lucky. If this raid proved as successful as Jenkins was hoping, it would be the first of many to come…

  CHAPTER 11

  Monday, July 30, 2001

  Rainbow Lake, Utah

  10:28 AM

  “When I gave you the preliminary physical a few weeks ago I suspected it, but now I’m certain of it. You have a serious heart condition that if left untreated, will likely result in your death.” Doc Reilly spoke in gentle, fatherly tones, but his words slammed Matt like a jackhammer. He could feel the color drain from his face, and his pulse quicken. He felt nauseous and short of breath.

  “Are you certain?” Matt asked.

  “I went over the test results twice, just to be certain.” They were in a small examination room at the Hospital. An hour ago Doc Reilly and one of his nurses had performed an Echo Cardiogram, a test where ultrasonic sonar waves were used to generate a 3-D image of the heart. It was used to visually evaluate performance, size, blood flow through the valves and other necessary heart functions. “You have an enlarged heart, and two leaking valves.”

  ”How long do I have?”

  “That is up to you.” Doc Reilly regarded him with his soft eyes, appearing to size Matt up. �
�It will take some lifestyle adjustments. Less stress, a better diet, regular exercise. We don’t have much to work with as far as a healthier diet, but as far as I’m concerned, you have seen your last supply raid. And I want you to start working out. Ride a bicycle around the perimeter road a few times a week or something. And we have a decent supply of medication that will help with the leaking.” The Doc paused a moment, looking at him disapprovingly. “And you need to stop smoking marijuana. It’s just as bad as cigarettes.”

  “But how long do I have to live?” Matt repeated his question.

  “Much as I’d like to Matt, I’m not going to sugar coat it for you. You have Chronic Heart disease. It is a very serious condition. If we do not start treating it immediately, you will be dead inside of a year. But if we begin aggressive treatment right away, you can live a full life.”

  “Well, at least I don’t need heart surgery.” Matt said with as much relief as he could muster.

  “At least, not yet.” Doc Reilly said. “If you don’t make the commitment to take care of this thing, surgery may eventually be your only option. And let’s pray it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Why?” Matt asked.

  “Because I’m no heart surgeon.” They both knew what that meant.

  “How come this condition was never discovered by my doctor before?” Matt asked, still not wanting to believe.

  “It might be a recent development? When was the last time you saw the doctor?”

  “It’s been a couple years.” Matt answered ashamedly.

  “Was it a cardiologist or general practitioner?”

  “General.”

  ”Well there you go. It most likely manifested itself in that time, but the stress of the past few months has aggravated it.”

  “I don’t want anybody to know about this.” Matt said.

 

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